Ahou


Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.

~ Arthur Golden


Aravis, dusty from riding, climbed the wooden steps and walked down the corridor to the room where her father did his important business.

Riding. She had named the filly Ahou, Deer, and what a horse she was.

As she rounded the corner, she felt her body remembering her filly's leaping gait the same way the body remembers the surge of the sea in sleep. She thought that truly she had learned more on Ahou then she learned on any other horse. When she first rode Ahou, she had expected energy and exuberance, but not the wild bucks the filly threw as she crow-hopped around the paddock. It had been inevitable that Aravis would lose her balance and bite the dirt. Aravis was scrambling to her feet in a moment. Falling was no dishonor, but staying down, now that was disgrace. Clenching her teeth, Aravis caught the wild thing and flung herself aboard, expecting the bucking to begin anew.

It did not. With a snort, Ahou circled the paddock at a dead gallop, then cut clear across it, bunched herself together and cleared the top rail of the fence with room to spare. Sand scattered as she landed, then she settled down to really run. Aravis' legs hugged the filly's sides, feeling the wild, fluid motion of her gait. She delighted in it, never had she ridden a horse quite like this one, never had she felt so wonderful…except when Ahou stopped in midstride and bent her neck. Aravis somersaulted into the air.

After that day, she never threw Aravis again or bolted for no reason. She never spooked and was bolder then other horses, plunging right into things like Aravis did herself. Aravis learned to trust Ahou like she trusted no other.

Aravis came to the door and found it open. She dropped into a deep Calormene curtsey and rose slowly to her feet. Looking up, she saw with surprise that her father was not alone. Her stepmother was there as well, and a stranger…

Ahoshta Tarkaan sat on cushions before her, running his fingers through his thin gray beard. He was at least sixty years old, though he looked older and had a hump on his back. She had seen him once before many years ago when she visited Tashbaan with her father. She knew him to be the grand vizier of Calormen, though he had only reached his lofty position by lies, trickery and flattery.

"This is the delight of my eyes, my daughter, Aravis," her father spoke slowly.

"Charmed," Ahoshta said quietly.

~o*o~

That night, Aravis was dressed in her finest silk and she dined with her father, her brother Horeb, her Stepmother and the Grand Vizier, Ahoshta. They reclined at the table listening to the silk drape across the door rustled by the night wind and the call of the night birds that coursed the skies in the dark.

The slave girls were shadowed by another curtain as they drew their bows across their instruments and played for those that dined. Candles were lit and flickered by the breeze and shadows danced across the walls, wild as the music.

Aravis watched Ahoshta with disgust and incredulity. He talked loudly, his voice high and whining as the fly that skipped across the ceiling. And as Aravis watched him, she pitied the wife who had died and left him and she pitied the girls in his harem in Tashbaan. At least he was not staying long; he would be gone in the morning.

Aravis turned her eyes to Horeb her brother. He only toyed with his food and did not join in the conversation. With shock, Aravis read a look of deep sadness in his eyes.

"Horeb, my brother," Aravis said quietly, "The world is dark in your eyes, what is wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," Horeb smiled, looking at her. "Tell me sister, how do you find the filly I have given you? Have you named her?"

"I call her Ahou, because she is as fleet as the desert wind. When she runs, she skims above the ground like an eagle on the wing. I love her like a sister," Aravis whispered. "I cannot thank you enough for her."

"I hoped that you would like her," Horeb said quietly, "She will be a friend and companion in both the darkness and the light."

~o*o~

"Oh my daughter and the delight of my eyes," The next morning Kidrash Tarkaan leaned back in his chair and looked at his daughter meaningfully. He was advanced in years, but in his younger days, no young Tarkaan ever won more honors or commanded higher respect. Now, he was a good master and his people adored him even over the Tisroc (may he live forever).

Aravis sank into a deep curtsy, then stood before her father. Her stepmother sat beside him, watching her stepdaughter with eyes that gleamed like a snake. Her slender fingers tapped her chair arm and Aravis' eyes were drawn to her fingernails, painted red as blood with the henna that spiraled up her arms. She was only thirteen years older than Aravis and before she married Kidrash, Aravis often fancied that they might be friends. It never came to pass.

"Ahoshta Tarkaan," Kidrash said at last, breaking the silence the way one breaks a glass, "is delighted with your beauty and discretion and he asks for your hand in marriage."

For a full minute, Aravis stood, soaking in what her father had said. At last her numbed brain began to work. Ahosta? That camel? That goat? Marry him? Impossible! All her dreams of happiness would be shattered and swept away, the way a broken glass is swept into the fire. Aravis' hand flew to her mouth and she stared at him incredulously.

"Refusing him would bode ruin," her father continued, "I have meditated deeply and I have decided to accept his proposition."

A wave of horror washed over Aravis and her head suddenly felt light. The room seemed as unsteady as the great cabin in a ship on a stormy day. Without asking permission, she knelt on the floor, shaking.

"The wedding will be held in midsummer."

"But, you cannot!" Aravis voice burst from her at last. She sought her father's eyes, begging him with everything in her. But he would not meet her gaze. "Oh my father!"

With a rustling of scented silk, Aravis' stepmother rose to her feet. She was a tall woman, far taller than Aravis, and beautiful, as beautiful and imperial as the Temple of Tash.

"Daughter, the world is dark in my eyes when you speak in such a manner to your father," she said icily. "He decides what is best and has complete right to do so."

~o*o~

Aravis wept for a day and would not be consoled. Even her younger brother, Birol could not bring a smile to her face. To add sorrow to sorrow, Horeb departed for the North.

