The Little Dun Pony - a fairytale
Title: The Little Dun Pony
Genre: Fairytale
Warnings: Nothing much, besides romance, both straight and lesbian.
Summary: A fairytale about hard work and standing on your own two feet.
A/N: To be honest, this story or something very much like it has been trying to get itself written since I was about ten - I love myths and legends and fairytales, but there are a few things that have always annoyed me about fairytales (even the old ones, you know, the ones written for adults). The fact that doormats and compulsively violent pricks always get nice things is one. The fact that the characters who actually do all the work rarely get a reward is another (think Ivan and the Firebird, Cinderella, Rumplestiltskin...)
What actually got me to write this, though, was an ad for Proposition 8 (that's the one to delegalise gay marriage in... um... I've forgotten the state), that yarukagetold me to watch. It's got this little girl in, and she's asked what she learnt at school, and she said she learnt that 'a prince can marry a prince, and I can marry a princess', which is apparently meant to disturb you, but actually just makes me go 'awww!' and want to find her a princess. But that got me back onto what's wrong with fairytales, and suddenly I had to write this.
So this is me, taking a break from fanfic (hah! My whole life is a break from fanfic!), and from exams, and coursework, and all those other things that are much more important. XD Oh, well. C'est la vie.
So take your seat around the metaphorical fire, listen to the metaphorical voice of the storyteller, and enjoy!
The Little Dun Pony
Once - and who knows when; it could have been ten years ago or ten thousand - there was a girl. She lived in a little cottage, built by her father, with drystone walls and a thatched roof, and a fire always burning in the grate. Behind the hut, a little mountain pony grazed on the thin scrubs of the fells, and in front of it, a little further than the horse could reach, an apple tree grew, twisted and gnarled and misshapen by the wind, like an old man crouched against the wind. And in the house, with its poorly-fixed walls and its thinly-thatched roof, lived the girl. She was a handsome girl, with eyes grey as the rock on which the house stood, hair the colour of the peat bogs a few miles south, and arms as strong as you can expect from lifting and carrying all day, and her name was Eilidh.
Her father had died when she was only a child, caught in a storm off the coast as he fought to hold his little fishing skiff on course, and dashed to pieces against the grey cliffs where the cottage stood. Her mother was a poor woman, who had never quite got over the death of her husband, and in the cold winters of the land where they lived, her health became worse by the day. Well, Eilidh tried prayer and she tried asking the faeries that were said to live on the clifftops, she tried every remedy she could think of working and a few besides, but it was no good, and on the sixteenth winter after her daughter’s birth, five years after the loss of her man and her heart, the good woman died, her heartbeat fading as she clasped her daughter’s hand.
“The chest,” she whispered, her bony hand clasping Eilidh’s strong, sun-browned one, and Eilidh nodded, looking over at the old sea-chest that had been her father’s, retrieved from a wreck long before she was even thought of. She had never seen it opened, and it was kept locked.
“What of the chest?” she asked.
“When I am gone,” said her mother, “take this key, and open the chest. All else in this house, you may sell or keep as you like, but what is in the chest must be kept safe. Safe, and always by you, for there is power in them.” She reached with a trembling hand into her bodice, and pulled out a large iron key, which she pressed into Eilidh’s hand, and then she laid back on the pillows, her eyes fluttering closed, and quietly, without seeming to notice, she slipped into death.
