White Horse Talisman Read Free Page B

place of healing.”
    Myrddin tutted and Ava sighed.
    â€œI had forgotten the fragility of human children,” Equus said. “But I’ve sent her healing dreams. She and I will talk again.”
    â€œHow can you warn a child about the Dark Being?” said Ava sadly.
    â€œI’ll explain one task at a time,” replied Equus. “She must understand about being a Magic Child before she can help us against the Emptiness.”
    â€œWe may not have time,” Myrddin insisted.
    Ava smiled and held out her wings in blessing. “Have faith in the Lady. There will be time enough.”
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    Chantel lay still and white on her hospital bed, her hand still clenched. No one had been able to pry apart her fingers.
    Only the occasional flicker of her closed eyelids showed she was alive. But though she seemed unconscious, she spoke with the White Horse.
    Hello, child.
    Is that you, Horse? Did my wish come true? Are you my horse now?
    Yes, I’m the Great White Horse, and you are the Magic Child.
    What does that mean?
    That together you and I can ride the wind and share magical secrets. Relax. Open your heart and mind to me. You are the new Magic Child with a powerful gift. But now you must heal, so sleep and dream, sleep and dream. You can learn through your dreams. Dream of the past, child. See through the eyes of Alin, one of the people you call Celts. He was the first Magic Child.
    CCC
    Alin stood among the circle of youths on the hilltop. Many were hopeful, some were apprehensive, and one or two shook with terror.
    Not Alin. He stood proud and straight. This was the day he had prepared for all his fourteen summers on earth. The Day of the King, the day the Celtic people honored the Great White Horse God, the day the Chosen One would ride the wind like the Horse God himself.
    Alin pulled back his shoulders and stood tall in the sunshine, a tiny smile on his lips. He watched intently. His heart knew his fate.
    The hooded body of the oldest priest spun blindly in the center of the circle, faster and faster, dizzily swinging his staff in front of the boys. Finally, the priest staggered to a stop, just as Alin knew he would, with the staff pointing unerringly at him.
    The other boys gave a whispering sigh as they drew back, leaving Alin alone. He strode towards the edge of the hillside. The crowds gathered on the terraces far below in the valley known as the Manger saw that a choice had been made. A faint roar of approving voices drifted upward on the wind.
    Alin eyed the tabooed slope down to the Manger. It was a long way down and heart-stoppingly steep, but this mo–ment was what he had secretly trained for. He could ride it — given the right horse.
    Next Alin turned towards Dragon Hill.
    There stood the distant, glittering, gold-clad figure of the current king. Alin raised his arm in salute and bowed. The tiny figure raised its arm in acknowledgement.
    Stepping back from the edge, Alin turned and looked at the hooded priest. The priest’s staff gestured towards the horse corral built on the crest of the hill between the carved chalk spine of the Great White Horse and the protective ditch circling the hilltop fort.
    Alin looked over the wattle fence and surveyed this year’s choices. They were fine horses, strong and wiry, their mus–cles playing under their haunches as they nervously moved around the small space. His eye lit on a red mare with a foal nuzzling anxiously against her side. The mare turned her head and gazed unblinkingly at Alin. As their eyes met, Alin’s heart quickened. She could do it. She had the wiriness and sure-footedness to tackle the hill, the strength in her hindquarters to hold on, and the will to survive for her foal. He stretched out his hand and exhaled gently.
    The mare’s ears flickered and she stepped forward and let him rub her forehead.
    Two more priests appeared. One grasped the mare’s forelock, threw the gold and enameled bridle over