Flying Horses
Bree first saw them fly across the darkening sky above the mess that was her
mother’s dead body. She was a young girl then, running to the road with a bucket
and mop, trying to clean clean clean the blood away.
They were black horses with wings – skinny, sightless, hideous things of the
Devil’s creation, watching and mocking, drawn to the scene by the smell of fresh
blood and meat. She understood they were something from her mother’s world – a
world that was full of witchcraft and magic and Paganism. Her mother had always
said it was a pity Bree never inherited her gifts, though Bree never understood
why she should be able to view the pieces of that world: little elves who spoke
with terrible grammar, rotting flesh covered in black robes that took your
happiness away, flying black horses.
It was ten o’clock at night.
Outside the window the man flew the horse over the house tops of Wisteria Lane
and landed in her front yard. He dismounted; he was a tall, skinny man with
black hair to his shoulders and his clothes were robes. He pulled out his little
stick and her door clicked open.
She walked over as he entered. “I don’t mean to be rude,” she said politely, yet
assertively, “but don’t you know it’s courteous to at least knock before
you enter someone’s house?”
The man’s face was pale and grim. “I apologise, Mrs Van De Kamp,” he murmured in
a British accent. “My name is Severus Snape. May I come in?”
Bree inhaled through her nose. “Certainly. Tea?” she asked as she turned away.
“Oh, please don’t get dirt on the floor – I just cleaned it this afternoon. Have
a seat in the lounge, if you may.”
He did. She made tea and set it on the coffee table. He picked up his teacup
with long, ink-stained fingers. She winced.
“Would you like to wash your hands?”
Snape scrutinised her with black eyes. After a moment he lowered the tea cup and
said, “I won’t be staying long, I merely wish to ask you a few questions about
your mother.”
Bree settled into her seat and crossed one leg over the other, folding her hands
on her knees. She had seen so much death – her mother, husband, fiancé... and
now there was a horrid flying horse on her front lawn!
Snape cleared his throat. “Are you aware that your mother was a witch?”
Bree twitched at the mention of the words ‘mother’ and ‘witch’ being used in the
same sentence. Instead she focused on a small dark stain on his sleeve. She
stood up and smiled at her visitor. “If you would not mind, I would like to put
your cloak in the washing machine. Perhaps then, after you have washed your
hands, we can talk more.”
“I’m afraid I do not have enough time,” said Snape, watching her carefully.
“Please sit down and let me explain why I am here.”
Bree hesitated. She did not want to press the issue with the man in case she
sounded rude. She sat down slowly.
“Good,” said Snape. “There is a war in Britain at the moment.”
“Oh?” said Bree. “I’m sure I would have heard it on the news.”
Snape’s lips twisted. “It’s not the kind of war that your world would see. In
any case, I am the agent of someone who believes you own something – an object
of extreme value.”
Bree sipped her tea. “I see.”
“It is believed that your mother passed it down to you when you were quite young
and told you to take good care of it. It would look to you like a glass ornament
in the shape of a feather.”
Bree put her tea down on the coffee table and folded her hands on her knees once
again. “That object was indeed my mother’s, Mr Snape.”
Snape nodded, watching her carefully. He said, his voice low, “Then I must have
it, as it holds one part of someone’s soul.” His eyes stared into hers and she
felt a wave of dizziness, suddenly. “Where is it?”
Bree did not need to answer his question, as he retrieved it from her mind
easily enough: in the trophy case in the hall, naturally, where her esteemed
guests could see it as they made their way to the dining room. And oh, she was
dizzy, and the horses were always flying...
She lay on the couch and thought about the bits and pieces of her mother’s world
– of demons and magic and tall, dark men like Snape who swept in on a flying
horse and left with a shard of herself in his pocket.
/End.