Chapter 2: Over the Edge
…My people greatly respected the power of the river that runs just beyond the walls of our valley. Once every year we travel to its banks and drink of its waters. Some years everything go’s peacefully, others end in tragedy. Once, when my father was young, the herd got caught in a flash flood that swept away half of the herd, including my father’s best friend. No bodies were ever found so we assumed they were all swallowed by the river. We hoped that nothing like that would ever happen again. But this year, the river was going to show me what had happened to that Lost Half…whether I wanted to or not…

The herd wound its self through the twisted canyons in the Canyon Maze Entrance. It was the day when Na Únami went to drink of the waters of the River Akanar. The royal family led the way with Chester in the lead, followed by Samantha, Spirit, Mhyra, Sara, and Signár. The old king, Inar (who was Chester’s father), and his mate, Meena came behind them with the rest of the herd following. Spirit was excited; this was the only time he was able to go outside of the valley. Ever since his first trip to the river, he had been fascinated with what could be out beyond the valley. The healer Horan had said he was born with a Wayward Wind inside him or something, it didn’t matter to him. The unknown had just always exited him

Just then, he was jolted out of his thoughts when they stopped at what appeared to be a head wall. But Chester picked up a rock that sat on a small ledge at eye level and as soon as he removed the stone, the head wall dissolved. It was just a highly complicated and powerful spell used to disguise the entrances into the valley. The herd quickly filed through and then Chester placed the rock back on the ledge, reactivating the spell. He then turned and led the herd to the banks of the River Akanar to drink. The herd spread out over the small gravel beach at a fast moving section of the river. The beach was not long enough for the entire herd to drink at once so some had to wait. Being part of the royal family, Spirit was one of the first to drink. The water was sweet and cool, far more pure than the mineral filled waters of the river inside the valley.

Suddenly, there was a scuffle behind him. This was normal because other than the royal family being in the first tier, there was no order for the others to drink. Then he heard a shout from someone who’d been pushed, and felt a sharp push from behind, sending him tumbling into the river.

It was hard to see in the swirling water as he strained to reach the surface. He finally managed to struggle to the surface, coughing and sputtering. He heard shouting and saw his father running along the riverbank. “Spirit,” he shouted over the thundering noise of the river. “There’s a rock coming up just behind you. Grab on!” Looking over his shoulder, Spirit saw a large stone in the middle of the river. Quickly, he reached out and managed to grip the rock against the deadly pull of the river. He could feel the river’s eddying currents swirling around him, seeking to rip him loose and drag him even further down river. Several times the large waves of water threatened to swamp him and pull him under, but he managed to hang on. He could make out in the heavy mist that his father was trying to work his way out to him by making large rocks, big enough for him to stand on, appear in the water. Just as Chester nearly reached him, the part of the large rock that Spirit was gripping broke away in his hands, and he was swept away before he could regain his hold.

He angled towards the bank and began to swim for shore. The thundering sound had strengthened from a rumble to a roar. Spirit turned his head; he could see up ahead that the river abruptly disappeared. This could only mean one thing; he was being pulled dangerously close to a WATERFALL! He must not go over! His swimming took on a desperate, frenzied note as he tried to reach the shore before the river took him over the falls. “Spirit,” his father cried, “the falls!” Spirit turned again, and saw that he was too close to the edge to escape its deadly pull. For the first time in his life, he was truly afraid. He let loose a desperate, ringing cry as he went over the edge.

He quickly turned his body so his nose was pointed down and spread his wings. He knew his wings were too waterlogged for him to fly, but perhaps he could at least glide out beyond the rocks. At first nothing happened as he continued his downward plunge. Then his wings caught the air and he pulled out of his dive enough to miss the rocks. But not enough to miss the river. He slammed into the river with a terrific splash. He felt a sharp pain in his head and everything went black.


* * *


After some time Spirit began to stir. He thought he could vaguely hear voices speaking but could not figure out who it was, or what they were saying. Moaning slightly, he struggled to open his eyes. He felt as if he’d been used as a punching bag, his whole body ached, especially his head. He felt that he was lying on a soft bed of grass; he could hear birds singing and could smell the earthy smell of dirt. Weakly he made an attempt to raise his head, but felt a sudden hand on his neck. With a startled snort, Spirit quickly rolled upright and lunged to his feet. The sudden movement caused his head to spin and he barely managed to stay on his feet. “Whoa, steady, steady,” someone said, “you have had a bad hit, you need to rest.”

Spirit shook his head a couple of times to clear it and then looked in the direction of the voice. He saw that the speaker was a stallion who looked about the same age as his father. He was a paint with dark brown Medicine Hat markings. His eyes were dark blue-purple like the evening sky. “Wh…wh…who are you,” Spirit stammered.

“My name is Kïar,” the stallion said, “I live here with my people and my family.”

“Where is here?”

“This is Coiniara, it means “Sanctuary”.”

Spirit didn’t know of any other settlements of his people down here. The only ones he knew of were small bands of outcasts that lived upriver. But for the sake of being polite he didn’t want to call them Outcasts. He thought wistfully about home. Home could be many miles from here; he could have been swept many miles downriver before washing up. He might never see his home again.

“Are you sure you’re all right,” Kïar asked him.

“I think so,” Spirit replied.

“Well then if you want to clean up, there’s a pond behind you, you’re covered in mud.”

Spirit looked down and saw that he was right. From head to hoof, his coat was smeared with mud. Most of it had dried into a hard, itchy crust and was so thick that you couldn't see his coat’s actual color. It had even clogged his wings. “Thank you,” he murmured, slightly embarrassed.

“You’re welcome,” Kïar responded understandingly, “when you are done, come and find me. I’ll be over there.” Saying this, he pointed over the ridge in front of them, then he trotted off in that direction. Once he had gone, Spirit took some time to look around. He could see he was in another volcano crater from the volcanic rock walls he saw stretching off beyond his sight. There were a few trees that he could see, and a break in the wall to his left that obviously led to the outside. Turning round, he found a circular pool that appeared to have no feeding stream and no discharge stream. It was surrounded by lush vegetation that stretched off to his left and out of sight.

Spirit approached the pool; it was perfectly circular, crystal clear, and very deep. He stepped into the water at the ledge that ringed the pool, where the water was shallow. He lowered his head and took a slight drink of the water. He could taste the minerals in it, the same as the water back home, but it also seemed a bit more pure. He moved farther out until he reached the edge of the ledge. There the water was up to his chest and cool to the touch. Looking down into the pool, he saw that the bottom was littered with large pieces of mirror stone. Stone left behind after a meteor strike, with a mirror like surface. He also saw the silver-blue form of a naiad swimming along the bottom.

He began rapidly pawing the water in hopes of the splashing drawing her attention. It worked; she raised her head and upon seeing him, motioned him to come into the water. Rearing back on his hind legs, he jumped up high enough to get in a good dive and plunged into the water. Under the surface, the water was clear and calm. As he descended slowly, he was surprised to feel a current. It came from an opening near the top that the water was being sucked into. At the bottom, he could see another opening were the water was pouring out. That explained how the pool remained full without overflowing.

Finally, he landed softly on the bottom of the pool next to the naiad. She looked a little older than Máki with a water lily behind one ear. “Who are you,” she asked seeming confused, “you’re the first one in a long time to be able to see me. All of the others have become blind and def to us. They no longer believe in us. How is it that you can see and hear me?”

“I don’t know,” Spirit replied, “I’ve just been able to. It might have something to do with the fact that one of my friends is a naiad.”

“You do?!”

“Yes, her name is Máki. She lives in the creek at home. I’ve also seen some dryads from time to time. I have tried to talk to them, but by the time I get to their tree they’ve already gone inside.”

“Then you are lucky to still be able to See, it is a talent that has been lost to your people. I’m Water Lily by the way, would you like me to help you get all that mud off?”

“Thanks my name is Spirit; I’m not even sure how I got so much mud on me.”

“It won’t be that hard to get off, come on.”

Water Lily led him to one wall and showed him how by rubbing against the rock he could scrape all the mud off. He rubbed his side along the stone from nose to tail, the way he rubbed against a tree in the early spring to get off his winter coat. She took him about showing him the best ways to get all the mud out of his coat. Some ways were interesting, such as using one of the currents to blast the mud out of his wings. Mostly though, it was scraping and scratching that got the mud off.