Now, Eilidh was a sensible girl, and it didn’t seem to matter for the moment, so she set the key aside on a ledge in the windowsill, and when she had cried a little and mourned a little more, she wiped her eyes and set about doing what needed to be done. She dug for a full morning, and buried her mother in the shade of the crooked little apple tree, and she cleared away what could be sold in the house, and took it to market, and she moved the pony down to better pasture, and she went back to the weaving that she worked, to draw in a few spare coins. And it wasn’t for weeks, not until she found herself with the time to clean and sweep the house from top to bottom, that the key fell out of its alcove, clinking onto the packed earth at her feet as she dusted, and lay there glinting in the sunlight. Then Eilidh thought again of her mother’s dying words, and bent to pick the key up, striding over to where the chest stood, untouched. The key slid into the lock as easy as can be, and turned as though it had never heard of rust, and it was the work of a moment to unlock the box and raise the lid. She had expected gold, perhaps, or something else rich and valuable, something worthy of the warning her mother had given her. But instead, lying in the great confines of the massive chest, were three golden feathers, a sheathed knife carved from some sort of strange red stone, and a little wooden box, filled to the brim with some kind of powder which shimmered in the light like quicksilver. And so, not knowing what else to do, she closed the lid on the strange things, and went about her work, cooking and cleaning and weaving and feeding the pony, and forgot all about the feathers and the knife and the box.
Now, there was a palace not far from where Eilidh lived all alone with the pony and the apple tree, and in it lived the king and queen of the land. They had a son, a handsome young man, who often rode along the clifftops in good weather, with his hunting parties or alone. More often than not, his path would take him past the crooked hut with the apple tree and the little dun pony, and when it did, though she might be scraping for pennies still, Eilidh would always stop in her work, whatever it was, to watch him pass, her heart aching for him. After all, although she knew she would never have him, she would dream of him at night, of his dark, flashing eyes and his arrogant smile.
This went on for many, many months, as the seasons shifted from winter to spring to summer and the first autumn leaves began to fall. Then, suddenly, he no longer rode along the cliffs, though the weather was as good as ever and the wind was fair, and although Eilidh went about her tasks every bit as carefully and productively, she no longer threw herself into them as much.
One day, with the air crisp and the tang of frost in the air, Eilidh set out across the cliffs, towards the market several miles along the way. In one hand, she carried a basket of spun wool, and in the other, the halter of the little dun pony, which trotted along behind her, laden heavily with the weavings of the last month. It was a long walk, but the air was crisp and bright, and there was a spring in her step as she reached the town below the castle.
She had finished her trading, and the pony was now laden with fresh, uncombed wool, her basket now filled with cheap loaves and fresh eggs, and she was just about to turn for home, when a loud voice rang out, and she stood on tiptoes to see over the heads of the crowd. There was a tall man there, dressed in the livery of the palace, and her breath caught in her throat for a moment.
“Let it be known,” he cried, voice carrying through the crowd, “that the king’s son, having come of age, has called for a wife!”
At this, Eilidh felt sudden hope rising in her heart, although she knew full well that he was hardly likely to look twice at a peasant girl he had never met, among all those beautiful noblewomen, all those graceful princesses and perfect young women. Her hand tightening around the handle of the basket, she craned to hear.
“And,” the messenger continued, pausing for breath, “that he does call all those of noble birth to his palace, where he shall choose from those maidens a bride. In three days, at the castle…” But Eilidh was no longer listening. Tears springing to her eyes, she tugged on the pony’s halter and hurried away. They were almost out of sight of the town when at last she collapsed, exhausted and heartbroken, as we will be when our dreams are shattered, and broke into sobs.
“Why do you cry so hard, Eilidh?” asked a woman’s voice in her ear. Startled out of her tears, she lifted her head swiftly, looking all around, but she saw nobody, except for the little dun pony, which was watching her closely.
“They say that fairies live in these parts,” she ventured after a moment, very much surprised. “Are you a fairy?”
There was a little laugh, and then the voice said, “No fairy, Eilidh. Only your little dun pony, who you have known so long.”
Eilidh was silent for a moment, looking a little confused, and then she looked up at the pony, wiping her eyes. “I am crying because now I shall never have the chance to speak to the king’s son, for I will never be allowed through the door at this gathering, not a peasant girl with nothing to her name… foolishness, that is all.”
“Perhaps. But not hopelessness, for you do not have nothing to your name,” the pony said, and laughed again. “Do you recall the sea-chest, with its feathers and its knife and its box of powder?”
Eilidh nodded, standing up.
