NewDeptfordIntroductions(Continued from The Mystery Letter) Rosemary gets through chapter one of the Dickens classic (a beautiful edition, too) and is ready to turn to the second chapter when there is a knocking at the door. "Rosemary. I am Epona. I would fain speak with thee," comes the voice, concurrent with the knocking. The size of the suite means she should not so clearly hear the voice on the far side of the door, a young to middle aged woman's voice, but there it is. Rosemary stares toward the door for a long moment, her logic-trained mind struggling to cope with the implications. It goes something like this: Hypothesis one: These people are all crazy (potentially dangerous). Hypothesis two: This is for real (impossible). Hypothesis three: *I* am crazy (how would I know?). Hypothesis four: Someone thinks this is a really funny joke (improbably complex and expensive). Unfortunately, determining which hypothesis is correct requires engaging with the situation, not sitting here wishing she were somewhere - anywhere - else. She uncurls from the chair and walks to the door, discovering when she gets there that she's still holding the book. It's a rather hefty volume, which may come in handy. With her other hand she turns the knob to open the deadbolt. Then, after a definite hesitation, she slowly pulls the door open. The dark brown-haired woman behind the door is dressed in white, but instead of the dress typical of this nineteenth-century community, it is something of a culture far older. The sleeveless tunic is complemented by a girdle, and the material is bloused above the girdle. She smiles. "I am pleased that my somewhat tortured method of arranging a meeting with you has run its course." She pauses a beat. "You may wish to sit down for what I am to tell you." "Ah, come in, please," Rosemary says, belatedly moving out of "Epona's" way and closing the door behind her. Moving to the nearest seats, she gestures the visitor toward one and takes another, a little closer than she really wants to be. "You ... wanted to see me? Particularly?" She studies Rosemary for a moment, and then nods. "It seems that the good people of the chancel have held their tongues better than I imagined," 'Epona' says, sitting down. "Let's start this gently," she says, more to himself than to Rosemary, although she is clearly studying Rosemary as she says this. "You have no doubt, Rosemary, noticed there are some unusual things about New Deptford by now, haven't you? "And perhaps even in yourself?" she adds. "The people seem very ... committed," Rosemary offers cautiously. "They are dedicated, it is true," Epona says. "I would bring your attention to the culture, the technology, and of course the unusual method you and your Mister Rubin took to get here. "We are still on Earth in terms of the seasons and the passage of the sun in the sky, but in many ways, New Deptford has not been part of Earth for about a century and a quarter. "That is why you may have had difficulty finding information about it," Epona continues. "It was mostly erased from history, retroactively, when I took possession of it." "... That would explain a lot," Rosemary admits with studied calm. Epona gives a short nod. "Things leak through. It's difficult to remove something from Earth entirely, and keep it a chancel. There always have to be connections, no matter how tenuous, no matter how fleeting. And people half-remember things, write them down. "New Deptford is not the only city or province to have had this happen." Epona says. "But it is mine, and is of my concern and province. I've given it a focus and emphasis on things equestrian, as is right and proper. I have no doubt you have noticed this. "Do you know who I am, Rosemary?" she adds. "Or perhaps, a better question. Do you understand who and what I am?" Rosemary hesitates for a very long moment, her thoughts not so much churning as spinning into new patterns that she doesn't want to have to deal with. "My father," she says abruptly, "keeps a statue of Epona in his room." "Does he, now?" The surprise in Epona's voice sounds unforced and genuine. "I had no idea." She regards Rosemary for a moment. "I suppose there is little enough extra preamble, and perhaps you already know the truth. Or were told." She pauses a moment. "I am your birth mother." The book on Rosemary's lap is in danger of getting dented from her grip on it. "And you chose to bring this to my attention now, and in this bizarre way, because ...?" Epona glances to Rosemary's hands, gripping the book, and then to her. "Because I need your help. Creation needs your help." Epona pauses a moment and then continues. "That may sound overdramatic, and at first blush, Rosemary, it is. However it is also the truth. "As someone with your sharp mind can no doubt guess, there are many other Goddesses and Gods than just me. Thousands of years ago, we gained possession of the Earth and the rest of Creation from our forebears, our parents. The Dodekatheon calls them the Titans, and the other Pantheons usually follow suit. We killed a few, with horrific consequences, and so imprisoned the rest. "Now, after thousands of years, the Titans are using their servants to work themselves free, to regain possession of Creation, and wipe the slate clean of Gods and mortals alike. The Norse call it Ragnarok. "If nothing is done to avert or oppose the Return of the Titans, Rosemary, a world where the Titans are free and rule it once again is no world for Man or God. And that's where you, my divine daughter, come in. As a child of mine, you are not yet a Goddess or a demigoddess but you have the spark and potential to become one. You are a Scion." Rosemary listens to this in stony silence. It isn't