“So, you’re a talking horse? Like the one on TV. Name’s Ed? Or that mule?” Dave milked it as best he could, playing along until he could find the speaker system. He zeroed in on the golf bag. He was such a putz. So obvious.
:Don’t be an ass, Dave,: said the voice. :Are my lips moving? In fact, are you really hearing it?:
That stopped him cold. The horselips not moving, no sound issuing. It was the voice in his head that disturbed him. It wasn’t his inner monologue . . . the sort that slipped up when he’d been drinking and checking out pretty girls, and got him into trouble. It was a deeper, masculine voice, the sort that sounded as though it ought to be coming from outside his head. Except it wasn’t outside.
“Maybe it’s cancer,” he said. “Maybe I’m just hearing things.”
:Did you read the books I sent?: The horse replied, changing the subject.
“My sister used to read those as a kid. I tried a couple. Chick fic.”
The horse rolled his eyes, really rolled them, the whole head tossing.
:Okay, Mr. Pulitzer, just how many stories have you published?:
“Umm, well, I’m working this angle . . .”
:Jockey drinking milk with ipecac chasers ain’t exactly news, monkey boy. Next you’ll be doing an expose that models are anorexic.:
“Umm . . .”
:How about a real story?:
“Okay, I may be losing it, but I’m talking to a horse.”
:Telepathy.:
“What?”
:Telepathy. You are speaking to me, and I am answering you telepathically:.
“Oh, I thought it was called something else.”
:So, you have read the books?:
“Okay, one or two. When I was in college. I was broke.”
:I won’t tell the other guys you were reading pastel pony stories.: The horse actually grinned. :I know it would get you thrown out of the club. It’s called Mindspeaking by the way.:
“Why not telepathy?”
:Well, we talked to our publicist about it and agreed that calling it telepathy . . . was too science-fictiony. Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind-speeeeeach conveys the same idea, and keeps it in the fantasy canon.:
Dave grasped the only part that made sense. “Horses have a publicist?”
:Yes. A woman in Oklahoma takes our history, dresses it up a bit, and resells it. Makes an okay living at it.: The horse looked long and hard at him. : What you call chick fic pays pretty well. Not as well as romance, of course, but better than puking jockeys or space guns. Look. We need to get down to business, here. Got your notebook?:
Dave looked back at his voice recorder, continuing to do its U-boat impression. No way Best Buy was going to take that back. He dug out his analog recorder—a notepad and pen. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized he had accepted that he was talking to a real live horse. Talking to, maybe not totally unusual . . . but one talking back in slightly accented English was way, way out there.
“Okay, lessee where to start. You are a Companion from Valdemar.”
:Yes. And you’ve misspelled it. It’s not Comapnian.:
“Sorry, I’m a little out of my league here. And you are here in Kentucky?”
:Obviously.
“But, why?
:Vacation. Don’t they call this ‘horse heaven’? Maybe this is where we rest up between gigs.: The Companion shifted a Number 1 wood a little to take another apple from the golf bag.
Dave stepped closer. “Is that a . . . a Nicorette patch?”
:Don’t worry about it:. The horse . . . the Companion sounded genuinely peeved. :What goes to Kentucky stays in Kentucky, okay?:
“Okay, okay. Sorry, I’m a reporter.”
:Then, do you want a story or not?:
“Umm, sure. Once I figure out how I’m going to sell my editor that I’ve had a conversation with a horse . . . sorry, Companion, that I communicate with telepathically who has given me news that is fit to print.”
:That’s a bit cynical. Why don’t you just let it play out and see where it takes us? Maybe something will suggest itself that you can use. Let’s start on background, and we’ll work up from there.:
The Companion looked up and down the road, then crossed one hoof in front of the other.
It was the hoof that sold Dave, once and for all. It wasn’t silverish, or silver painted. It was real silver, real solid silver, with the deep luster that only the best had and that he’d spent many hours polishing as a child. He didn’t know much, but he did know his silver.
“No, sh . . . this is for real. You’re a real Com panion?”
:Again. Obviously. Ask some questions. Pretend you’re a reporter.:
Dave fumbled for a place to start. “On background. Good idea. What’s magic?”
The Companion took a deep breath. :That was original. OK, stock question deserves a stock answer. We are surrounded by energy; everyone is all the time. Sun, heat, light, magnetic . . . called leylines for magnetic flux lines, easiest to see and tap. Most of it is ambient, but it’s like catching a cup full of drizzle. Easier to grab magnetic flows as they go past. Some people can tap that energy, adapt it to their needs, and alter it by force of will. Please don’t say “just like the Force.” Because it isn’t.:
“Then, who can use this energy?”
:Not sure. At least part is genetic . . . a mutation in the hippocampus or hypothalamus. One of those “H” words. Happy?:
“Yeah, I guess.” Dave paused. “Okay, then, the timeline spans two thousand years. So why don’t things progress much?”
:Well, you have to understand that magic and technology are fundamentally incompatible. The focus in Valdemar early on was to expand and improve magic . . . which is fine for small tasks, but it fails miserably at the big stuff. Easier to take a crew and pave a road than to magic the dirt to repel water. So, instead of learning physics and how to make things, the mages focused more and more on magic. It’s no accident that all of these books have just enough technology to string a sword together or mash up some armor. There is some effort in Selenay’s time to go the other way, but it’s a late start.:
That made some sense to Dave, but the publicist bit had him going.
“Okay, then what about the stories about the elves making the aluminum cars down in Daytona. That’s magic and technology.”
:Savannah, actually. They’re all friends of mine.:
“Okay . . . so now there are elves?”
:Sure, why not? Straight-up Darwin. Adapt or die, even for the fey. Some haul pizza, others carry messages, a few make racecars:. The Companion saw Dave’s incredulous expression. :Look, until twenty minutes ago you’d never had a conversation with a telepathic avatar horse with nifty silver hooves either, had you? So, why not elves in LA?:
Dave had the sense this was all getting way ahead of him.
“So, if that’s true . . . then what about the ones about the witch . . . the one who hunts ghosts and stuff?”
:Naw. That’s pure fiction.:
“Why does that have to be fiction when the rest of it isn’t?”
:I mean, come on. Ghosts and demons? Preposterous.:
Dave shook his head, glanced at his notebook. It gave him a moment to steady himself.