“Then walk with me, Eilidh,” said the pony, shaking back her mane, “and we shall see what may be done.” And, as they set back out towards the distant shape of the crooked stone hut on the clifftop, the little dun pony explained to Eilidh what she would have to do.
When they reached home, Eilidh began to do as the little dun pony had advised her. Opening the chest, she pulled out the little wooden box, taking a fistful of the fine silver powder and replacing the box carefully. Then, going outside, she snapped a small twig from the apple tree, scattering the powder to the four winds. Three times, she murmured the word which the little dun pony had taught her - I do not know what that word is, but it was in the language of the earth and the waves and the sky, which the human tongue rarely forms - and then turned away, throwing the apple wand over her left shoulder and off the clifftop, so that it bounced down the jagged grey rocks, and was swallowed by the sea at the bottom.
And then she went back to her own work, and the little dun pony went back to grazing at the sparse greenery that grew there, so normal and innocent that, when Eilidh woke the next morning, she felt that it must have been a dream, for certain. But, when she went outside to harvest the little apples which were beginning to grow on the hunched little tree, there, at the roots, were three packages, just as the pony had said there would be. Forgetting, for the moment, the apples, Eilidh grabbed up the packets, suddenly knowing what her mother had meant when she had said that the items in the chest were powerful.
Inside, she unwrapped the silken material that kept the gifts in place. The pony had promised her a dress, but she saw no dress, only threads and ribbons. The pony had promised her shoes, but she saw no shoes, only strips of leather and needles. The pony had promised her gold and silver and ribbons for her hair, but all she saw was a little flute, of silver and brass. It was not as she had expected, not at all, and for a moment, she wondered if she had been tricked, if this was all a cruel joke at her expense. And yet… the little dun pony had said there would be tests along the way.
“Very well, then,” she said to herself, and was surprised by the firmness in her own voice. “This is the first test.”
All day long, she wove, leaving her other work in the corner as she struggled with thread that was finer than anything she had worked with before, silk that snapped time and again as she hauled the shuttle too hard through the loom. When night fell, she had a great panel of golden silk, larger than she was by far, and she cut and hemmed by firelight until it was so dark that she could hardly see the silk at all. And the next day, as soon as the first greyish light crept into the hut, she was back at work. This time, she sewed; sewed until her fingers were raw and bleeding, so that she had to stop and bind them before she could continue. But by noon, she had a dress which, if not perfect, shimmered like sunlight each time she moved in the fairy-spun silk, smooth gold shot through with threads of dark, forest green. That, she decided, would have to do, and set about the shoes. These were harder. Many tears she shed over them, and long into the night she sewed, praying to whoever was listening that she would not go wrong and have to begin again.
Somebody must have heard her prayers, for, though it took her the rest of the second day and a good portion of the third, when she was done, she was left with a pair of silver-glittering shoes, like twin pools of midnight on her feet. Then Eilidh looked down at her hands, blistered and stained with blood, and at the fire, burning low in the grate, and she stood up, the look on her face forthright and determined.
“Well,” said she to herself, picking up the flute that was all that remained of the gift, “let us see what we shall see. The other gifts were of use, perhaps this too can help me.” And, tucking the glittering instrument into her worn old cloak, she set out to the town, the crisp autumn sunlight shining down on her. As she walked, she considered the flute she carried, and how she could put it to use, and when she reached the town, she set in front of her the basket she carried, put the flute to her lips, and began to play. She had expected a discord, at best, and at worst no sound at all, for she had never played before but the note that came was sweet and true, and without even thinking, she let her fingers fly over the holes, as though of their own accord, and played tune after tune, without even knowing how she played them, until night was falling and the basket was full of coins. Then, as the streets emptied, she picked up the basket and its precious contents and, stopping only to buy herself ribbons, she set out on the long walk home.
And so she had a dress, and shoes, and silver and gold and ribbons for her hair.
