Divine by Mistake Read online

  “Hey there, beautiful girl.”

  “Hi, sweet thing.”

  “Look at you, what a pretty lady.”

  The mares whickered back at me, vying for attention. It was familiar horsey talk to a girl raised around horses. Each mare’s head reached out over the half door of her stall, waiting for my touch. Whatever else Rhiannon was, she certainly loved her horses. And they certainly reciprocated the feeling. Add another to the column of ways Shannon IS similar to Rhiannon. (I’d try to make sure that column didn’t get too large.)

  As I came to the end of the row of stalls, the chamber turned to my left, then widened into a gigantic stall attached to a private corral outside the stable. I recognized it as being the one my spirit body had visited earlier. Inside the spacious stall (which somehow reminded me of Rhiannon’s bedroom—as strange as that may sound) three lovely (but sleepy and rumpled-looking) nymphs were readying the silver mare for me. I entered the stall and the nymphs paused long enough to curtsy to me, then returned to grooming the mare.

  I stopped and breathed a sigh of happiness at the sight of such an exquisite horse. She really was magnificent, even more exceptional than she had appeared in my dream. She noticed my presence and I was delighted to see her twist her perfect head around so that she could see me. She telegraphed her greeting in a wonderful, full-throated neigh that made me laugh out loud with joy.

  “Well, hello to you, too, gorgeous!” I moved eagerly toward her, taking a currycomb from one of the servants and enjoying the feel of her sleek coat under the soft brush.

  I love grooming horses. I always have. Too many horse owners think that grooming a horse or mucking a stall is mundane. They despise the ordinary tasks of caring for their animals. I never have. From the time I was a little girl, I have adored the smell of the stables and the feel of cleaning my horse’s coat and stall. It’s a labor of love. It’s like lying in the sun—or weeding roses—soul-and mind-clearing work. Good for what ails ya.

  The silver mare nuzzled my face and lipped my shoulder as I combed her already perfectly groomed neck.

  “You are a sweet, beautiful lady.” I clucked and cooed at her, feeling like I was a girl again, soaking in her scent and the feel of her warm breath.

  Her head swung obediently forward when one of the servants approached with a dainty-looking hackamore (you gotta figure this mare wouldn’t need a bit). I stepped out of the way as two more servants lifted onto her back a saddle blanket that looked like a 1970s sheepskin bucket-seat cover with stirrups and a girth.

  The servant tightened the girth and stepped back. Then they all stood there. Just looking at me.

  I looked at those high stirrups. And the tall mare. And considered my thirty-five-year-old body.

  Great. Now I have to pretend to be Ms. Athletic.

  Wait—no, all I have to pretend to be is Ms. Bitch. And some people would say that was not much of a pretense.

  “Well, someone help me mount!” Damn, I sounded hateful. Smile. Without hesitating, I strode forward (relishing a true John Wayne moment), grabbed a fistful of silver mane and lifted my foot (hoping a nymph would catch it and give me a boost up). Thank God one did, and I scrambled aboard, sticking my other foot in the empty stirrup and squaring my shoulders.

  But now I didn’t know which way was out.

  “Well, open the gate for me!” I seemed to be catching on to this pretend-to-be-a-bitch stuff pretty easily.

  One of the nymphs scampered toward a door at the far side of the mare’s stall, and another nymph scrambled to open a seamless exit in the outer wall of the temple. I clucked twice with my tongue on the side of my teeth (in what I hoped was the universal horse noise for giddyup) and the wonderful mare moved forward. Just before I went through the last opened door, I pulled her to a halt and spoke over my shoulder to the servants.

  “Thank you. You may go back to your beds now. Sleep late, I will care for the mare myself when I return.” I squeezed my thighs against the soft saddle blanket and leaned forward. The mare broke into a rolling canter.

  We were out of the castle and on our way. The moon was still high and bright, so visibility was pretty darn good. I pulled the mare up so that I could look around and attempt to figure out just where the hell I was, and then I would theoretically know where the hell I should be going. The first thing I noticed was that the temple had been built strategically on the top of a hilly rise, and the grounds around it, although lush and green, were clear of trees. The temple itself was a huge circle, stately and rich-looking with marbled columns and a rushing fountain situated square in the foreground (some kind of giant horse rising from a fake ocean with what looked like hot mineral water spewing from several orifices—very Trevi Fountain–like).