Finally, she took Spirit over to a large piece of mirror stone so he could make sure that he was completely clean. Using the stone, he looked at himself from every angle; checking for any remaining pieces of mud. The colt that reflected in the stone was completely clean, so clean his coat shone softly like beaten gold. Satisfied, he turned to Water Lily, “thanks for helping me.”

“You’re welcome,” Water Lily replied, “can you stay a little longer?”

“Can’t, I promised Kïar that I’d find him after I finished.”

“That’s all right; will you at least come and see me again soon?”

“Sure, I promise.” With that he pushed off from the bottom and began swimming for the surface.

Spirit burst nearly completely out of the water, wings flapping, and water spraying. He swam to the ledge and trotted out onto the bank. He stopped and started shaking himself vigorously. Water sprayed in every direction as he shook with tremors that ran from his nose down his body to the tip of his tail. Gradually the tremors slowed and ended in one last shake that ran like a wave from his head, down his neck, along his body, out to his tail and ended with a sharp flick. He shook out each of his legs then spread his wings to dry them.

Suddenly, he heard a sharp crack, his head quickly snapped around towards the sound. Amongst the trees next to the pool was a small group of girls. Only about four or five, but all were staring straight at him. They all looked fairly pretty, but the one in the front caught his attention. She was a mid-sized willowy filly. Her coat was the color of clay, with white patches on her head and back. She had white stockings on all four legs. Her mane and tail were a pale cream color and her eyes the blue of the sky. For a moment they just stood and stared at each other. Then Spirit gave a slight snort, folded his wings against his body, and trotted off, tail up and head high. After a few yards, he gave a small buck and lunged into a canter and cantered up the hill.

At the top he stopped uncertain. He had promised Kïar that he would find him, but looking down at the valley spread out before him, he knew it wouldn’t be as easy as he had thought. The valley was actually quite large and there were many of his kind milling about the field. From what he could see, the herd looked about the same size as his own with fairly equal numbers of adults, babies, and teenagers with a few elders. He walked down into the floor of the valley, unsure of who to ask. Everyone he tried to ask just brushed by him as if they didn’t see him. For the first time, he felt out of place, as if he was an alien observing these strange people. After his fourth or fifth failed attempt to talk to someone, he was becoming discouraged. As he turned around he accidentally ran into a little old mare that he hadn’t seen coming behind him. “I’m so sorry mam, I didn’t see you,” he said apologetically as he helped her up.

“That’s quite alright young man,” she reassured him, “I don’t remember seeing you around here before, what is your name?”

“My name is Spirit,” he told her, bowing respectfully.

“No need for all those formalities now, my name is Mia, I am the healer and midwife here. What can I do for you?”

“Well you could tell me where Kïar is? I promised him that I would find him after I cleaned up, but I wasn’t sure who to ask.”

“Oh, you’re that colt they found on the riverbank. I remember checking you over when they brought you in. You look a lot different without all that mud.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Ok now you can find him over there,” Mia said pointing, “do you see the brown stallion with the white legs? Well Kïar is just on the other side of him.”

“Thank you,” he bowed to her again and trotted off in the direction she had indicated, keeping the brown stallion in his sights. Soon he spotted Kïar standing with the stallion Mia had pointed out, talking with him.

“He needs someone to stay with him until he gets used to things here,” Kïar was saying as Spirit approached. “Ah, here he is, Spirit, I would like you to meet my son Áire. Áire this is Spirit.”

Áire dipped his head in a polite greeting. He was a tall leggy stallion colored deep brown with legs white up just past the knee. He also had a small white patch on his stomach shaped somewhat like a bird. Spirit returned the greeting, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I was just telling Áire that I felt you need someone to stay with you until you got used to how things work here.”

“And I told you father that I don’t have time to keep an eye on him,” Áire interjected, “besides it would be better if it was someone his own age.” Spirit agreed to that, Áire looked about 19 or 20.

“Quite right,” Kïar mused, “how old are you boy?”

“I’m 2 years old, sir,” Spirit replied.

“Well perhaps your sister will do it, she is the same age as he is and she did find him. Do you know where she is?”

“I think she went off with some of her friends. I haven’t seen her since this morning,” Áire replied.

“Ah, there she is, Rinna would you come over here please,” Kïar called, motioning someone over.

Spirit turned and was shocked to see who it was. It was the same filly that he had seen by the pool. Up close, her beauty was even more striking. It was the kind of beauty that made guy’s eyes follow her as she moved. When she smiled the world seemed a little brighter and made you feel a little dizzy. It was enough to break a guy’s heart. But her beauty seemed more natural, not painted on with powders the way some other girls did.

“Yes father,” she asked.

“Rinna, this is Spirit, the colt you found on the riverbank,” Kïar said, introducing them, “Spirit, this is my daughter Rinna.”

“Hello,” Rinna said.

“Hello,” Spirit returned.

“Rinna,” Kïar asked, “will you be willing to have Spirit be with you until he gets used to things?”

“Sure,” she said, “I don’t mind.”

“Well then, Spirit you stay with Rinna and go with her to her classes, all right?”

“All right,” Spirit replied. Just then a gong sounded and he nearly jumped out of his skin, “what was that!?”

“That was the signal to head for classes,” Rinna said, “come on.”…



…I learned much from them. More than I ever thought I would. But I never counted on how different they would be…

The Sun Child trilogy: Bk 1 Rise of a warrior

Prologue: The Forgotten Prophecy

In a world so far, yet so much like your own, there reign six gods. At one time their power was in your world, but when their people were driven out by humans who valued their horns and feathers more than their friendship, they left with them. In their new realm they divided the world into four parts, Sky, Earth, Sea, and the Underworld. Most of their children were minor gods and goddesses, but there were times when they would bring into the world demi-god children, half god and half mortal children who greatly influenced the lives of “Na Únami”, their name for themselves meaning “The People”.

Humans called them Winged-Unicorns, but they found it very degrading and unimaginative. They were built like fine horses with long spiral horns sprouting from their foreheads. They also had long silken wings growing from their shoulders where a human’s arms would be. Being shape- shifters (meaning they could shift from one animal or human shape to another), they could make their wings into arms. On Earth, they used this talent to hide from humans who wanted to capture or kill them. They could out live any human at nearly 200 years.

The rarest of the god’s mortal children were the Karkans, or almost-gods. They were full-blooded gods born from the womb of a mortal mother. They had the barest traces of mortal blood in their veins that kept them mortal. They were born in times of great turmoil in the herd to help restore peace. First there was Kamir, a Karkan son of Cirrós and Na Unami’s first leader. And then there was the greatest of them all, Yésu, the Karkan son of Taros. He was the one who salvaged the last of their kind and opened the portal for them to escape.

Often their coming was foretold hundreds even thousands of years ahead in prophecies. The prophecy of the Sun Child was one of the most anticipated and most disregarded ones. Told by the prophetess of the ancient goddess called The Voice, the prophecy ran; A child of gold with a fiery eye, Swifter than the light he runs by; A warrior, a healer, a leader he’ll be, A powerful figure with the gift to see; swift as a coursing river, with all the force of a great typhoon, with all the strength of a raging fire, mysterious as the dark side of the moon; He’ll drive out evil with a just hand, He’ll bring back the Lost Ones and unite the band; A dreamer of dreams, a lover of art, A humble figure with a hero’s heart.

But years past and the prophecy had not been fulfilled. Over 1,000 years past and “Na Unami” regarded the prophecy as nothing more than a silly dream. They forgot the Voice, her temples were abandoned, her prophetesses and priestesses were released from their duties. But the words of the gods are not to be taken lightly. The prophecy would not be fulfilled for 2,000 years; by a son from the line of Yésu… this is his story. Ok, my story. My name is Tíkára ün na Ímaráe, which, in your human language means “Spirit of the Gods”. You can just call me Spirit. Everyone else does. I know that I am not human like you, but I have feelings, just like you. Even though my story might seem strange to you at first, read a little closer. You might find that we might be more like than you think…



Chapter 1: Power of the Rising Sun

I’ve always been open to the world around me, but most of my people had closed in on themselves. They stopped believing in things we had believed in for centuries in the past. They no longer believed in the dryads of the trees, or the naiads of the waters. They hadn’t been seen for centuries, so my people thought they no longer existed. But I knew better…

Spirit’s keen eyes pierced the deep waters; he knew she was down there. He knew that Máki was nearly invisible in the water, being a naiad, but he could find her. The tip of his long earth- brown tail tapped side to side, the rest of his golden body stayed immovable as stone. He reached up with one hand to brush aside his long brown forelock, never taking his eyes off of the water. His eyes, normally a chocolate brown color, seemed to be turning to fire thanks to the golden threads that speared through his eyes, which were, in his concentration, more visible than ever. This was one of the many games he played with Máki, since he had few friends and plenty of free time.

