Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [34]
Raising his left hand, palm facing the herd, Ehomba spoke in clear, curious tones in the language of men. “We were told you would not let anyone cross the marshland. We were told that this is because you are deranged. I see wildness before me, and great beauty, but no madness. Only frustration, and its cousin, concealed rage.”
At the piercing tones of the herdsman’s voice several of the horses stirred nervously, and Simna made ready to run even though there was nowhere to run to. But the herd’s composure held. There was, however, no response to Ehomba’s words.
Anyone else would have turned and left, defeated by the massed silence. Not Ehomba. Already he carried too many unanswered questions in his head. It was stuffed full, so much so that he felt he could not abide another addition. So in the face of imminent death, he tried again.
“If you will not let us pass, then at least tell us why. I believe you are not mad. I would like to leave knowing that you are also not stupid.”
Again there was no response. Not of the verbal kind. But a new class of horse stepped forward, shouldering its way between a sturdy Morgan and a deerlike eohippus. Its coat was a gleaming metallic white, its outrageous belly-length mane like thin strips of hammered silver. In the muted sunlight it looked more like the effort of a master lapidary than a living creature, something forged and drawn and pounded out and sculpted. It was alive, though.
“I am an Argentus.” It spoke in the dulcet tones of a cultured soprano. “A breed that is not yet.” Eyes sweet and sorrowful focused on the entranced Simna.
What a mount that would make, the swordsman was thinking, on which to canter into frolicsome Sabad or Vyorala-on-the-Baque! Delighted maidens would spill from their windows like wine. Regretfully, he knew the spectacular courser was not for riding. As the equine itself had proclaimed, it did not yet exist. Somehow he was not surprised. Not so extraordinary, he mused, to find the impossible among the demented. He was moved to comment.
“Horses cannot talk,” he declared conclusively, defying the evidence of his senses.
The directness and acumen of the animal’s stare was disconcerting. Simna was left with the uneasy feeling that not only was this creature intelligent, it was more intelligent than himself.
“These my cousins cannot.” The great wealth of mane flowed like silver wine as the speaker gestured with his perfect head. “But I am from tomorrow, where many animals can. So I must speak for all. You were right, man. Here are representatives of all the horses that are, all that ever were—and all that will be. To a certain point in time, anyway.” Displaying common cause with its diverse kin, it pawed at the water and the mud underfoot with hooves like solid silver. “I know of none that come after me.”
Etjole Ehomba was too focused to be dazzled, too uncomplicated to be awed, either by sight or by confession. “Why will you not let anyone cross the marshland?”
“Because we are angry. Not insane, as other humans who come and affront us claim. Not maddened. We act, just as you see, from frustration.” Again the magnificent head shook, sending waves of silver rippling sinuously. “In our running, which is what we do best, each of us has come to find him- or herself trapped in this place. Whether it is something in the heavy, humid air, or in the lukewarm waters, or something else, I do not know. I know only that, run hard and fast as we might, we cannot break free of the grip of this fey fen. It holds us here, turning us individually or as a herd, whenever we try to run free.
“We are in no danger.” It glanced briefly and unafraid at the watching, unblinking Ahlitah. “There are predators, but we hold together and none no matter how hungry will chance an attack on so great a gathering. There is more than enough to eat, plentiful in variety and nourishment.” It