  I tried to look at the building with a soldier’s eye, and I could see what ClanFintan had meant by it being built for defense. The biggest clue to that was the huge wall that encircled it. The wall looked thick and impenetrable, and the top of it had the stereotypical toothlike balustrades, complete with a battlement that would be a great place to situate archers (or sunbathers, whichever the current conditions of war or not-war called for). And the wall wasn’t just solid, I noticed with a start of surprise, it was beautiful. It looked as if it had been built of one solid slab of enormous cream-colored marble. In the moonlight it gave off an otherworldly glow. I realized that if you took away the outer wall, the temple itself would have reminded me of the Pantheon in Rome, only the top didn’t have a hole in it.

  The reflection of the moon on water drew my attention to the river, which looped around and behind the temple—not so close it would flood, but close enough that barges could dock nearby. It was a convenient setup. If it weren’t for those horrible flesh-eating man-creature things, this would be a very nice place to live.

  Which reminded me that instead of sitting there all slack-jawed like a Japanese tourist at the Vatican, I should be following that river to the sea. I had more important things to do than gawk at a pretty temple. And I damn sure didn’t have a camera with me. I mean, please, where would I get the film developed?

  I headed the mare toward the river, glad that the night was so clear and quiet. I knew that somewhere inside the temple ClanFintan was rousing the centaurs and giving them instructions to start bringing the people to safety, so I leaned forward and squeezed my knees, urging the mare into a smooth gallop. It wouldn’t do to be caught out here in the open and have to go through some horribly embarrassing public power play about what I’ve been up to. Plus, I might very well lose. Rhiannon’s power seemed impressive, but I wondered how far it would extend if my desires were at odds with what was considered safe for Epona’s Beloved.

  Soon, the mare’s gallop brought us to the riverbank, and I turned her to the west. The river itself was impressive. I had no way of telling how deep it was, but it was wide and the current was swift. It had a nice smell, not fishy and muddy like the Mississippi, but clear and rocky like the Colorado River. Trees lined the banks and I was relieved to see that the mare had picked out a small path, probably some kind of deer trail, which ran parallel with the bank. There wasn’t so much underbrush that she couldn’t have made her way without the path, but this made things quicker and easier. And I sure didn’t want to ride down the road that I had glimpsed from the temple. It seemed to head in the general direction I wanted to go, but it looked like it was pretty well used. Not that it was a four-lane highway, but I was fairly sure that at first light it would be crowded with centaurs and people—and, please. Like they wouldn’t notice Epona’s Beloved trotting along on her shimmery silver mare?

  Speaking of my beautiful mare, I pulled her up from a gallop. She looked like she was in great shape, but we had two hard days of traveling, and no horse could keep up a gallop for two days. Patting her silky neck I relaxed and found my seat as she settled into a smooth, ground-eating trot.

  “Hey, sweet girl, what does Rhiannon call you?” Her delicate ears cocked back attentively at the sound of my voice. �
��I can’t keep calling you The Mare, it’s rude. It’s like someone calling me The Woman, or considering my attitude lately, The Bitch.” She tossed her head in obvious agreement. And in this world, you never knew, maybe she could understand my words. “Clearly, everyone calls you Epona, but that sounds too formal and stuffy for me.” I reached forward and mussed her mane. “How about if I call you Epi? It might not be as dignified, but in my world dignified is usually synonymous with what politicians try to appear to be.” I didn’t think she’d be interested in a depressing lecture on the downslide of modern American politics, but it might be a long two days and I filed the story away to tell her about later—if I got really desperate for topics.

  Her sassy snort and a little prance to the side were answer enough for me. “Epi it is.”