His searching eyes finally focused on something, the swirling end of a greenish tail. Spirit’s body tensed and coiled like a panther preparing to spring. Then he leaped and dove into the pond he had been seated in front of only a moment before. Once in the water, he streaked after Máki. He didn’t worry about drowning because he could breathe in the water as easily as in air. The only thing he focused on was catching her. Now he could see the blue-grey form of her body swimming ahead of him. He sped up, following her every move as she twisted and turned through the water. Finally he drew in close, and reached out and slapped her haunch. Then the two of them swam for the surface, bursting out of the water in fits of laughter. They began to splash each other until someone called, “Spiirriit.” It was Sî. Máki quickly dove underwater to avoid being seen as Spirit turned to swim for shore where Sî stood waiting. Sî was a small, bay colt with a funny blaze that almost covered his entire face. He wasn’t very popular because he had a roman nose and was ewe necked, but he and Spirit were best friends.

“Hey Spirit,” Sî said to him as he climbed out of the water, “what were ya doing?”

“Just swimming,” Sprit replied. He then proceeded to vigorously shake his coat free of moisture. Sî, laughing, put up his hands to try to defend himself against Spirit’s onslaught of water.

“Spirit, you are the only one I know who can turn a simple shake into a monsoon,” he sputtered once Spirit had finished drenching him.

“It’s a gift,” Spirit chuckled as he stretched out his wing to make sure he had gotten all of the moisture out of his feathers.

“Well if you’re done,” Sî told him, “we need to start heading over to Swordsmanship class anyway.”

Together they turned and began making their way over to the tunnels on the other side of the valley. Spirit looked around himself and breathed a slight contented sigh. He really loved his home. It was a splendid valley, lying in the crater of a long-extinct volcano. The valley it’s self was nearly nine miles long from the northern Canyon Maze entrance, to the southern wall. And just over a mile wide from the western River Wall to the eastern Wall of Passages. Inside the walls of the mountain and beyond were miles of twisting passages leading to various rooms. Starting near the north end of The Wall of Passages at the Canyon Maze entrance was a tree belt that stretched a crossed that wall and down the River Wall. A waterfall fell over the southern wall into Maki’s pond and a small river ran out of it, half way down the River Wall and turned inside the mountain, eventually running through the forges. His people called it Caledonia, the Promised Land. Right now it was displaying its full summer splendor, trees in full leaf, wild flowers blooming, and birds singing. It was a wonderful place, just right for a half-grown colt to learn and grow.

As they walked together a crossed the valley, they passed a small group of fillies their own age. One of them started flirting her mane, and casting flirtatious glances in Sî’s direction. “Hey Sî, you’ve got a girlfriend,” Spirit told him, laughing.

“Well she is nice,” Sî replied.

“And her looks don’t hurt either,” Spirit countered, shouldering him companionably, “face it Sî, she loooves you.”

“Ok, she likes me, and I admit I like her to, I’m surprised that it’s me she likes and not you.”

“Me! I look like an over grown stork with stilts who’s always tripping over his own hooves, why would any girl like me?”

“Yah, an over grown stork with stilts who can already out run fully grown stallions twice, even three times his own age,” Sî countered.

“I look like I’m part spider or part snake. The only thing small about me is my head. I know they say I got it from my mom, but I’ve even heard some of the elders say that such a fine head is wasted on such a lanky colt.”

“That shows how much they know.”

“Maybe, but I don’t like any of these girls.”

“Come on, there’s got to be at least one girl you like.”

“Well, there’re my two younger sisters, but I don’t think they count.”

“Well maybe you just haven’t found the right girl yet.”

“Maybe…,” Spirit said thoughtfully. Then he looked mischievous. “Well, at least I’m not afraid of them.”

“I am not!” Sî retorted.

“Are too!”

“I’m going to get you for that!”

“You’ve got to catch me first!”

With a laugh, Spirit lunged into a fast canter with Sî close behind. Even though they nearly started together, Spirit quickly put distance between himself and Sî. He slowed enough so Sî would not loose him, but not enough for him to catch up. It wasn’t a proper race anyway, just chasing each other for fun. The two of them zigg zagged a crossed the valley in a wild chase. Spirit relaxed, running was like laughing gas, it made all his troubles go away, if only for a little while.

Suddenly, a big stallion stepped into their path. Spirit quickly slid to a stop, with Sî nearly running into him. It was Spirit’s uncle, Signár, a big, burly paint with an orange splotch pattern on his coat. His head was a big jug head with small, beady black eyes. Overall, it gave him a very sly, manipulating, evil look. “Aren’t you two supposed to be heading for your classes about now,” he angrily growled at them.

“Yes, uncle as a matter of fact that’s where we were heading now,” Spirit practically snarled in return. He turned and stalked angrily past Signár, keeping one glairing eye on him until he was well past. Si looked from one to the other and walked nervously past Signár.

Once they were out of his hearing range inside the tunnels Si shuddered. “Boy your uncle is creepy,” he said nervously.

“Tell me about it,” Spirit replied, still cross.

“I wonder why he doesn’t like you.”

“I don’t know, because I exist I guess, I haven’t done any thing that I can think of. Come on let’s just get to class. Who are you supposed to spar with today?”

Sî could tell that Spirit was trying to change the subject, but he understood why so he answered, “Uhh…Barion I think, who do you have?”

“Tyarøn.”

“Oohh, have fun getting beat up. Why do you always seem to get him?”

“My own rotten luck,” Spirit said, already dreading it. Tyarøn was a good looking red roan colt who had been one of Spirit’s lifelong tormentors. Now that they were actually old enough to spar in pairs, Tyarøn was showing that he was the best swordsman of the half-growns. Since Spirit was only an average swordsman, Tyarøn was always beating him, and he enjoyed it! Skïron, their swordsmanship teacher felt that Spirit could become an expert; he just needed to find his style of fighting. He was always telling Spirit this. But Spirit knew that he needed more than that, he needed a balanced sword. None of the practice swords felt right. They all had problems like there was too much weight in the handle or the blade was too long. With Tyarøn as his sparring partner, Spirit knew it was going to be a long class.

* * *

“Grab a practice sword and get with your partners to wait for my signal to start,” Skïron called to the group of half-grown colts that he was teaching. Spirit raced over to the racks where the practice swords were kept. They were not allowed to have a sword of their own until they were 3 years old, so they had to use the practice blades. He had learned long ago that if you snoozed, you’d loose. So it was get over there for the one you wanted or wait and get stuck with a bad blade. He went straight to the sword he normally used, a broadsword about three feet long with a silver handle and a leather grip. It was at least the right length but it had too much weight in its handle to feel comfortable. He snagged it off the racks, and fastened the sheath around his middle with its belt.

The fillies had already been taken to another room by their teacher, Scillaria. She was one of the best female warriors in the herd so she was given the task of teaching swordsmanship to the fillies. All young foals, male or female, were taught how to use a sword because, in a battle, every warrior counted.

“All right, everyone get into ready position,” Skïron called out. He was an aging steel-grey stallion who, in his prime, had been one of the best warriors of all time. Even though he was getting on in years, he could still spar with colts many times younger that he. Not one, not even Tyarøn, could withstand his lightning fast thrusts and nimble maneuvers.
Spirit took his position a crossed from Tyarøn. The other colt slyly smiled at him, “Are you ready to get creamed, Stork,” he sneered. Spirit chose not to respond. If he responded he was just going to get even madder and then he’d never be able to concentrate. His earlier encounter with his uncle had not helped his mood.

“Colts, you know the rules,” Skïron’s voice rumbled through the room like thunder. “Use the sheathing spell on your swords at all times, no intentional maiming, the first one to get their sword into kill position against your opponent’s throat wins.”

All the colts started running their forefinger and thumb along the edge of their blades, reciting the spell in a whisper. While in training, all students were required to use the spell to avoid serious injury.

“Stand ready,” Skïron thundered, “ready… set… FIGHT!”

