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ELOUISE

  A tale of The Light

  By Belinda Crawford

  Copyright 2013 Belinda Crawford

  Cover by Harvey Crawford.

  Model courtesy of faestock.

  Background image courtesy of

  StarsColdNight, xKenren & needanewname.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews – without permission, in writing, from the author at [email protected].

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author's imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Contents

  Elouise: A tale of The Light

  About the author

  Elouise: A tale of The Light

  The mare’s leg is laid open to the bone. Her skin and sinew separated in one jagged stroke from shoulder to knee. She stands lopsided on the other three, sinking into the stall’s carpet of straw, her head drooping and her ears wilted. I lay one hand on her nose, gently stroking the white blaze, her lead in my other hand.

  Jack is crouched by the wound, his hands bloody. There is an edgy tension in my limbs as my husband’s mouth thins and his brow furrows like the freshly tilled fields. He shakes his head. My heart sinks.

  He puts his hands to his knees and pushes himself upwards. “She’ll have to be put down.”

  I stroke the mare’s nose. She is a faithful creature, placid with age and years of hard labour. Without her, the fields would not be tilled nor grain taken to the village market. “We can’t afford another horse.”

  “We’ll make do.” Jack looks past me, towards the open barn door. “I can hitch Daisy to the plough.”

  I follow his gaze. The cow awaits her morning milking, lazily swatting flies, untroubled by my son’s clumsy pets of her broad shoulder. Her honey coloured coat is again glossy and her udder full after the lean months of winter but unlike our neighbour’s oxen she is small and delicate.

  I turn back, raising my eyes to Jack’s. “There’s another way.”

  Jack’s shoulders tense and the centres of his eyes grow large till only a thin line of blue rings the black. He stares at me for several long seconds and I smile softly, willing him to agree. The Reverend’s sermons, full of shaken fists and dire warnings, have frightened us all, inviting suspicion into the village. Our friends and neighbours peer from around their curtains and hold themselves ready to point and cry alarm at the slightest hint of devilry, but there is little choice. We need the mare.

  Finally Jack shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous, if the Reverend should find out ...”

  “There’s no one here to carry tales.” I widen my smile, gesturing around the barn, empty except for us, the horse and little Devon, petting the cow.

  His lips tighten. For a moment, I fear he will refuse and wonder what I will do if he does.

  Jack nods but his expression remains grim as he holds out his hand for the lead. I place it in his palm and step around him to the mare’s shoulder, touching it lightly just above the wound. The unmarred skin is warm and smooth, her chestnut coat silky beneath my fingers and for a moment I stand there, the dusty scent of horse strong in my nose.

  I crouch and place my other hand on the mare’s knee, a bare inch below the ragged tear. Here her coat is tacky with blood as it seeps from the wound and an iron tang mixes with her dusty scent.

  I close my eyes. A few moments of concentration as I summon the coil of warmth that lives in my belly. It shivers and then leaps to my will, flooding through my chest in a rush that lightens my head.

  I take a breath, quieting the magick, before drawing it through my hands and sending it into the animal’s flesh. The warmth twists and turns, wrapping itself around veins and muscles, pulling them together. It is not enough though, the injury is too great and my power too small, so I steel myself and reach down, through my feet and into the earth, seeking more. It comes quickly, flowing hot and rich, burning its way through my hands and into the horse. Behind my lids I can see skin knit together, unblemished and whole, and my head spins.

  My eyes open and I smile, barely noticing the grass at my feet, brown and dry, its life taken for the mare.

  There is a gasp from behind me. I turn. Euphoria vanishes.

  Little Devon stands at the stall’s gate, jumping and waving, and next to him – Oh Dear Lord – next to him in her heavy black skirts is Hetty Jones, the storekeeper’s wife, a hand over her mouth and a covered basket hanging from the crook of her arm. Her wide brown eyes stare at me with such fear that I think my heart may stop.

  Beside me Jack moves, taking a step forwards, his face as pale as mine. Hetty’s eyes snap from me to Jack, to his outstretched hand. She stares at it like she would a snake, or the Devil himself. She draws back, her eyes growing wider.

  “Hetty,” Jacks says and takes another step forward.

  The basket falls to the ground, a crock of honey spilling from under the white covering.

  Hetty runs.