Sheri Tepper - Grass

Well, then he could not let it take as long. Focusing all his attention, he listened to what the riding master had to say.

In the corner, hidden behind the screen of displaced chairs and sofas, Stella listened too, focused no less intently on what the riding master had to say.

She had danced with Sylvan bon Damfels.

Only for a little time :enough time to know that everything she wanted was there, in his skin, behind those eyes, dwelling in that voice, in the touch of those hands.

When she came here she had thought she would never forget Elaine, never forget the friend she had left behind. Now there was no room, not even in memory, for anyone but Sylvan. When he had smiled at her on the dance floor, she had realized that she had been thinking of him since she had seen him first, at the bon Damfels Hunt. She had seen Sylvan then, in his riding clothes, seen him mount, seen him ride. On the dance floor, as her body moved with his, she had remembered each time she had seen him, each time he had spoken to her, her passionate heart demanding, as it always did, more. More. More of Sylvan bon Damfels. She would ride with Sylvan bon Damfels as she was dancing with Sylvan bon Damfels, as she could imagine — oh, imagine doing other things with Sylvan bon Damfels.

He had looked into her eyes.

He had told her she was lovely.

Behind the furniture she exulted, glad for the first time that she was here, on Grass. Ears pricked for every word the riding master was telling her father, she sucked in the information and remembered it all. She was determined that she, too, would learn. Quickly. More quickly than anyone had ever learned.

The same aircar which had brought the riding master to Opal Hill had also brought James and Jandra Jellico, who waited in Marjorie’s study for Rowena’s arrival.

Rowena, when she came at last, brought Sylvan with her.

“Tell us everything you can,” Sylvan asked the Jellicos, his voice gentle. “I know neither of you did anything reprehensible, so just tell us everything you can.”

Marjorie and Tony sat to one side, listening. No one suggested they should not be present. If they had, Marjorie had already decided she would listen outside the door.

There was so little to tell, and yet they spun it into an hour’s telling, each little thing said ten times over.

“One thing you got to remember,” Jelly told Sylvan. “lust because Ducky Johns’ in the business she is, that’s no reason to think she isn’t honest. She’s as honest as anybody. And I believe she found this Janetta right where she said she did, on her own back porch under her clothesline.”

“But how?” cried Rowena, for perhaps the tenth time.

Jelly took a deep breath. He was tired of evasion, tired of euphemism, tired of bowing to the well-known eccentricity of the bons. He decided to tell the hard truth and see what this bon woman made of it. “Ma’am, last anybody saw of her, she was riding one of those beasts. Now anybody with any wits at all is going to suppose, wherever she ended up, that beast took her there or sent her there. And that’s what I think.”

So there it was. Oh, there it was, lying before them, the sound and look of it, a barbed and violent monster, a Hippae, drawn into it at last, told off by name, the aspect of the whole thing that none of the bons had mentioned, that none of the bons would speak of or allow others to talk of. The Hippae. The Hippae took the girl, or one of them did, everyone knew that. They, the Hippae, did something to her, did anyone doubt? They hid her. They kept her. Then she showed up again. Who knows why? Who knows how? Marjorie felt the questions bubbling and kept silent, kept her hand on Tony’s as she felt him, too, quivering with questions unanswered, unasked. The bons had blamed the Yrariers rather than the Hippae. Even now, Rowena did not respond. Why?

The Jellicos made their farewells and went out. Rowena wept, clinging to Sylvan. He fixed Marjorie with a stern face, forbidding her to speak. She cast her eyes down, feeling his will upon her as though he had touched her with his hands.

“Mama, would you like to lie down for a moment?” he asked Rowena.

She nodded, awash with tears.

“Tony, take her, will you?” asked Marjorie, wanting him to take the woman away, wanting to be left alone with Sylvan, in order to ask…

“A moment,” Rowena said.

Marjorie nodded.

“Lady Westriding… Marjorie. A time may come when I can offer you help as you have offered me. If my life hangs on it, I will still help you.” She laid her tear-wet hand on Marjorie’s and went out with Tony, leaving her son behind.

“Don’t,” he said when they were alone, seeing the question in her face. “I don’t know.”

She could not hold the words in. “But you live here! You’re familiar with the beasts.”

“Shhh,” he said, looking over his shoulder, running his finger inside a collar suddenly too tight. “Don’t say beasts. Don’t say animals. Don’t say that. Not even to yourself. Don’t think it.” He gripped his throat as though something there was choking him.

“What do you say?”

“Hippae. Mounts,” he gargled. “And not even that where they might hear. Nothing where they might hear.” He gagged, begging for air.

She stared into his face, seeing the beads of sweat standing out upon his forehead, seeing him struggle to hold his face quiet. “What is it?”

The struggle grew more intense. He could not answer her.

“Shhh,” she said, taking his hands into her own. “Don’t talk. Just think. Is it something… is it something they do to you?”

A nod, the merest hint of a nod.

“Something they do… to your brain? To your mind?”

A flicker of eyelid, tiny. If she had not learned to read almost invisible twitches, she would not have seen it.

“Is it…” She thought coldly of what she had seen at the bon Damfels estancia. “Is it a kind of blanking out?”

He blinked, breathing deeply.

“A compulsion?”

He sighed, letting go. His head sagged.

“A compulsion to ride, but an inability to think about riding, an inability to talk about riding.” She said it to herself, not to him, knowing it was true, and he looked at her out of shining eyes. Tears?

“Which,” she continued, watching him closely, “must be more intense the more frequently you ride.” She knew she was right. “You managed to speak to us once right after a Hunt…”

“They had gone,” he gargled, panting. “After a long Hunt, they go away. Today they are here, all around Opal Hill, nearby!”

“During the winter, the compulsion almost leaves you?” she asked. “And during the summer? But in spring and fall, you are possessed by it? Those of you who ride?”

He only looked at her, knowing she needed no confirmation.

“What do they do when winter ends? To bring you into line? Do they gather around your estancias? In their dozens? Their hundreds?” He did not deny it. “They gather and press upon you, insisting upon the Hunt. There must also be some pressure to make the children ride. Some compulsion there, as well?”

“Dimity,” he said with a sigh.

“Your little sister.”

“My little sister.”

“Your father…”

“Has ridden for years, Master of the Hunt, for years, like Gustave…”

“So,” she said, thinking she must tell Rigo. Must somehow make him understand.

“I’ll take Mama home,” he whispered, his face clearing.

“How have you withstood them?” her voice was as low as his. “Why have they not bitten off your arm or leg? Isn’t that what they do when one of you tries to stand fast?”

He did not answer. He did not need to answer. She could puzzle it out for herself. It was not that he withstood them while he was riding. If he had done so, he would have vanished or been punished for it. Oh, no, when he rode he was one of them, like all the rest. The secret was that he recovered quickly when the ride was over. Quickly enough to say some things, to hint some things.