An Artificial Night

THREE PALE LADIES WITH EYES AS BLANK AS STONE stepped forward at Blind Michael’s command, dressing me in tatters of green and gold silk and tying tiny chiming bells in my hair.

Their sisters descended on the other children, decking them in rags of gray and white. I gritted my teeth, trying to summon up the strength to move. And I couldn’t find it.

When they were satisfied with their work they lifted me up onto the back of a white mare. Green and gold ribbons were braided through her mane and tail, matching my gown, and she pawed the ground as I settled on her back, trying to step out from underneath me. She looked as terrified as I felt, and I couldn’t blame her. I’m not that familiar with horses, but even I could recognize the horse Katie had become. Her eyes were still too human.

I’m sorry, I thought, wishing I could say the words out loud. I didn’t mean to leave you, but they got me, too. Small comforts are sometimes all we have. She and I would suffer together. Forever.

The older children chosen to accompany us slipped out of the shadows in groups of one and two, dressed in shredded finery that accented the strange twists and curves of their bodies. They crossed the field, finding their horses and mounting in silence. Most of them had obviously done it before. How did they get so strange? What was going to happen to me?

The Centaur trotted over to stand by my horse, the web-fingered Piskie riding sidesaddle on his back. They were still nude, but now had ropes of red and gold silk knotted in their hair.

“Today we Ride,” said the Piskie, pleasantly. “Some of us will be Riders; some will not. Some will only change a little and return to the hall. This will be my fifth Ride.” I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t. She seemed to take my silence for fear, because she smiled. “You’ll Ride only once, but He promises us it will hurt.”

Giggling, the Centaur turned and cantered back to the throng of mounted children, taking her with him. They were happy. Lucky them.

And the Riders came. They were mounted on their twisted horses, armed and armored, and the difference between them and the children was as great as the difference between mountains and sand. They were more than lost; they’d gone willingly. One of them raised a horn, sounding three sharp notes, and Acacia rode out of the darkness, sitting as straight as the trees that were her children.

Willow branches were tangled in her hair, and under her cloak, she wore the same yellow and green rags as I’d been dressed in. The look she gave me was full of weary sorrow, but it wasn’t entirely without relief. She’d be free after the night’s work was done. Her horse was the color of new-cut wood, with a mane and tail that mixed all the reds, greens, and golds of autumn.

She rode to the front of the gathering, stopping with a crack as sharp and sudden as a branch breaking. Looking over us, she asked, “Who rides here?”

“Blind Michael’s Hunt, that sweeps the night,” called the Riders, in perfect unison.

“Who Rides here?” The stress was subtle, but it was there.

“The children who would join us; the children we have won, bargained for, and stolen.”

“Who do you ride for?”

“Blind Michael, who leads and loves us.”

“Who do you Ride for?”

“For the Hunt itself. The Hunt and the Ride and the night.”

Acacia shuddered, looking disgusted. I was fairly sure that wasn’t a part of the script. “Then you Ride tonight, and your lord rides with you.” She pulled her horse to rein, merging into the throng, and I saw her look toward me as she added, “May Oberon help you all.”