"Prince Rabadash is going to a distant and barbarian land," Horeb explained, "he wanted me with him."

At the news Aravis wept the more.

"When you return, I shall be the wife of that detestable Ahosta," Aravis whispered.

"Aravis," Horeb said gently, "No matter whose wife you become, you shall always be my beloved sister."

"Thank you Horeb," Aravis said, "the gods be with you."

"Thank you and farewell."

And he was gone.

~o*o~

"Come Aravis," Birol said, leaning from her window and watching as his brother became a distant shadow among his gentlemen as they rode towards Tashbaan, "Come down and have some sherbet."

"No," Aravis said, "Go away."

Birol shrugged and went to the door, "I'm only trying to help, Aravis."

Aravis buried her face in her pillow and conjured up more tears.

"Birol, I am sorry, Forgive me for my harsh words," Aravis whispered. "But my life has broken."

That night wore on, long and longer. She watched the moon flicker silver through the latticework of her window and wondered if her brother Horeb looked upon the same moon and thought of her. Then she thought of Ahoshta and knew that he might be looking at it also. At last she could bear it no longer. When she turned twelve with the falling of the leaves, Horeb had given her a little ivory handled knife with a curving blade. She felt under her pillow for it and lay looking at it, turning it over and over and watching the carvings almost seem to dance in the moonlight. Horeb was a rare artist and he had made the knife himself. At last she could bear it no more and tucking the dagger into her clothes, she slipped out her window.

The moon was glowing, silver, there almost seemed to be a face upon it, smirking at her. She slipped away from the palace, to the stables. It was frightening, strange, she had never set foot in the stables before and she almost forgot her grief as she crept in fascination down the aisle.

She heard a soft whicker and saw Ahou, staring wide-eyed at her out of her stall. She seemed almost silver in the moonlight, instead of gold. Aravis slid open the stall door and stepped inside. She buried her face in the filly's silky mane and wept again.

"Oh my sister," She whispered, "great woe has befallen me."

She took Ahou by the forelock and led her out of the stall and down the long aisle of the stable. Once she was in the courtyard, she swung astride and urged Ahou to a gallop.

The filly stretched out, long and low upon the ground, her ears back as if she were fleeing and Aravis stretched out upon her neck, clutching her mane with cold, frightened hands. It was a moment of unreality, a moment of noticing nothing but the filly herself and her gliding gait that seemed to be wilder then anything Aravis had known. She had no control over her, no way to slow her headlong dash and she could merely hold on.

It seemed like hours, though it was only minutes, when the filly slowed and skipped to a halt, breathing hard. Aravis pulled her hands from the filly's mane and found them covered with foam. She slid from Ahou's back and stood for a moment, holding the filly's withers for balance, then she stepped away, drew her dagger and watched the moonlight gleam upon it. It was fitting; very fitting that it had been fashioned by her beloved brother. Then she bared her chest, closed her eyes and prepared to drive the dagger into her heart.

"Oh my mistress!" a voice exclaimed, "Do not destroy yourself!"

Aravis opened her eyes and glanced around herself, but saw nothing but the filly standing before her, her ears pricked forward, her eyes wide with alarm.

"Who has so spoken?" Aravis exclaimed.

"It was I," a gentle voice came from the darkness, "I pray you; do not destroy yourself, for if you live you may still have good fortune!"

Aravis lowered the dagger and stared again into the darkness, "You who has spoken, I pray thee, show yourself!"

"It was I."

The filly took a step forward.

"Show yourself, I pray thee," Aravis' hands shook with fright and her heart leaped against her ribs as she searched the darkness wildly for some shape or form lurking near her.

"It was I, Ahou." The voice came again, with a hint of puzzlement. "Your horse."

"Impossible!" Aravis exclaimed, "Whatever ghoul or phantasm you are, show yourself."

And the filly stepped forward and laid her head against Aravis' shoulder.

"Please, believe me, my lady," she said softly, "It was I and only I."

And at last Aravis saw that it was indeed the filly who had spoken and she stared in shock and disbelief.

"How is this?" she exclaimed, "That a horse speaks with the voice of the daughters of men?"

"Far to the north of this accursed place is a country named Narnia." Ahou said. "There wisely rules Peter the High King and his brother and sisters. There also are beasts which talk and fusions of man and beast named centaurs and satyrs and other curious beings. There are green hills and deep cool woods and there are great fields of green. Three years ago my mother, my father and I traveled to Archenland (The land to the south of Narnia and the north of Calormen) and resided there with my grandmother. During that time I ranged too far south, was captured by Calormenes and was sold into slavery."

"How horrible!" Aravis exclaimed. "How could such a wrong have been committed?"

"I have not spoken thus for your sympathy, oh my mistress, but for your comfort," Ahou said, "For in this place, this land of Narnia, no maiden is forced to marry against her will."

"Oh, that I could traverse to this wonderful place!" Aravis exclaimed.

"And perhaps you may." Ahou said, "Do not destroy yourself, oh my mistress, but escape and travel to this land. By the way, as much as I admire the name 'Ahou', my mother called me 'Hwin'."

"Hwin," Aravis said quietly, "It's a lovely name."


A/N: it ought to be noted that C. S. Lewis was absolutly clueless when it came to horses...some of Bree's suggestions on riding are the height of foolery. Gripping a horse with your legs as hard as you like is a good idea if you want to end up in a ditch with a broken neck. I had an unfortunate episode on a half thorougbred where I gripped and he took off at a gallop...bad idea. The secret to good riding is ballance.

~Psyche

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