Fear Me Not (Folk Stories #1: Tam Lin)

The Rider of the White Steed

I've seen the hunt ride before. The fairy queen at the head of it, unearthly as starlight, and her knights after her; her lover at the back on the white horse, an interchangeable human bound to her will. Sometimes they last a year or two, and sometimes I only see them once. I try not to think about what might have happened to them.

The first time Eoghan caught me peering out at them through the curtains, he tried to drag me away, threatening to tell our mother. The second time, he watched with me. Now he pretends he doesn't know what I'm watching for.

As far as my brother is concerned, Morag could be dead.

And here she is, curled up against weather she surely can't feel from wherever she is on the other side of that veil, looking up at me as though I should know something. I feel understanding choke me, sticking in my throat.

"Where do you ride?" I manage to ask her; it's a hoarse and half-strangled sound.

"I'm to be on the white." Morag stares down at the dirt. Her feet are bare, I realise suddenly, but not bloodied. She hasn't had to come far to find me.

The meaning of this, and the fine dress she wears, isn't lost on me. "Oh, Morag," I say. "I'm sorry."

"It isn't your fault," she snaps, and I'm glad that she's angry. Glad that she spits the words at me because it means there's still strength left in her. I'd almost begun to doubt. "All these years, you're still blaming yourself. Stop, all right? I'm sick of it. Sick of your self-inflicted martyrdom."

Perhaps I'm not quite so glad to hear her anger. "I didn't come to find you," I say, still stubborn. It's the only thing that's kept me going. As long as I hate myself, I won't give up waiting for the next year, the next Samain spent wishing I could hug her. "Not until it was too late."

"Like you said, they chose me. She chose me. Whatever you did wouldn't have helped." Morag tucks her hair behind her ear. "I'll be on the white horse, at the back of the hunt. If you'd have me back, pull me down and don't let go until the dawn. The hunt loses its strength then, and they'll not come for me again."

It sounds too easy, and I say as much. My sister shrugs, the beaded bodice of her pretty gown straining under the movement. "The queen will have tricks. I don't know what she'll do to you, so be prepared for anything."

I nod. "I'll do whatever I can."

"She might kill you. It's hard to say."

"I said that I'd risk it. I keep my promises."

It's still not a real smile, but it's getting closer. I consider that a victory. "I know, Ash," she says.

We sit silently for a while. For my part, I'm contemplating the task ahead. I know the speed at which the hunt passes through; sneaking away to watch them close up will be the easiest part. Am I strong enough to rescue Morag? If it were as simple as pulling her down -- and with my luck, I can't see the moon shining brightly enough to render her substantial -- I'd still doubt my own ability, but I'm a coward, and the fairy queen has fearful glamours in her power.

I wonder what my sister is thinking. I look over at her, still hunched over. Her arms are wrapped around her legs, heedless of the mud staining the dress. For the first time I noticed bruises on her wrists. They're faded and healing, but they're still visible, as are the scabs that mar her skin elsewhere. She may have more flesh on her bones than I do, but she's suffered at least as much.

"Morag," I say, not sure what I'm going to ask that won't frighten her away like the shade she's become. When she looks up, she sees my gaze on her wrists and she hastily hugs them to herself, hiding the bruises.

"It's nothing," she says.

"The queen hurt you."

"I said it's nothing."

I remember teaching Morag to walk,  barely more than a toddler myself. I remember holding her hand through the various trials of childhood. And I can tell when she's lying. "Why are you the one to ride the white?" I say. "After all these years?"

"It would have been sooner," she admits. "That's why she stole me."

I feel sick at the thought of the fairy queen seeing my fourteen-year-old sister and claiming her like that. It's no less nauseating now that she's twenty, still trapped in her youthful guise. "Then why now?"

I think she isn't going to answer. Then, finally, she says, "Because I stopped fighting."

Any doubts I might have harboured about the wisdom of rescuing Morag are gone in an instant. A part of me had always thought she might be better off in the Otherworld -- eternally youthful, or until the queen tired of her; well-fed and well-clothed, without the labour of a mortal life. But I know now that I'm wrong.

"The white horse," I say.

"Nearest to the town," she agrees. "You'll come for me?"

"Of course," I promise, reaching out to clasp her hand, and for a second the moonlight grants her that solidity and I feel the fleeting touch of her fingers against mine. Then she's a shade again, and the next moment she's gone and I'm once more alone in the woods.