WHAT WILL MY BECOMING LOOK LIKE?
GOD BURYING LION'S TEETH AND LILLY SEEDS IN MY HEART & ME BITING DOWN BECAUSE I THINK IT'LL BRING ME SOME DAMP SUNLIT PATH OF SILENCE? WILL IT HURT? WILL I BE COVERED IN BLOOD NOT BELONGING TO ME? GO ON THEN, GIVE ME THAT DREAM AGAIN WHERE YOU SHOW UP WITH ASH-STAINED CHEEKBONES & TEETH OF SPLINTERED GLASS. TELL ME HOW GOD IS THE SOUND MADE BY A FIST UNFOLDING INTO PETALS.
On a hyper-rational level, Lyr realises he should feel fear now.
It is an afterthought, that occurs seconds later than it ought to. Offhandedly, even, Lyr thinks: I ought to be afraid. Physically, he reacts on an instinctual level; he dodges and weaves, throwing a kick or ducking a shoulder as required. The sea hems in on him, raising at the peripheral. In his overly pragmatic state, an inconsequential and absurd definition comes to him:
Wave, a ridge or swell on the surface of a body of water, normally having a forward motion distinct from the oscillatory motion of the particles that successively compose it. The undulations and oscillations may be chaotic and random, or they may be regular.
The undulations and oscillations may be chaotic and random.
A Gealach draws blood in a shallow gash across his haunch. The blood drips like ruby beads down the length of his leg, a brilliant and offensive brightness against the pallor of his skin.
Another water horse collides with his ribs, full-force—chaotic and random—and Lyr feels the world tip out from beneath him. He kicks out with a hind leg even as his shoulder hits the ground, and he feels the hoof connect solidly with his attacker. Lyr knows it is not enough, and in a feat of impressive athleticism—fuelled, no doubt, by his body’s need to survive—the stallion is up before he fully hits the ground.
Then:
A variable.
A pale horse collides with the darkest Gealach, a large black stallion with a split, toothy mouth. His ghastly figure is met with a girlish cry and ferocious impact; Lyr sees the opening and seizes it, lunging for the gap. The kelpies initially scatter; they are utterly taken aback by the girl’s appearance, but soon recover. One—a chestnut—sports a half-moon gash under his left eye, where Lyr’s hoof must have connected to his jaw.
There is a moment he considers running. He could make it to the cliffside before the black Gealach and girl recover. He could leave her there.
Later, he will hate himself for thinking it.
Later, he will ask himself: how much?
How much does it cost?
One life.
How much is it worth?
Lyr wheels on a hoof and moves to stand abreast the girl after his brief hesitation. He does his best to stand straight, and tall, and look them in the eyes. Every Gealach draws back, reassessing the pair, save for the large black stallion.
However, after a long moment, he too withdraws. Lyr waits until the herd returns—almost magically—to the sea. There is a long pause in between when he wonders why they left, and if the reason matters. Then, the pale stallion tries to face the rose-gray mare. “Thank you.” Lyr’s voice is quiet; nearly ashamed. He jumps as a wave crashes, and cannot hold her gaze. “I apologise for being an imposition.”
He wonders if he will ever learn how to keep the sadness from reaching his eyes when he says, “I’m Lyr. You just saved my life.”
EVERYONE WHO TOUCHES ME WILL WALK AWAY
UNHARMED AND SINGING