  I let my fingers trail through her soft mane and settled back for a long ride. It was clear from the start that Epi was not one of those horses who need a lot of her rider’s attention. She was smart and well able to trot forward along the path without me guiding and coaxing. So I settled back and took in the scenery. It certainly was pretty country. Between the trees I caught glimpses of homes dotting the scenic land. They looked well kept and adorably thatched, although thinking about all the bugs that lived in the thatching dispelled some of my romanticizing.

  Between cottages stretched acres of vineyards and fields filled with crops, I think I recognized corn and beans, but I couldn’t be sure in the moonlight. Once in a while I’d notice some sleepy animals, mostly cows and sheep with an occasional horse thrown in—and I was impressed and appreciative that Epi didn’t neigh like a common mare. Every so often I could see the moonlight reflect off the road as it snaked between homesteads, keeping in a generally northwesterly direction, but it was pretty far away and I felt well concealed by the trees.

  All in all it was a nice night. I guess some people (sissies) would be scared at the thought of being alone out in the middle of who-knows-where, but I have never been afraid of the dark and never been scared of being alone. True, my destination was daunting, and I wasn’t even entirely sure what the hell I was actually going to do when (if) I got there, but I was Scarlett O’Hara–ing that, so it wasn’t hard, with me deeply entrenched in denial, to find joy in a clear, lovely night ride.

  Gradually it became lighter. At about the same time the trees started to become more dense and the path less defined. Epi didn’t seem worried about it, so I let her pick her own path, and we gravitated toward the rocky riverbank. That horse-sense thing can really come in handy. Also, about this time I realized that I had ridden off, all Bitchy and In Charge, without giving one tiny thought to things like breakfast, lunch, dinner, water or toilet paper. Who knew what time it was, but by the time the sun was peeping over the top of the trees my butt and my stomach were both telling me that we had been riding “a while.”

  In Okie slang, “a while” ranges from five hours to five days. My mind said I had probably been riding about five hours. My butt and stomach said they were sure it had been five days. And let’s face it, my butt and stomach are bigger than my mind, so they won.

  Well, at least I knew where I could get some water. I could lithely dismount, lead Epi down to the sparkling river and (much like John Wayne) get a cool, refreshing drink. Maybe I’d even walk for a while and let Epi take a break.

  Easier thought than done.

  Have you ever ridden for “a while?” And I don’t mean round and round in a little corral while a riding instructor beams encouragement. And I don’t mean paying fifty bucks an hour to sit on a horse that could probably be declared clinically dead, following fifteen other Nags of the Walking Dead on an Authentic Trail Ride. Which lasts exactly thirty-five and one-half minutes.

  I mean riding a horse (one that’s actually alive) for several hours. Alternating between trot, canter, walk, back to trot. On a thirty-five-year-old butt. Without breakfast.

  Well, it’s not as easy as it appears in the movies, although I’m sure John Wayne really did ride a lot. His butt was probably made of iron. God bless him.

  Sliding down the side of Epi I couldn’t seem to find my feet—or my legs. My butt was where I had last left it, except it felt like it had grown broader and flatter. What a lovely thought. So I stood there and attempted to restore circulation to my extremities, glad that Epi was the only one who witnessed my appalling lack of gluteal competence.

  Eventually (almost “a while” later) I felt able to hobble—yes, I mean literally limping and cussing my way in the true tradition of the authentic Old West Hobble—down the bank to the edge of the river.

  “Well, at least it’s not muddy.” I grumbled and patted Epi, letting her drink first. Slowly, I straightened up, listening to the musical cracking of my spine. Epi lipped the water and took several noisy gulps, saying “tastes good” in horsey language. I gimped upstream a couple of steps and crouched (amidst much creaking of knees), bending forward to wash my hands.

  “Oh, baby, that’s cold!” I was expecting the river to be a nice room temp, because the climate was so warm, but the river was icy, which told me it had to originate in the distant mountains. Hey—I’m a college graduate; you can’t slip anything by me. Cupping my hands, I sucked the cold, clean water into my mouth.

  It was like Grandma’s well water. Nothing quenches a thirst as completely as cold water straight from the well. As a child I used to think that my grandma’s well water was the Fountain of Youth. I’d pump like mad and then run around to the front of the spigot and slurp handfuls of the clear liquid. My creaky knees proved my Fountain of Youth theory wrong, but the taste still quenched and refreshed like a spring rain. And I was suddenly not quite as hungry as I had been.