The room rang with the sound of metal on metal. Spirit and Tyarøn’s swords clanged together, each one fighting for an opening. Then they broke apart and began to circle each other. “You can’t beat me,” Tyarøn shouted, “we both know you haven’t got it in you. You know I’m better than you could ever be.”

Then they were together again, striking, dodging, and blocking, their swords ringing with each impact. Tyarøn soon had Spirit on the defensive, trying to prevent his sword from striking home. In an instant, it was all over, Tyarøn pulled the disarming maneuver and Spirit’s sword went flying. Before Spirit could move, he felt the tip of Tyarøn’s sword tickle against his throat, bringing the fight to an end. They held this position for a minuet, then Tyarøn lowered his sword with a smug smile. They continued to stand there, panting, until Skïron called for a break.

All of the colts ran to the pool of water at one end of the cavern. Some splashed water on their faces; others drank long, deep draughts of water. Spirit cupped a small amount of water in his hands and splashed it on his face and neck, then took a small drink if water.

Suddenly he felt cold, as if all the heat had been sucked out of him. Shivering, he decided to sit near the fire to try to warm up. Lying near the fire, Spirit could be alone, because all of the others were so hot, they chose to sit as far away from the fire as they could get. As he was laying there, Spirit’s rook familiar, Ishtar, sailed in with a flurry of black wings and landed on his usual spot, atop the crest of Spirit’s neck. He was a wise-cracking young bird who had been Spirit’s constant companion ever since Spirit had found him as a chick, the only survivor of a predator’s attack on his nest. He looked like a crow or raven but much larger, with a white V on his chest and markings on his head. “So how’s class going so far,” he asked.

“Tyarøn beat me again,” Spirit replied

“Ouch.”

“I know, did you find many new plants.” Spirit was always interested in medicinal plants but with his class schedule he had little time to look for some. So Ishtar would often look for the plants for him and during breaks would tell him were to find them.

“Well I found a couple,” Ishtar said thoughtfully, “found some crystala blooms over by were the creek reenters the River Wall, a new patch of rosemary near the rowan tree, and a new plant next to the twisted pine.”
“Really,” Spirit said, intrigued, “what did it look like?”

“It had a milk-white flower and a black bulb.”

“That’s moly! It’s poisonous! We should pull them up before someone eats them by mistake!”

“Fine, but right now you should be more concerned with resting up for your next bought with Tyaron.”

“All right Ishtar, you don’t have to be my mother. Sheeshhh!”

He then let his head rest on the ground and drifted off to sleep. What happened next went unnoticed by everyone, including Spirit and Ishtar. A bit of fire leaned towards him and slowly swept its’ self a crossed his flank. “Come on colts,” Skïron suddenly cried, “get back into your pairs for another round.”

At Skïron’s call to arms, Spirit quickly got to his feet. “You can hang around if you want Ishtar,” he told him, picking up his sword.

“And watch you get creamed,” Ishtar asked, “I don’t know why I’d want to see that, but whatever.”

“Suit your self,” Spirit responded. He was excited for some reason. He didn’t know why but he felt as if he had been shot with a bolt of energy. He trotted into the ring ready for just about anything.

“I don’t know why every time I beat you, you keep coming back for more,” Tyarøn taunted, “but at least it means I get to beat you again.”

Spirit ignored him. Somehow he felt that this time the fight would be different. Somehow he knew that he would make Tyarøn eat those words. He knew he was ready.

“Stand ready,” Skïron thundered, “ready… set… FIGHT!”

This time when Tyarøn charged him, Spirit calmly waited until the last moment and nimbly leapt aside. He smacked Tyarøn on the hip with the flat of his sword as the other colt thundered past. Tyarøn skidded to a stop and looked around, slightly confused, to try and figure out were his opponent was. Finally spotting Spirit, he whirled around and charged him again, only to be evaded in the same fashion. By his third charge, Tyarøn was becoming a bit winded, and very cross that he was loosing what should be a very easy duel. When he charged again, he stayed at a slower pace so he could maneuver better if Spirit should leap aside. This time however, Spirit met his charge. Their swords clanged sharply as Spirit easily deflected Tyarøn’s thrust. Spirit could hardly believe how well he was fighting. Now, he could see openings and anticipate his opponent’s moves. No matter what Tyarøn did, he couldn’t even touch Spirit with his blade.

The sword’s grip was becoming a bowling ball, pulling on his hands. Spirit knew it would only a matter of time until Tyarøn overpowered him, he’d have to do something, and fast! He decided to pull the disarming maneuver. Their swords twisted around each other and Spirit put all his strength into the thrust. Tyarøn’s sword went flying and Spirit found the tip of his sword resting against Tyarøn’s throat. They held this position for several moments, panting. Spirit thought could see in Tyarøn’s eyes surprise, shock, and… a look of grudging respect. He slowly lowered his sword as the two of them stood staring at each other.

“Spirit.”

They turned their heads towards the voice and realized that all of the other colts had stopped their sparing and were standing around staring at them in shock.

“Spirit, how did you do that,” Skïron asked, still a bit shocked.

“I…I don’t know,” Spirit answered truthfully.

“Can you do that again?”

Spirit didn’t know if he could. The maniac burst of energy had left him. He felt run down, worn out, as if he’d just crashed from a sugar high. He didn’t want to but Skïron insisted so they swung into action again. This time it was no contest. As soon as their swords met Tyarøn disarmed him and had his sword against Spirit’s throat. For a moment no one spoke, and then someone called out, “Beginner’s luck.”

“Maybe,” Skïron mused, “but I wonder what Spirit could do with a balanced sword?”

* * *

That night, Spirit lay in the Sleeping Chamber, a huge cavern inside the walls of the valley, listening to Skïron talk to his father, Chester. Skïron had requested a privet audience with Chester after Spirit’s swordsmanship class and Spirit wanted to hear what he had to say. It wasn’t easy, because his two younger sisters, Mhyra and Sara, kept giggling loudly and chasing each other in circles around their mother. He sighed, slowly shaking his head, then turned and focused on his father’s conversation with Skïron. Fortunately the shape of the Sleeping Chamber made it possible for him to hear the slightest whisper. It was a place for the herd to sleep with nests of swirled grasses, blankets, and torches on the walls to provide light. There were three central hearths where fires were made to provide warmth. Spirit enjoyed spending time there each night with his family. He could hear Chester and Sciron discussing the way Spirit had fought in class that day. His father was so busy with his duties as King that this was the only time he was able to meet with Sciron.

Yes, Chester was the King of his people, but he didn’t need a crown to show his power. He was a big, buff stallion about halfway through his life. He had great muscles that rippled beneath his dark caramel brown coat. His mane and tail seamed to be made out of spun gold. His bright, gryphon-like, green eyes showed his deep wisdom and intelligence. He was the kind of person who “wore power like a cloak”. So that, along with his reputation for giving just, wise judgments, made him one of the most widely respected kings in history. His familiar, a wise golden eagle named Kaki, sat on his fist.

“I thought that it was unusual for him to show magic in such a way,” Skïron was saying, “because of his……unusual lack of it.”

Spirit softly sighed to himself; his “lack of magic” had always been an embarrassment for himself, and for his father. Like all of the other colts he’d been born with the magic in his horn, but unlike them, he was born without his own “signature” magic. “Signature” magic was a magic that varied between all of them, never being the exact same mix of powers twice. The different powers could be split into groups but no two peoples’ magic was exactly the same, like a fingerprint. Everyone had expected him to have tremendous powers because of how powerful his parents were. Chester had Stone Magic, and a lot of it. He could create stones, cause them to move, even make them explode! If provoked, he could even turn things into stone! His mother, Samantha, had some Plant Magic mixed with Weaving Magic. She could make plants grow as fast as she wished, make flowers bloom, and make plants grow in certain designs, make a loom weave fabric by its self, or make fabric for bandages that magically healed wounds faster.

The most depressing part of this whole problem was that since Spirit was Chester’s first born child, he would become King when his father stepped down in only a couple of years. And he couldn’t pass the job to one of his sisters because by law the heir has to be 4 years old (4 years old is considered an adult) by the time, or before the current King steps down. He was born in the deadline year and so his sisters wouldn’t be old enough in time. Pale, moon-colored Mhyra was only a yearling and dark little Sara had been born only a few months ago.