credible, she reluctantly concludes, that anyone would go to all this trouble just to mess with one Rosemary Zelioni, former show jumper and fledgling attorney. On the other hand ... "So, you're planning to take these Titans to court?" she asks blandly. Epona laughs. "If only a restraining order would be sufficient to the task. No, Rosemary, I do require your legal mind, and the skills you have and don't yet realize you have, but not to deal with the Titans and their minions in a court of law." She shakes her head. "You are my daughter, and have a power of persuasion and a legal mind to match. And, even more so, one that can ride into the battles that are to come. And those battles will come. "In war, it is the cavalry that dominates the engagement on a battlefield, Rosemary. They define the terms of the encounter. Mobility, speed, precision. I would have no one less or other than my daughter to fulfill that role." Rosemary's annoyance vanishes into her vast astonishment. "The, the real cavalry these days rides tanks or something," she says, not showing much persuasiveness at the moment. "And, well, the Horse Guards' training isn't what you'd call intense, you know." "Perhaps the training you have received has not been that of the days before tanks and mechanized infantry," Epona says. "And yet, of all the things to be drawn to, to find a passion for, do you not find it curious you were drawn to horses, and not, say, automobiles, or aircraft? You were drawn to horses, because of who you are." Rosemary considers arguing this point, but quickly figures it would be a waste of effort. "And yes, cavalry is not a weapon of war against modern armies. But against the mythic, Rosemary, it is not the most modern of technology which prevails, or even functions, but rather strength of character, purpose and excellence. A tank, especially without the help of the divine, may simply fail to function when one of the Cyclops bursts out of the Green Mountains and starts wreaking havoc. The Titans and their spawn often carry a bit of their world around them. It is then, that a Scion of Epona might lead her fellows into battle upon horseback, and win the day where a tank will not. "And I have in mind a gift of a special horse for you, my daughter, that will serve you in the days and moons ahead." "Special how?" Rosemary says warily. "You're skeptical," Epona says abruptly. "Perhaps this is all too much, too soon. Perhaps you aren't ready. The transition for scions in this modern age has been difficult, I have been told." From out of nowhere, as if she were magician, she produces a small box made of lacquered wood. The box is decorated in black and orange paint, in the manner of Greek pottery Rosemary has seen at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. "Your horse is inside, in his figurine form. He was once Alexander's horse," Epona says. "His loyalty, strength and unwavering abilities deserved immortality. To bring him to life, or to return him to his statue form requires only speaking his name. "I would suggest, for his sake and the sake of the room that you do not command him to his full living size in here," she adds wryly. Rosemary closes her lips, which had reflexively started to form the name. She takes the box and opens it, revealing an exquisitely detailed black statuette. Obsidian, she thinks, turning the box so the light gleams softly on the curve of its flank. "Well," she says, "seeing that would definitely allay my skepticism." "As you wish." Epona says. "Bring him and follow me, Rosemary." Epona leads Rosemary down a side staircase and through corridors of the hotel clearly meant for servants and staff, rather than the general use of the public. She says nothing, confidently leading the way. The journey takes the pair of them out a side door. This side of the hotel, probably the back, is the stable yard. The smell of nearby horses in the stables is familiar and fills Rosemary's nostrils. The two workers here bow and retreat toward those stables a moment later. "The crowd outside the front of the hotel would likely not to be your liking," Epona says wryly. "Especially since you have not yet been convinced of who and what you are. Or that this isn't something out of a reality television program. Nai, it is much better to do this here." "Now," she commands. "Place the statue on the ground and speak his name." She steps back several paces. Rosemary extracts the statuette from its nest of wool; it feels oddly warm and remarkably heavy. Carefully, she places it upright on a flat patch of ground and also steps back from it. And then stares at it for a long moment. She doesn't really want proof that all these absurdities are real. A call to war with creatures out of myth? Her long-lost, unknown mother, also a creature of myth? Yet she can't close her eyes and pretend this isn't happening, much as she might want to. Eduardo Zelioni didn't raise any cowards. "Bucephalus," she whispers. And the statue uncoils, or unfolds, or expands - she has no word for the process. In the space of one breath, the small inert object becomes a living, snorting, coal-black stallion who dances in place, stretching his neck and taking in his surroundings. As if to emphasize his existence he gives an ear-shattering herd stallion's bugle. What sounds like every horse in earshot whinnies in response. While Rosemary stares, he turns toward Epona and, unmistakably, bows to her: one foreleg extended, the other bent, head bowed. Epona smiles, and inclines her head in Rosemary's direction. Then he turns to Rosemary, taking a step forward to sniff her hair and, it seems, take a close look at her. He doesn't evince - either to her or to Epona - the kind of fascination she saw