Amanda Leduc - The Centaur's Wife

The centaur frowns. “Perhaps,” he says. “One day.”

“I could teach them, if you wanted,” she says.

The centaur considers her for a long time, then shakes his head. “Not yet. They won’t trust you. Give me time.”

“ They won’t trust me?” she says. “Or you won’t?”

“I could use your help,” the centaur admits. “But not with the children.”

“Anything.” She feels—not sorry for him, but something.

“I want to teach them all I can about the world that they’ve come from, and their history,” he says. “I want them to know about the things that the humans have made far below. I’ve been building a collection.”

The doctor remembers the first time she saw him in this form, so striking and terrifying in that godforsaken room. He was beautiful then, but he is even more beautiful now, set against the backdrop of the mountain.

“I can teach them about the human world,” she says.

“No,” he says, his voice fierce. “I was human once. I remember. I do not need your help with that.”

The doctor looks at the ground and then nods. “I could bring you things,” she says, after a moment. “For your collection.”

“I would like that.” He looks down at her. “My children,” he allows, “are rambunctious.”

The doctor laughs. “Most children are.”

“I worry about them. I’m afraid that they’ll tumble down the mountain and hurt themselves. I’m afraid that they’ll get tired of the mountain and run down to the land below and somebody will see them.”

“ You run down to the land below,” she reminds him.

“That’s different,” he says. “I know human ways. I know how to hide. I am careful. They are… not.”

“They could learn,” she says.

“Yes,” he says, that fierce anger back in his voice, “but the world will not learn, will it?”

She closes her eyes and feels the wind cool on her face. “Even so,” she says. “You shouldn’t hide them away.”

“I’m not hiding them,” the centaur says. “I’m keeping them safe.”

It occurs to her—not for the first time—that the babies might have died after all. Maybe they died on the journey. Is she ever going to know? “Tell me what you need and I will bring it.”

The centaur stares at her for so long the doctor wonders if she’s hallucinating. Has she been dreaming this whole time? Then he nods.

“Thank you,” he says. “I would like that. Bring me things that I can use to teach the children, and I will look forward to seeing you when you come back.”

He doesn’t say goodbye—he only turns from her, his black tail fanning the air, and jumps up the steep mountainside. The doctor stands listening to his absence for who knows how long. When she is absolutely sure he’s not coming back, she turns and makes her way back down the mountain.

Petrolio and Aura are in the mountain clearing when Estajfan reaches them, Heather curled and silent in his arms. The mountain centaurs immediately gather around them, wary and stiff.

A mountain centaur with brown hair and their father’s brown-green eyes confronts him. “She should not be here. You put us all in danger.”

“In danger of what?” Estajfan looks at the mountain centaurs, who know, and his siblings, who do not. “What danger could humans possibly pose for us? They’re all dead.”

His brother and sister jump in shock. In his arms, Heather whimpers, and seems to come to, then moves to climb down from Estajfan’s arms. Aura reaches out to her as Estajfan lets her down gently, until she is on her feet, her belly protruding in front of her. The other centaurs hiss.

“She should be down with the others,” the mountain centaur says. “The world has decided—the time of humans is no more.”

“Aura.” Heather’s voice is ragged with grief. If she hears the other centaurs standing around them, she doesn’t let on.

“Are you hurt?” his sister says.

Estajfan sees the bleak mirth in Petrolio’s eyes— Of course she’s hurt, he can almost hear his brother saying—and addresses the question, and the other centaurs, at the same time. “She’s alone,” he says. “What do you think, Aura?”

Aura flinches again and balls her fists. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Heather—I didn’t know.”

She didn’t know, and neither did he—not until that moment of the scream, the sudden unleashed power of the vines and flowers, the world gone green and terrible. But he should have known. He should have suspected.

What happens when you choose a new life? You die to the old one, as their father had done so many years ago.

What happens when the world chooses a new life without you? He thinks of the months of going down the mountain and out into the cities far and wide—creeping through abandoned streets, finding food wherever he and Petrolio could. The slow grip of human madness the very thing that kept them safe. What was that? Nothing. You’re seeing things. That’s all.

He thinks of the small blonde woman down by the greenhouse. Elyse, Heather had called her. What was that? she had cried. And Heather, so determined to keep their secret. Elyse. Dead now, like all the rest.

Heather takes a step forward, almost falls, and Aura steadies her. “You’re all right now,” she says. “We will keep you safe.”

“She is pregnant,” another centaur hisses. “She cannot be here.”

“She is my responsibility,” Estajfan calls out, his voice carrying to the edge of the clearing. Countless green-brown eyes simmer with rage. “I will watch her. You are to leave her alone.”

“She doesn’t belong here!” another centaur cries.

“Where does she belong?” Estajfan calls. “Below, with the rest of the dead?”

The mountain centaur who protested moves through the crowd and spits on the ground in front of him. It’s the palomino, the one who spoke to him those months ago. “You have betrayed all of us.”

“I will watch her. I will be responsible for her. I want all of you to leave her alone.”

“And when the child comes?” the centaur says. “What then?” She moves to strike Heather but Estajfan knocks her to the ground with one swipe of his arm.

“Take her to the cave,” Aura says to Petrolio. Estajfan spares a glance behind him to see his brother gather the woman gently into his arms and carry her away. Heather doesn’t look at Estajfan. She doesn’t look at anything.

The palomino, still on the ground, snarls, “If you want a life with a human so much, then leave. Like your father did.”

Aura bends to help the other centaur up, but the palomino pushes her away, her mouth set and furious. Aura addresses them all. “She won’t stay here forever,” she says. “For now, leave her alone.”

Not forever, Estajfan thinks. What does that mean? When his sister turns to look at him, there’s a warning in her eyes, and he stays silent as the mountain centaurs disperse.

“She is only one person,” he says at last. “The mountain is not going to change because of one person.”

His sister only smiles—a sad smile that makes her look, Estajfan imagines, like the mother none of them have ever known. “Change is already here, Estajfan. There is nothing any of us can do about it now.”

Still, it surprises him how quickly they adapt to having Heather around. For the first few days she sleeps in the cave that their father had made ready for their mother all those years ago. Sometimes she eats what they bring her—mountain fruits, the nuts and berries that Estajfan has eaten since he was very small. Sometimes she curls against the wall and refuses to eat, or to look at him, or to speak.