Just then he was violently jolted out of his thoughts by a vicious yank on his tail. He whipped around to catch the culprit in time to see Mhyra and Sara race behind their mother, laughing. “What was that for,” he snarled at them as they peeked mischievously over Samantha’s back. They only responded with more giggles. He growled at them crossly, making them duck back behind their mother. “Spirit,” Samantha told him calmly, “they’re just having fun.”

“Fun, shmun, just tell them to quit pullin’ my tail!”

Sprit lay his head back down, still growling. How could his mother stand those two sometimes? They were his sisters and he did love them, but sometimes they did things that drove him up a wall! His mother had to be the calmest, most understanding mare he knew to put up with them. She was a beautiful middle-aged mare with a sandy- colored coat. She had four white stockings on her delicate legs and a slim white blaze down her face. When the light hit her white mane just right, it looked as if she had a halo around her head. Her large purple eyes were wide-set in her slim Arabian head.

“Sprit, try to get some sleep,” Samantha told him soothingly, “tomorrow we’re going to the river, remember?”

“Yah, I remember,” Spirit tried to close his eyes. The herd only went to the river outside the valley walls once every year so it was a big deal. Ishtar came sailing in and landed on his neck, stretched a bit, and tucked his head beneath his wing to sleep. Spirit’s last thought before he fell asleep was that he hoped that tomorrow would be better than today had been…