  “Well, old girl. How about I walk and give you a little break?” I smoothed her forelock and rubbed her broad forehead while she explored the front of my shirt and lipped my chin with her wet muzzle. God, horses are incredible animals. Being alone with her made me realize how much I’d missed owning one. Their smell, their equine beauty and intelligent kindness are things unique to them, not replaceable by a dog or even a thinking-it-has-no-owner cat (although cats are cooler than dogs—they’re the haughty bitches of the animal world, and I can’t help but appreciate that in them). But I’ve always adored horses. They are truly noble animals. Remember the scene in True Grit when Little Blacky allows John Wayne (Rooster Cogburn) to run him to death so that Baby Sister can be saved? Sob. What (sniffle) other animal would (blow my nose) do that (wipe my eyes)?

  No wonder I thought ClanFintan was so damn cute—I was in need of a pet and a man. Apparently with him I killed two birds with one stone.

  Except he was going to be really pissed when I got back to the temple.

  And he thought I was a bitch.

  After one more pat to Epi’s neck, I turned reluctantly away from the riverbank, looped the reins over my shoulder and started back to find our scraggly, fading trail. Epi followed me like the polite girl she was, occasionally grabbing a mouthful of grass and chewing contentedly.

  I started to whistle the “Hi-Ho” tune from SnowWhite. Epi blew through her nose at me, which I took as a commentary on my whistling ability, and I laughed over my shoulder at her, still whistling. Yeah, we were having fun now.

  The trees were decidedly more dense, and I could glimpse fewer and fewer homes between the thick foliage. I tried to remember the layout of the land from my dream, but my spirit body had been moving so quickly that I hadn’t gotten any landmarks more clearly defined than the river, the lush lands around it and the fact that it flowed from somewhere northeast of the castle and ran all the way down past my temple. I felt like Maid Marion lost in Sherwood Forest. Except I was pretty damn sure Robin Hood wasn’t going to come rescue me (and, quite frankly, I’m no maid).

  I hated to be a whiner, but I really was hungry. It wasn’t too long before the whistling and the laughing stopped, and the Search For Any Kind of Edible Friggin Berry started.

  “Here we are, surrounded by
all of this damn nature.” Epi’s ears cocked forward, listening to me mutter. “You’d think there would be some wild strawberries. Or blueberries. Or mulberries. Even in Oz they had apple trees.” Epi grabbed another mouthful of grass. “Is that stuff good?” It’d probably give me the runs, and I didn’t even have any damn toilet paper. The visual picture that conjured was enough to keep me from trying Epi’s dinner.

  I truly hate camping. My parents used to make me camp with them (before they got divorced—I think it was their idea of quality family time, which sure as hell didn’t work), and I began hating it then. Not that I don’t like The Great Outdoors. I think nature is very inspirational and lovely. I like to hike, and I’m even willing to lie out in the sun and read a book while whatever man I happen to be with fishes. I just want to appreciate it during the day, and go somewhere with a comfortable bed, running water and a four star restaurant at night. I really don’t like roughing it.

  “So, what the hell am I doing out here?” Epi lipped the back of my French braid, and I swatted at her muzzle. “Stop—there’s no way I can carve a comb out of a tree and rebraid this stuff.” And my feet were starting to hurt. Rhiannon had broken the boots in, but they must have been made to be worn with socks, and, well, I had forgotten to look for the sock drawer before I left. Kind of like I’d forgotten to look for the kitchen.

  “Epi, I think I have a blister the size of Rhode Island.” Stopping, I rested my head against her warm neck and spoke into her softness. “And I think I need to ride again. Hope that’s okay with you.” I took her sweet nuzzle as an okay, and gave her a quick squeeze. “Let’s get another drink first. Shall I buy this time, or would you like to treat?” She snorted at me. “I like my margaritas on the rocks, with lots of salt.” I translated her look as horse language telling me how much more amusing I was than Rhiannon.