Tony sat up, kneeing El Dia Octavo into a canter. He rattled away down the narrow trail, the others following. Brothers Mainoa and Lourai were hanging onto their saddles, grunting with effort. “Push down with your feet,” Marjorie cried. “Sit straight. It’s no more difficult than a rocking chair.”
Brother Mainoa pushed down with his feet and continued to hang on. After a time the rocking motion became predictable and his body adapted to it. Rillibee/Lourai was quicker. He found the motion exhilarating. Grass heads slapped him in the face and he grinned widely, seeds in his teeth.
More howls from behind them, to both right and left.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Marjorie demanded over her shoulder.
“Swamp forest,” Mainoa said, grunting, “just ahead.”
He had no sooner said it than they came through the last of the tall grasses to see the forest at a considerable distance ahead and below them, stretching to the limits of sight in either direction. The trail they had been following ran toward the forest like an arrow flight, one aimed at a rocky knob which raised itself above the level of the distant trees. The bowl of grasses before them came only slightly above the horses’ bellies.
“Can the horses run faster?” Mainoa called plaintively. “If they can, we should.”
Don Quixote and El Dia Octavo had made the same decision or had been informed of it — at the same moment. They waited for no signal from their riders but sped down the slope, tails streaming behind them, ears flattened. The mares plunged after them, Irish Lass thundering away at the rear. For Mainoa it was as though he rode a nightmare. Though he knew he would fall, he did not. Though he knew he could not stay on, he did. The horse beneath him seemed determined to keep him in the saddle, and through all his panic he perceived that fact even as he heard the howls rising from the height they had just left. He could not risk looking back to see how close the Hippae were.
Sylvan could. Over the drumming of the hooves he heard the wild screaming from the ridge. He spun half around on the broad back, holding tight to one of the vast panniers Irish Lass carried. A dozen enormous beasts pranced upon the height. Around their feet a great pack of hounds leapt and yammered. As though in response to some signal that Sylvan had not seen, the whole Hunt of them plunged down the slope after the fleeing horses. Not silently, as when they hunted foxen, but clamoring as with one shrill ear-shattering voice.
He turned. The other horses were ahead of him, far ahead of him. This great beast was not as fleet as the others. He lay forward on her neck and whispered to her. “Do the best you can, my lady. I think otherwise, both you and I will be meat for them.” He turned to watch the pursuit. One huge violet-mottled Hippae led the charge, mouth wide, nostrils flared. It seemed to stumble in the grass, then again. It fell, eyes rolled back. A ripple in the grass fled to one side.
Behind the fallen monster the others slowed, prancing uncertainly. “Go,” called Sylvan to his mount. “Go, lady. As best you can.”
Irish Lass heard him and went. The distance between her and the other horses had grown. She did her best to decrease it, but it became wider yet.
Again the Hippae howled pursuit. Again the foremost among them tripped and fell. Again a ripple in the grass fled away, out of their path.
El Dia Octavo had reached the forest. Don Quixote was just behind him Millefiori was next Then Blue Star and Her Majesty. The riders had dismounted and were waiting for Sylvan.
Beside Sylvan a hound ran even with Irish Lass, its head darting through the grasses, teeth bared to strike at the running legs of the horse. Beyond the hound the grass quivered and something made of shining barbs snatched the hound away. Sylvan had not seen what it was, but he heard the hound screaming. Seemingly, so did the rest of the pack. The sound of their howling fell farther behind him. The great horse grunted beneath him. Her hide was wet and sleek. Foam flew from her mouth. “Good Lass,” he whispered. “Good Lass.”
And then, at last, he was there among the others. He turned once more to see the grass behind him alive with ripples. Something was moving there. Something the Hippae-hound pack was aware of, for it stood away, circling, screaming defiance but coming no nearer.
Irish Lass stood with her head dragging.
“Ah, Lass, Lass,” Marjorie was saying. “Poor girl. You’re not built for it, are you Lass, but so brave! Such a wonderful girl.” She led the mare in a tight circle as she talked. Gradually, Lass’s head came up.
“Where now?” asked Tony. “We don’t dare ride in there.” He gestured toward the trees, where water glimmered among the dark foliage.
“Yes,” said Brother Mainoa. “In there. Following me.”
“Have you been in there before?”
“No.”
“Well, then…”
“I haven’t been out in the grasses on a horse before either. But we are here. The immediate threat is past. We were guided. Protected.”
“By?”
“I won’t tell you until your knowing can’t endanger us. Those things” — he thrust a hand in the direction of the Hippae — “can read your thoughts. We have to get into the forest. The barrier between us and them is more pretense than real. If we stay here too long, the Hippae may realize that.”
Tony looked at his mother, as though for permission. Father James was already mounting once more. With a sigh, Brother Mainoa heaved himself up, struggling to get his leg across the horse. Brother Lourai helped him. Sylvan was still atop Irish Lass.
“Go,” Marjorie said.
Blue Star moved into the shallow water, picking her way among towering trunks and through thickets of reedlike growths. The others followed. The mare took a winding path, turning abruptly to take new directions. “Follow her closely,” Brother Mainoa called hoarsely. “She is avoiding dangerous places” So they went, a slow, splashing game of follow the leader, with Blue Star following who-knew-what.
When they had come into the swamp far enough that they could no longer see the prairies, Blue Star stopped her twisting path and led them straight along a shallow channel between two impenetrable walls of trees. This watery aisle seemed to go on for miles. At last a gap appeared in the endless line, and the mare struggled up a shallow bank and onto solid ground. “An island?” Marjorie asked.
“Safety,” Brother Mainoa said, sighing and half sliding, half falling off his horse and lying where he fell. “How? Safety?”
“The Hippae will not come in here. Nor the hounds.” He spoke from the ground, staring up through the trees to far-off glimmers of sunlight, like spangles. Like gems. His eyes would not stay open. “One did,” she contradicted. “We saw the trail.”
“Only as far as the swamp,” he acknowledged. “And then, I think, perhaps it went along the side…” His mouth fell open and a little sound came out. A snore.
“He’s old.” Rillibee said to them defiantly, as though they had accused the old man of some impropriety. “He falls asleep like that a lot.”
Sylvan had dismounted. “What do I do for her?” He asked Marjorie as he stroked the mare.
“Rub her down with something,” Marjorie said. “A clump of grass, a fistful of leaves, anything. If we’re going to stay here awhile, take the saddle off.”
“We can’t go on until he wakes up,” said Tony, indicating the supine form of Brother Mainoa.
“We can’t go on until the horses rest a little anyhow,” Marjorie sighed. “They had quite a workout. About a day and a half a night of steady walking plus a mad run. Don’t let her have much water,” she cautioned Sylvan. “Walk her until she’s cool, then let her have water.”
“Otherwise what?” Sylvan asked. “Would it kill her?”
“It could make her sick,” Tony answered him, looking up as Mainoa had done before he fell asleep. Sun spangles, very high. Something else up there, too. Something high that blocked the sun. Tony pointed. “What’s up there?”