…If only I knew then how wrong I was going to be…

Spirit and the Tree of the Meridees
In a world so far, yet so much like your own, there reign six gods. At one time their power was in your world, but when their people were driven out by humans who valued their horns and feathers more than their friendship, they left with them. In their new realm they divided the world into four parts, Sky, Earth, Sea, and the Underworld. Their followers called themselves “Na Únami”, meaning in their language “The People”. Humans called them Winged-Unicorns, but they found it very degrading and unimaginative. They were built like fine horses with long spiral horns sprouting from their foreheads. They also had long silken wings growing from their shoulders where a human’s arms would be. Being shape- shifters (meaning they could shift from one animal or human shape to another), they could make their wings into arms. On Earth, they used this talent to hide from humans who wanted to capture or kill them. They could out live any human at nearly 200 years.
The rarest of the god’s children were the Karkans, or almost-gods. They were full-blooded gods born from the womb of a mortal mother. They had the barest traces of mortal blood in their veins that kept them mortal. They were born in times of great turmoil in the herd to help restore peace. Often their coming was foretold hundreds even thousands of years ahead in prophecies. The prophecy of the Sun Child was one of the most anticipated and most disregarded ones. Told by the prophetess of the ancient goddess called The Voice, the prophecy ran: A child of gold with a fiery eye, Swifter than the light he runs by; A warrior, a healer, a leader he’ll be, A powerful figure with the gift to see; swift as a coursing river, with all the force of great typhoon, with all the streangth of a raging fire, mysterious as the dark side of the moon; He’ll drive out evil with a just hand, He’ll bring back the Lost Ones and unite the band; A dreamer of dreams, a lover of art, A humble figure with a hero’s heart.
But years past and the prophecy had not been fulfilled. Over 1,000 years past and “Na Unami” regarded the prophecy as nothing more than a silly dream. But the words of the gods are not to be taken lightly. The prophecy would not be fulfilled for 2,000 years; by a son from the line of Yésu… this is his story. Ok, my story. My name is Tíkára ün na Ímaráe, which, in your human language means “Spirit of the Gods”. You can just call me Spirit. Everyone else does. I used to live with my family and friends in Caledonia, our home, a huge valley in the crater of an extinct volcano. But now I am an exile, banished from my home, turned out with nothing more than the knife I had made and unintentionally magicked and my training and instincts.
So I travel with my teacher Mústáré (he never told me his name, so I just call him our word for “teacher”) waiting for the day I can return home. He and I have traveled farther than any of my people had ever imagined. We have had many adventures together; one I remember well is when we traveled to the glittering ocean in the west…
* * *
“Tonight we rest here, tomorrow we will reach the seacoast,” Mústáré said, leaning on his wooden staff.
“Can’t we try to get some more distance behind us,” Spirit asked, coming along side him, “there’s a full hour of daylight left.”
“We need time to make camp, and besides; we still need to practice and you need to add today’s journey to that map of yours.” Mústáré slid his pack off his back, set it on the ground, and began rummaging through it. “Why don’t you go and find some firewood, nothing off any trees mind you, only bring wood you find on the ground.”
Nodding, Spirit dropped his own pack on the ground and set off into the woods. His rook familiar, Ishtar, flew over to him. He was a sleek black bird about the size and shape of a crow with a white V on his chest and white head markings and an intelligent gleam in his eye. The wise cracking, yet cautious, young bird, whom Spirit named for the Earth/Sun god Taros’s famed Sunhawk familiar, was Spirit’s constant companion. Spirit held out his hand and Ishtar smoothly landed on it. “Is this it,” he asked, “aren’t we going any farther? There’s still plenty of time until the sun sets.”
“Mústáré says this is it for today,” Spirit replied, “come on, be useful for a change and help me find some firewood.”
“Did he give you the usual shpeal about only using wood off the ground and not off the trees?”
“Yeah, every night he tells me that, but I already know to do that, he doesn’t need to tell me a million times.” They scanned the ground around the bases of trees and under bushes, seeking and gathering any dry wood they found; after a few minuets they had gathered a nice sized pile. “That ought to be enough, come on Ishtar, let’s get back to camp.”
Holding the wood under his arm, Spirit turned to go but paused, head high, smelling the breeze. His bright yellow-gold coat seemed to glow faintly in the dappled light of the forest. His dark brown stockings, muzzle, mane, and tail blended in with the bark of the trees around him. As a three-year-old, he was still pretty gawky and lanky, with legs that still seemed a bit too long for his body and a wedge-shaped, Arabian head that seemed too small. But he had filled out a bit, now that he was 3; his muscles had developed more, his mane and tail had gotten longer and thicker. His travels with Mústáré and his rigorous training had slimmed him down until he nearly had 0 fat on his entire body. As Mústáré put it, he had the brains to balance out the brawns, and would be quite a handsome stallion when he grew up.
Now, his lean, muscular body was ridged, as he strained to suck in as much of the scent as he could. Even though they were still at least a half days journey from the sea, he could smell its sweet-tangy scent quite clearly. The smell filled him with longing; he had never seen the sea before because his people rarely (if ever) left Caledonia. He had heard plenty of tales about the sea, seen pictures drawn of it, but had never seen it in person.
“Come on daydreamer,” Ishtar griped, pulling at Spirit’s mane, “we need to get back to camp.”
Spirit snorted crossly, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Shifting his grip on the wood, he made his way back to camp with Ishtar flying a short distance ahead.
As they came back into camp, Mústáré was already warming up with a wooden sword. “Put that down and grab your practice sword and get warmed up,” he said. Spirit set the wood aside and pulled his practice sword out of his pack. Mústáré had carved it for him with a hollow handle so he could add lead weights until it was balanced the way Spirit liked it. Taking a deep breath, he imagined an opponent in front of him and began warming up by going through the different blocks and attacks. Motions repeated so many times that his body moved on instinct.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched Mústáré. The older stallion was going through the motions just as Spirit was, but with the ease of a master. Watching him now, it was hard to think of him as old. Mústáré was over 120 years his senior; his silver coat was dulling and growing white around his mouth and eyes, but Spirit knew from experience that he was as agile as any colt in combat. The limp in one of Mústáré’s hind legs that plagued him on a daily basis seemed to vanish while he fought. He was a strict, but kind master, and Spirit had grown used to his style of teaching. Mústáré didn’t go easy on Spirit just because he was young, and wasn’t afraid to ruff him up a bit. In fact Spirit judged his improvement on how many fewer bruises he got.
“Are you ready,” Mústáré asked patiently.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Spirit replied.
“Then take your position.” Mústáré pointed at the ground and a white stream of light (his power) flowed from his finger to form a circle roughly 20 feet in diameter, forming their practice ring. Spirit approached the circle and paused to gather himself. After a few brandishes and a few deep breaths, he was ready. He stepped inside the circle and took his ready position, sword out, sword point up, other arm out and slightly behind for balance, legs out slightly and bent a bit for stability.
They began to circle, Spirit had learned not to attack first but wait for his opponent to strike first. It was a matter of patience, but more often then not, Mústáré’s patience won out. Spirit watched Mústáré, searching for an opening, then he felt rather than saw Mústáré’s guard fall and he struck. By some miracle he managed a touch on Mústáré’s shoulder, which shocked him because he had never scored a touch on Mústáré before. In fact, Mústáré didn’t even seem to be paying attention. He was staring with…was that fear and worry… in his eyes at something behind Spirit. Spirit turned in the direction Mústáré was staring and saw nothing unusual. But he got the feeling that there was something out there, some old and powerful alien-ish conscience. “What is it,” Spirit asked.
Mústáré blinked as if he was coming out of a trance, “it’s nothing, come, w…we need to practice.”
Though he seemed sincere enough, Spirit detected a slight tremor in his voice that told him Mústáré hadn’t completely dropped his concern. But before he could say anything, he got a smarting whap on his leg. “Come on, no daydreaming,” Mústáré said in his ‘no nonsense’ voice, “on guard.” Spirit had to quickly raise his sword to avoid being smacked upside the head.
He had no time to think about Mústáré’s weird behavior now. All he could do was keep his mind on the fight. The moment his mind strayed he would get a whap and a reprimand, “keep your guard up”, whap, “not that far up”, whap, “now block”. By the time it was over Spirit was panting and beginning to sweat hard. “All right,” Mústáré said, “at ease; that’s it for today. You can go rest now.” But before he let Spirit leave the circle, they stood at attention, with their swords, edges facing out, in front of their faces and bowed deeply to each other; the traditional finish to a duel.
By then the sun had long set and darkness was closing in fast. While Mústáré turned his attention to setting the protections around their camp, Spirit sank down next to his pack, completely worn out. Ishtar sailed in from his refuge on a near by tree to land on his usual perch: atop the high point of Spirit’s crest, close to his ears. “Come on,” he whispered in Spirit’s ear, “get out your map so we can add today’s journey.”
“All right,” Spirit replied with a yawn. He rummaged through his pack and pulled out a roll of parchment and a bit of wood carved to be used as a pencil. Using his knife, he sharpened the tip into a fine point. Mústáré, having finished setting the protections, arranged the firewood Spirit had collected into a carefully organized pile.
“Spirit,” he said, “can you please light the fire?”
Nodding, Spirit snapped his fingers; a small spark leapt off them and burrowed into the dry wood, quickly growing until a nice sized fire was burning. This was just a small part of his powers, powers he had hardly known how to control until Mústáré had helped him. His powers consisted mostly of Fire magic, mixed with Earth magic, and a little bit of Water magic thrown in. The Fire magic part of his powers was a special kind called Invisible Fire. It was so rare and hard to see in the early years that it is invisible to all but the most powerful Magic Seers, so it was never identified until it began breaking out violently. It was also, in a way, the cause of his banishment because of a particularly destructive outburst that scared the entire herd into pressuring his father, the King, into banishing him. Shortly after he left, Mústáré found him and, recognizing his powers, taught him how to use them.
Spirit had found he could create and control fire and control plants. Using the Invisible Fire, he could see what others could not, make himself or what ever he wished as invisible as he wanted, or even make it eat an opponent’s magic the way fire eats wood. Because his powers were so deeply ingrained in him, he was inflammable, meaning he could not be burned; he could also breathe underwater, gallop through the air as easily as hot air rises. The bit of Water magic strengthened his magic, so no normal water magic could defeat it. He also had several, as he called them, “useless powers” because they didn’t seem to have any other use than for entertainment. The most prominent ones were conjuring and slight-of-hand; the powers you most often find in the best magicians. Mústáré said he had never seen someone with as tremendous powers as he did and felt that he had other powers that were yet to be discovered. Spirit knew though he still had to practice more since he didn’t have a strong enough grip on them yet.