in the carriage horses earlier. That would, she suspects, be beneath him. But he doesn't object when she reflexively reaches up to scratch behind his ears. He's warm, and soft, and real. Probably. But after a moment of scratch-appreciation he pulls away and presents his side to her. He's wearing an English-style jumping saddle of black leather over a black pad, and she's almost sure the irons are let out to exactly the right length for her. Bucephalus cranes around and nudges her towards his side. Ridiculous. She's not dressed for riding. But ... there's nothing she can't deal with while riding. Nothing. Before she can think better of it - or think at all - she steps out of her shoes, sets the box on top of them, hikes her skirt up and somehow hurls herself into the saddle. Even as she's gathering up the reins (tied loosely to a ring on the saddle) and slipping her bare feet into the irons, she's not sure how she got up onto such a big horse so easily. As soon as she settles into her seat, Bucephalus starts moving toward the low gate in the fence that defines one side of the yard. She automatically shifts her weight and he jumps over it into the alley as easily as over a log. Together they move into a trot, past the couple of houses to a rough track that runs between the town and the fields. From there a gallop is the obvious thing; she barely touches the horse's sides and he's flowing into the kind of pace a rider usually encounters only in dreams. The wind dries the tears from her face almost as quickly as they all - tears that somehow spring from everything that has just happened. From the disruption of her entire life. Bucephalus veers off the track to avoid a wagon, leaps a stone wall, scatters a herd of sheep, and sails over a wire fence. This terrain calls for more attention from her. It looks like there's a stream up ahead. Bucephalus does suggest, as a horse can, to avoid crossing the stream, and instead, the course that Rosemary and he take continues the rough semicircle already started by leaving town for the farmland of the community 'round. As opposed to an obstacle course, Rosemary can learn just how fast Buecephalus is on a straight and clear road, barreling back toward the town. If Bucephalus were three not and not 2,300 years old, there is no horse she knows of considering entering the Derby this May that could come close to catching him. No, not this horse. His speed is unnatural. The furious gallop finally slows to something less disruptive as she re-enters New Deptford proper. By this point, there are plenty of people who have come out of various buildings to watch, to point, to shout. She passes by shops, halls, a blacksmith (who stops and watches Rosemary ride past). Bucephalus manages to give Rosemary an entire tour of the town before wending his way back to the hotel, this time the front rather than the back. Epona has made her way to the front, waiting, as has a crowd of people. A pleased smile is on her face. There may not be a lot of dancing tonight for Rosemary. But the ride was the best of her life. Despite that, her expression is sober as Bucephalus comes to a halt. Even after that gallop, she notices, he doesn't seem at all tired - just a little warmed up. He stands rock-solid, his neck arched, clearly posing for the audience. She kicks her aching feet free of the irons and dismounts in a kind of backwards hop from her right knee, because of having to deal with her skirt. Not the most elegant move, but as she lands she feels - odd. Stronger, somehow; more balanced. As if the move *looked* elegant, even though it wasn't. Setting that aside for the moment, she moves toward the horse's head - *her* horse, at least for the time being. He cocks an ear toward her, then breaks his pose to push his forehead against her chest. Does he need to be curried, or fed? she wonders. Another thing to find out. She scratches his ears for a moment, then steps back. "Bucephalus." His transformation back to a statuette is immediate, shrinking to his original size within seconds. There are gasps, and claps and cheers from the populace at the transformation of the horse. They are all keeping their distance from both Epona and Rosemary, forming a rough ellipse. "There has to be intent to your words, of course," Epona says, coming forward to stand next to Rosemary. "It would not do for him to transform in the middle of a ride by merely calling out his name. There has to be at least a modicum of will to have him change. "That is the root of all magic, or so my cousin Hecate tells me," Epona says. "Will. "You will want to see to his normal equine needs at intervals as well," she adds. "Changing him back to a statue will not abate his hunger, or remove the tangles of his hair. But neither does time pass for him when he is a figurine." "That's good to know," Rosemary says, meeting her gaze squarely, without hostility but also without any discernible pleasure. After a moment she says, "I think we need to talk some more." "We do," Epona says, with a single nod of the head. "We have much to discuss." She pauses a moment. "Especially given the Ball is approaching and one of the other Scions is in town. Perhaps even nearby," Epona says. She looks around the crowd. Rosemary can hear murmuring and low voices, mainly from people studying and looking at her as if she were a celebrity. "However, I think that this would be a conversation best conducted in private, don't you think?" Epona continues, lowering her voice to a more conversational volume. "I assume your quarters in the Hotel would be the most comfortable place for you?" She bends down gracefully and retrieves the statuette and offers it again to Rosemary. (Continued in Storms and Horses) |
