Page 87 of Spring's Arcana
Now the scents were harsher—the water dove deep, hiding, and there was no grazing. The specter of starvation loomed rib-sharp, an ancient memory in a creature who lived on grass and could find none. Hot sand tickled her nose, burned her deep-heaving lungs, and foam streaked the great beast’s glossy black flanks.
I’m sorry,Nat thought.Oh, I’m so sorry to bring you here.
The horse arched his neck, slowing to a canter;hewasn’t sorry. This was the road, this was the journey; besides, there was a dark spot far away, a single break in the monotony of sand and glare.
It hurt to separate. She wanted to stay in that thumping bass forever, a single mote on the back of a rocking sea. There was no isolation among the herd, just the thunder of running and the suddenterror of predator-things with sharp white teeth and cruel slashing claws, the fear of lightning-crack when storms swept the grasslands. And over it all was the deep warm comfort of others like her, pressed flank to heaving flank.
She didn’t want to be lonely again.
Now the air was hot, and every step muffled in wind-rippled sand. Nat straightened, regretful, and shaded her eyes with one aching hand. There was a thin pressure-stripe across her palm—not quite a cut, but a deep indentation.
The horse shook his massive head again, and she hurried to clasp the reins again. He turned slightly, approaching the shadow in a curve rather than head-on, and after a short while of jogtrot she realized it was a tree.
A cherry tree, to be precise, its blossom-laden branches raised in heavy defiance of this sudden desert and its blurring, devouring heat. It was the only shade around, and the horse smelled a deep mineral tang of water.
Or did she? Impossible to decide.
He slowed to a walk. How long had she clung to his back? There was no telling.
The cherry tree shadowed a small curved stone wall. No, it was something else—a well, hiding in the liquid-lacy shade. Pale blossoms moved gently, releasing tiny petals; the horse melted underneath her until a motorcycle’s tires dug into sand and he plunged into relief under the branches.
The well was a ramshackle affair, its red shingled roof slightly tilted off-true. A winch, probably rusted into immobility, stuck drunkenly from one side, and dried moss clung between the stacked gray stones.
The motorcycle bumped to a stop, and sagged on its springs.
They had arrived.
DESERT WELL
She was almost afraid to dismount, and it took two tries before she could figure out how to make the kickstand go down. Her arms ached, and her thighs quivered slightly. Cherry petals melted in midair or vanished into the sand. It was like standing inside a snow-globe, except for the dry heat reaching into her sinuses and rasping at her throat.
Magic. Right?She turned, peering out of the tree’s skirt-shade; nothing but more sand, as far as the eye could see. Bright yellow dunes, starving-blue sky, the sun a fierce white circle, and the tree with its almost-black bark and creamy blossom. Everything so bright, so intense, soreallike the heavy energy hanging on Baba de Winter, on Coco, on Dmitri and Ranger.
And on Mom, before she got sick. Nat was just a pale copy, but that didn’t matter. She stuffed her cap in her peacoat pocket, unbuttoning the heavy wool. It was too hot.
“Well,” a deep soft voice said, quietly. “Here we are.”
Nat whirled, her hair falling free and tumbling in waves. No time for a braid, too busy washing the dishes from Ranger’s breakfast—crispy bacon, fat-rich sausages, melting tomatoes, golden cornbread, thick black coffee, whole milk, bright tangy orange juice, too much food for two people to consume. Strangely, though, there hadn’t been any leftovers.
And she hadn’t been truly hungry, though thetastewas good, and filling in its own way.
I read about fairy food. Was it all rocks and twigs?She stared at the motorcycle.
He’d shifted into a horse again, the reins caught on the saddle’s high pommel, and regarded her sidelong. The red pinprick in his big dark eye was bright and rich as the rest of this place, and his sweating flanks gleamed just like the cherry flowers.
A talking horse. Okay. “Here we are,” she echoed, and almost cringed at her own stupidity. “Thank you. For bringing me.”
“An honor to bear the Drozdova.” His lips moved, but they bore no relation to the voice, and she wondered if she was just on a really intense drug trip brought on by stress and the alcoholic bite in Ranger’s coffee. “There’s the Well. Haven’t been here in a long time.”
“Did you… did you bring my mother?”Before I was born?
“Her? Oh, no. Not at all.” He shook his long equine head, a braying laugh escaping those flexible lips. His mane floated and his tail flicked, settled. “But I know what she left here. The Cup is in the Well. You’ll have to drop the bucket.”
Bucketwas clearly not capitalized. The stress laid on certain words was audible, and she wondered how a horse could make it so clear. “If you know what she left here, then you probably know—”
“Where you should go next? Oh, yes.” An equine snort somehow managed to convey amusement. “But you should look into the depths, and bring out what she left before I tell you what I know.”
When you say it that way, I’m not sure I want to. The sheer unreality—here she was in the middle of winter, in a shimmer-hot magical desert, talking to a horse that was also a motorcycle—threatened to pound her heart into pieces and her hands into shaking. “I’m going to see something there. Right?”