Now that the fire was burning, he burned the tip of his pencil until it was blackened all the way through. Then, unrolling the parchment, he began to draw in their journey. He and Mústáré had been traveling together for several months and had covered more ground than any of his kind had in near 2000 years. Winter was drawing close, having already arrived in some places, so Mústáré said they were going to the seashore because there it was like summer all year round; the perfect place to wait out the winter. Spirit didn’t object because it was the last part he needed in his map, he also wanted to see the ocean for himself, and lastly because he would rather stay with Mústáré than be left alone in unfamiliar territory.
He and Ishtar bent over the parchment, conferring together to add in the lay of the land accurately. What Spirit could not see with his eyes, Ishtar found, to make sure no gaps were left in the map. Spirit had done this faithfully every night in the hopes of bringing back the first complete map of the new world his people had landed in so long ago. But on nights like tonight, when he was especially tired, only Ishtar’s constant sharp pokes in the tender spot behind his ears kept him awake.
Finally he was finished; he rolled up the parchment, trimmed away the burnt tip of the pencil, and tucked it all away in his pack. He stood and stretched his entire body while yawning a huge yawn. Then he turned ‘round three times, and settled down in the thick moss and grass. Settling his head on the ground, he stared into the fire while Mústáré blew a quiet tune on his flute. Ishtar fluffed and preened his feathers a bit then tucked his head beneath his wing. Spirit’s eyes grew heavier, and heavier as he listened to the reassuring crackle of the fire and Mústáré’s soothing music until finally they closed and he slept.
* * *
“Come on Spirit wake up.”
Mústáré’s insistent hand shaking his shoulder forced Spirit to open his eyes. It was still dark out as the sun had not yet risen, but the glow from his glow-stone was enough to illuminate Mústáré’s face. “Come on,” he repeated, “we need to get going.”
Spirit yawned deeply, “it’s a bit too early to be up and moving don’t you think?” he muttered sleepily.
“Not for us it isn’t; now get up.”
Spirit yawned again, “even Taros the Early Riser has the sense not to be up this early.”
Mústáré chuckled, “he still has to get up early enough to get ready, now come on. If we get going we can reach the seashore by sun-up.” Spirit yawned again and reluctantly got to his feet. He gently prodded Ishtar awake and gathered up his pack. It was apparent that Mústáré had been awake for some time because the protections that they used to protect their camp at night were taken down and everything was packed away; ready for them to grab and go.
“Geesh,” Ishtar muttered softly in Spirit’s ear, “how can he be cheerful at this time of the morning?”
“By going to bed on time and not staying up half the night,” Mústáré countered. That silenced Ishtar; no matter how quietly they spoke, Mústáré always heard them, he had radar ears.
Soon they were on the move, traveling single file with Mústáré in the lead. Spirit followed close behind and Ishtar meandered to either side of their path; just out of Spirit’s sight but not out of mind range. The smell of the sea pulled them on westward like a rope, though the sun was still only a faint, glowing promise on the horizon. Soon, as the sky grew lighter, the land changed from thick forests to open sandy plains dotted with dunes and carpeted with salty sea-grass; a sure sign, along with the warmer temperature, that they were nearing the sea. As the sun broke over the eastern horizon in a blazing flood of light, they crested a particularly tall dune and for the first time, Spirit saw the sea.
It was like a glittering, shiny rug; spreading out from the sandy shore as far as the eye could see. It reflected the bright oranges, reds, and yellows of the rising sun and would turn a deep blue latter on in the morning. The salty sweet smell was almost intoxicating. The light breeze kept off the worst of the heat without making it too cold.
A slight excided whinny escaped him and he raced onto the sandy beach. Mústáré watched, smiling, as Spirit splashed in the shallows like a young foal. He galloped back and forth across the beach; whinnying, bucking and kicking up spray. Ishtar sailed about, riding the breeze and spinning himself dizzy on spiraling updrafts.
When they finally were finished with their fun, Spirit’s coat was very damp from the salt water and Ishtar could not keep still. They went up to Mústáré who had found a small cave by the shore, high above the tide line, and had unpacked his things. “I love this place,” Spirit breathed excitedly; “I don’t know why we didn’t come here sooner!”
“I’m glad you like it,” Mústáré said, “why don’t you give me your pack and go explore some more.”
Spirit eagerly relinquished his pack, only taking his map and writing tools. For the rest of the morning, he and Ishtar worked together to add in the entire coastline; from the southern crags to the northern mountains. Ishtar flew as far as he could, relaying the information back to Spirit, who worked furiously to draw in the new parts. At noon they returned to camp with a completed map. Mústáré greeted them warmly and as they ate the lunch he’d prepared, Spirit told him all about what they had seen that morning. “It was wonderful Mústáré,” Spirit told him breathlessly, “shallow bays and rocky inlets, places where the waves crashed twenty feet tall against the cliffs like thunder, golden sand stretching as far as the eye can see!”
“I can see that I made a good choice to come here,” Mústáré said with a smile. “What do you plan to do this afternoon?”
“We’re going to a small bay around the bend to explore the tide pools. The tide is just low enough for us to get a clear view of them.”
“Well enjoy yourselves then, if you can stop talking long enough to finish your lunch first.”
Spirit smiled and settled down long enough to quickly finish his lunch. Then he and Ishtar were off again. They explored the rocky tide pools, chasing small fish, catching hermit crabs, and stick fencing with a large lobster. As they played they didn’t realize that a great danger was drawing closer by the second. As Spirit was holding an extremely large starfish in his hands, a monstrous bellow echoed from down the beach, followed by the clear sounds of a battle being fought. It was coming from the direction of camp! Spirit quickly put the starfish back and raced towards the ruckus.
As he rounded a bend he stopped short and stared in horror. Mústáré was bravely defending their camp from a gigantic monster. This monster wasn’t just gigantic, it was enormous, humungous; even those words didn’t seem to cover how huge it was! It towered over Mústáré like he was smaller than an ant! Mústáré wasn’t even as tall as its’ little toe! It was UGLY, and with a capitol “U” too; its’ big body covered with rolls of blubbery fat; with scaly skin so dirty that it looked as if it was beginning to mold! Its’ boulder sized hands with dirty fingers (if you could call those fat sausages fingers) ended in dirty claws as long and as sharp as the blades of twenty swords! Its’ huge, vaguely serpent like head (hard to tell under all that fat) was just as dirty, and even more hideous! Its’ yellow slit pupiled eyes were each four times the size of a shield! Its’ disgusting, slobbery mouth was filled with sharp yellow teeth as long as sabers and four fangs each as tall as Spirit or taller! This was the monster of legends, the monster who’s deeds were fed to the youngsters of Spirit’s kind with their mothers milk. It was the monster Typhaeus, the father of all monsters who, ever since his escape from his prison, had sought to destroy the gods for locking him up. Even the gods themselves feared him! Just the sight of him was enough to strike pure, unbridled terror into the bravest hearts.
As Spirit watched, Mústáré dashed and leapt about; fending off the monster’s huge claws with his sword (it doubled as his walking stick when in its’ sheath) with great skill. Suddenly, the beast made a swipe that struck him; only a bit, but a slight wound from those claws was like a direct stab from a super sharp sword.
“NO,” Spirit shouted as he saw Mústáré fall. He reached for the small waterproof sheath he always wore strapped to his foreleg. Undoing the tie that held it closed, he lifted open the top and pulled out his knife. It was six inches long from the base of the blade to the tip and deep black with spots as red as blood that glowed like fire. He had made it from a piece of obsidian when he had been denied a knife at home; chipping away, honing it down until it was sharper than any metal knife. In the forges, he had attached a metal handle he had formed in the shape of two entwined dragons, mouths clutching a ruby. At the time he had been unaware of his powers and so during the concentration of making, it he had unintentionally magicked it.
With this knife in hand, he charged the monster; fueled by the fury of the injury inflicted upon his teacher. The beast sluggishly turned to face him but before it knew what was happening, Spirit had sprinted up its’ back like a gazelle and had driven his knife into a chink between it’s scales. The beast roared with anger, but Spirit attacked again, this time throwing his fiery magic down its’ throat. The monster dove for the sea to try to stop the fire in its’ throat. The two of them hit the sea with a tremendous splash as the beast desperately swallowed water to put out the fire. The salt water seemed to sharpen Spirit’s senses and somehow he knew what to do. He threw out his magic and shouted “WAVE”. Part of the water suddenly receded like a carpet being yanked away, and came roaring back in the form of a huge tidal wave, even taller then the monster and just as wide. As the wave struck the brute, Spirit leapt up on the tremendous pressure and landed just behind it on the sand. The creature sputtered and choked on the salt water as the remainder of the wave drew back into the sea. Taking advantage of its’ disorientation, Spirit leapt in close and slashed its’ ankle; then raced up its’ back an hilt slammed its’ head.
This was the last straw for the already startled beast; it turned and ran over the dunes, roaring pitifully as it quickly disappeared into the distance. Spirit raced over to where Mústáré lay. His breath was coming in sharp, ragged gasps and a trace of blood stained the sand in front of his mouth. The wound was a long slash along his ribcage surrounded by a purple-black bruise. “Spirit,” Mústáré gasped as his eyes fluttered open.
“Shhhhh, don’t talk,” Spirit told him softly, “let’s get you inside the cave.” He carefully rolled Mústáré onto his side and lifted him to his feet. Mústáré groaned and moaned with every step as Spirit helped him into the cave and helped him lay down. “Don’t worry,” Spirit told him, “I’ll have this wound healed up in no time.” Lowering his horn to the wound, Spirit began to heal it. The broken ribs caused by the impact of the monsters’ claw were easy to fix. The torn lung that was punctured by a broken rib was a little harder, but still fixable. But when he tried to pull the wound closed something was wrong. It was the wound; it just refused to close. Finally Spirit had to stop; the bleeding had lessened to a mere trickle, but the wound was still wide open.
“Spirit,” Mústáré breathed, “in my pack… some bandages… main pocket.” Spirit opened Mústáré’s pack and pulled out the rolls of linen bandages. As he brought them over to where Mústáré lay, he noticed a slightly putrid smell coming from the wound. Shockingly, the wound was already festering!
“How,” Spirit breathed.
“Its’… because of… the monster…. ‘s what happens… to any wound… it inflicts.”
“No, I won’t let you die!” Spirit raced to the sea with a bowl and brought back some salt water and washed out the wound. He then wound a bandage securely around Mústáré to pull the wound together and tied it tightly.
“Spirit,” Mústáré groaned.
“What is it?” Spirit asked.
“I know…none of… what we have… will heal it...”
“No, don’t talk like that! You will be alright!”
“Only one thing… will heal it…but it is… hard to find…”
“What is it?”
“A golden apple… from the tree… of the Meridees…”
“The Tree of the Meridees,” Spirit breathed, “how do I find it?”
“In my pack…in the big pocket… you’ll find a… smaller one… Inside… a folded piece of… old parchment…get it.”
Spirit found the old piece of parchment just where Mústáré said it would be. It was old and yellow but in other wise good condition. “Here it is Mústáré,” he said, kneeling next to him.
“Open it.”
When Spirit unfolded it he was amazed. It was a map, just like his own, but it included places of magic, even the Mull of Kintyre, the “Palace of Mist”, the home of the gods. “What is this,” he asked.
“This is… made by your ancestor… Yésu… shows all… places from our… legends. Find the coast… on the map.”
Spirit searched the map and found the coast, “yes what next?”
“Follow it to… the north… find the… Garden of Twilight.”
Spirit found a spot on the map, close to the coast, marked as the Garden of Twilight; around the base of a tall, thin mountain. “It’s not that far from here,” Spirit said confidently, rolling up the map, “I will be back with an apple in no time.”
“NO,” Mústáré said firmly, pushing himself up, and immediately groaned. Spirit helped him to settle back into a reclining position. Once he was settled, Mústáré spoke once more, “you can only enter the garden… at twilight… You have to wait until… just before… It is surrounded… by magic mist… focus on your destination… and nothing else… until you reach it…”
“So, it won’t be that hard to go in, pick an apple and go.”
“You can’t… pick the apples… yourself… Only and immortal… can… The tree is guarded… by the serpent… Laedon…Will kill you… if you try…”
“But if I can chase of the Typhaeus I can kill Laedon.”
“NO… don’t even try… besides… if you do… kill Laedon…if you try to pick an apple… you will die instantly…”
“What about the Meridees, the nymphs who tend the garden? Can I get them to pick me some apples?”
“No, they will not… show themselves… to you…. Your only chance… is the Tiatan Atlayr… he is the father… of the Meridees…”
“But how do I convince him to help me? And besides, he carries the weight of the sky, he can’t go to them.”
“Go to him… on the mountain top… take the sky… so he can go… to his daughters…”
“But he’ll never take it back once he gives it to me.”
“You’ll have… to trick him…”
“All right, you rest and just before twilight, I’ll go get your apple.”
* * *
Spirit walked quickly up the shore, as the sun was beginning to set. Mústáré had convinced him to go now, saying he needed the extra time to reach the garden. It had been hard to leave his teacher when he was in such bad condition, but Mústáré had assured him that he would be all right.
He paused, unsure of what to do. “Hey what’s the matter,” Ishtar said from his perch on Spirit’s neck, “getting cold hooves or something?”
“I don’t know if I can do this Ishtar,” Spirit replied nervously, “Atlayr is thousands of years old, how can I possibly trick him?”
“Hey, I know that when the opportunity arises, you’ll get him. Remember what Mústáré said about him? He has plenty of muscle, but not enough brains. You have the brawns, and the brains. Remember, even strength has to bow to wisdom sometimes.”
Spirit smiled a bit, “you’re right Ishtar, let’s go get him!”
Ishtar took off and they continued their trek up the beach. As the sun was almost ready to disappear over the horizon, they reached the spot marked on the map as the entrance into the Garden of Twilight. Two willow trees that curved together to form an arch with their leaves as a shimmery curtain. Between the leaves, Spirit could see the magic mist that surrounded the garden. “It’s almost twilight,” Ishtar said, landing on Spirit’s neck. “Remember; the trees will turn silver the moment twilight hits, and then we can enter.”
Spirit nodded, he could see that the trees were now veined with silver, as if they were eager for the sun to set so they could be all silver. The sun slowly ticked below the horizon like a countdown, “five, four, three, two, one…”
The sun finally settled beneath the horizon and the two willows blazed silver. “Come on Ishtar,” Spirit said, “let’s do this.” Spirit pushed aside the curtain of leaves and stepped into the mist. It was impossible to see anything but a solid grey wall. But Spirit kept walking in a straight line, the name of his destination pulsing in his mind like a chant, “Garden of Twilight…. Garden of Twilight…. Garden of Twilight…”
Just then the mist rolled away like a curtain being drawn aside, and Spirit found himself standing at the edge of a most beautiful garden. The trees shimmered in shades of silver and gold and the flowers glowed like a sea of gems. And in the middle of it all was a magnificent old apple tree. It was the only somewhat normal looking tree in the garden, with dark brown bark and bright green leaves. The only difference was that the apples the hung from its branches were gold, a beautiful, bright, glowing gold as if they had been covered in gold leaf. The only problem was what was wrapped around the tree’s trunk. Laedon, a huge serpent with golden scales and a golden crest, and he was staring right at him! Laedon snapped his huge jaws at Spirit, with teeth the size of swords. His whole body wrapped around the tree twice with plenty to spare. But Spirit knew Laedon would not leave his position to chase him if he could not reach him. And besides, he wasn’t heading for the tree. Spirit turned and headed up a small dirt path that wound up the tall mountain spire at the far edge of the garden. At the top he could see where the sky seemed to dip down to touch the earth; where the Tiatan Atlayr held it up.
Once he reached the top of the mountain, he came face to face with Atlayr. Atlayr was a heavily built, battle-scared stallion with a coat the color of smoke stained iron. His huge muscles rippled beneath his coat as he strained to carry his heavy burden. He had been the Tiatan’s general during their war against the gods, and as punishment, he was forced to carry the sky for all eternity. Atlayr turned his large head in Spirit’s direction and glared at him. “What do you want mortal,” Atlayr growled, “have you come to mock me in my suffering?”
“No,” Spirit replied, glad that his father had made him learn formal talk, “actually I’ve come to ask of you a favor.”
Atlayr growled; he seemed untrusting but willing to listen. “What do you ask of me?”
“I need one of the golden apples from your daughters’ tree and they won’t show themselves to me. So I was hoping that you could ask them to pick one for me.”
Atlayr smiled; but it wasn’t a happy or nice smile, it was a cruelly calculating smile. “All right, I’ll go ask them for you. If, while I am gone, you will hold the sky in my place.”
Spirit knew that he might not even come back, but it was the only way for him to get the apple. “All right,” Spirit conceded, “if you go and bring me back one of your daughters’ golden apples, I will hold the sky in your absence, I swear by all the gods.”
Atlayr repeated the oath, swearing by all the gods that he would do as Spirit had asked. Then he stood up a little bit so Spirit could move in to take his burden. Spirit put his hands where Atlayr had his, set his stance, and Atlayr took his hands away and Spirit then felt the full weight of the sky.
It was the heaviest thing Spirit had ever held. If you took the weight of the heaviest thing in the world you could think of, and multiplied it by about ten bagillion trillion, then you would have a close approximation of the weight of the sky. Atlayr stretched luxuriously, rolling his shoulders and working the kinks out of his neck. “I’ll be back as soon as I can with your apple,” Atlayr said smugly, “try not to die while I’m gone.” Then he was off down the mountain and Spirit was left alone straining with his burden.
Ishtar urged him on from his perch on a small rock, but Spirit hardly heard him. His whole body was straining to hold the tremendous weight. His mind was screaming at him, “STOP, this is CRAZY, LET GO!!!”, but he kept on going, forcing his body to hold out.
After what seemed like ten million forevers, Atlayr returned carrying a golden apple. Spirit shook his mind awake so he was ready for any tricks Atlayr tried, or that he needed to try. “Here is your apple,” Atlayr said, then added smoothly, “you know it would take me less time to deliver it than it would you. Why don’t I deliver it for you, then come back and take the sky?”
Spirit knew that he wouldn’t come back if he let him go; he would go and release the other Tiatans instead. Atlayr wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t stupid; to trick him he had to be an even more believable liar. Spirit knew that it was time for him to make his move. “Thank you that would be wonderful,” he said, keeping his voice even and complying. “Though before you go; I’ve got this load shouldered in a most uncomfortable position. If you could take it for just a moment, I could position myself so I could carry it for however long you needed.” He added the last part to sweeten the sound of the deal for the Tiatan.
Atlayr seemed quite pleased with the deal; he put down the apple and took the sky back from Spirit. As soon as the weight was transferred over, Spirit zipped away and snatched up the apple. “I thank you for your kindness,” Spirit said in a slightly mocking formal tone as he bowed to the newly entrapped Tiatan. “But I fear I can not intrude upon your hospitality any longer. So I am afraid that I must take my leave. Farewell.” He mock saluted him; then raced off down the path as fast as was safe as Atlayr roared with anger and frustration at his own stupidity.
* * *
As Spirit approached the cave where he had left Mústáré he saw some blue armored figures slip into the sea and a few green and tan armored figures disappear over the dunes. It was as if they had been protecting Mústáré until he got back. Then he heard Mústáré moan and forgot about the strange figures. He trotted into the cave and knelt by his side. Mústáré weakly opened his eyes and raised his head. “Spirit,” he whispered weakly.
“It’s all right Mústáré,” Spirit told him gently, “I’m back. And I’ve got the apple,” he held up the apple so Mústáré could see it.
Mústáré smiled, “good job Spirit, I knew that you could do it. I just need for you to cut it up for me, and then I’ll be able to eat it.”
Spirit quickly cut the golden apple into small slices with his knife. Then, one by one, Mústáré ate the golden apple; gaining strength with each bite. As he ate, Spirit told him how he had won the apple. When the whole apple was gone except for the stem and the seeds, Mústáré was back to his old self. “You did good Spirit,” Mústáré said, pushing himself into an upright position. “I am very proud of you. You took the advice I gave you and used the knowledge to your advantage.”
“Thank you Mústáré,” Spirit replied, “that means a lot to me. I’m just glad I survived holding that sky.”
“It takes more than a strong body for a mortal to hold the sky; it takes a strong will and mind. If your mind gives up and your will is not strong enough to keep you going, then you will fail. You had the will to keep going even when your mind was telling you to stop. As I knew you would; you’re too stubborn to give up.”
“Thanks, I know that I’ll never forget what happened.”
“And every time you look in the mirror you will remember.”
“What do you mean?”
“See for yourself.”
Spirit walked to the shallow pool in the cave and looked into it. What he saw surprised him. He looked as if he had aged ten years; his body was thinner, more muscular, and his face was sharper in places, smoother and thinner in others. And in his forelock… in his forelock was a small streak of grey. “You’re right Mústáré, I will never forget this.”……






…and I never did. I went on to have many more adventures with Mústáré. And I eventually did return to my home, but that’s another story. But I never forgot Mústáré, my teacher. And every time I see that streak of grey, I think of my quest…

…For a golden apple…

…from The Tree of the Meridees…