Now, she woke the next morning, bright and early, and pulled on her fairy-silk dress, and slipped her feet into her silver shoes, and tied up her hair with the forest-green ribbons she had bought. Outside, the little dun pony waited for her, under the old apple tree.
“Cast a little of the powder over me,” the pony said, “and then climb onto my back, and I shall take you to the palace.”
Now, Eilidh was worried by this; after all, she would hardly seem a fine lady if she arrived on a little dun mountain pony. But then she thought how the pony had advised her before, and she hurried to fetch the box. The instant the grains of silver powder landed on the little dun pony’s back, patches of white began to appear, as though the dullness was peeling off the pony’s coat, and in the blink of an eye, there stood a white horse where before there had been a little dun pony.
“Go inside and fetch a piece of your weaving,” the horse told her, in the dun pony’s soft voice, “the finest and the best, and put it on my back. It will serve for a saddle.”
Eilidh hastened to do as she was bid, and when they arrived at the palace that afternoon, there was not a princess nor a queen who looked more noble than she, though her fingers bled still, and her skin was tanned as deep as can be expected from one who has never known comfort. It was a dream, she thought, as she swept into the ballroom, the fairy-spun silk trailing behind her. Only a dream, she thought, as she watched the dancers twirl and step and glitter in the candlelight. No more than a dream, she thought, as she herself joined them, the arm of the king’s son around her waist, but oh, if it were but more!
Now the king’s son, though he was proud and arrogant, was by no means stupid, and he noticed the marks on her hands, and the missed stitches on her dress and on her shoes. And when he asked her about them, Eilidh being an honest girl and smitten with him besides, she could not help but tell him the truth - who she was, and why she had come, and how she loved him, at which he frowned. For, prideful and avaricious, he immediately began to think how she might prove to him that she was worthy - and what he might gain from it, besides.
“Find me the Ring of the Sun, that the phoenix in the East keeps,” he told her, as the music came to an end, “and bring it to me before the month is out. Then, I shall marry you.”
Eilidh bit her lip, torn between ecstasy at the thought that he would even consider her, and fear. For the phoenix in the East lived many hundreds of miles away from her own land, and the journey was long and treacherous. Nobody had ever returned who had taken that path. But if the Ring of the Sun was all it would take to secure his love, she decided, then she would find it, were the journey a thousand times greater, a thousand times more dangerous.
They set out the very next day, Eilidh and the little dun pony, who had taken her own shape again and trotted along beside the girl quite happily. First returning to the cottage on the clifftop, Eilidh changed back into her own dull clothes, collected together her few possessions - her golden dress and silver slippers, the coins she had earned with the flute, a spindle, and the feathers, the knife, and the box from the old sea-chest - and returned to the little dun pony.
When she saw Eilidh coming, though, the pony shook her head. “Leave the dust here,” she said, “for the fairies who gave you that gift live only here, on these clifftops, and they will not be best pleased if their good earth leaves this land.”
Remembering the good advice that the pony had given her before, Eilidh did as she was bid, and, as she hurried back, spotted the flute, lying on the windowsill. She snatched it up as she passed, pulling the thick cloak she wore over her shoulders as she strode out of the door, climbing onto the back of the little dun pony.
They rode for days, stopping only briefly each night - even so, before the week was out, Eilidh noted with some dismay that she had only a few coins left. Already, the country around them was growing dryer and hotter, and there was less and less shelter to be found from the relentless heat. For a few days, coming as she did from the windswept clifftops, Eilidh enjoyed this warmth, but it soon began to be more a terror than a joy, as each day’s journey seemed to double in length and halve in distance. When she voiced her fears to the little dun pony, though, she only received a shake of the head and an assurance that it would only be a few more days… a few more days… a few more days.
At length, just as Eilidh was beginning to despair, the little dun pony squinted into the distance and shivered.
“The way lies ahead,” said the pony, shaggy head hung low as she took a few more steps. On her back, Eilidh lifted her head, hope shining in her eyes. The pony went on walking, eyes fixed on the horizon, as though she had not just made that revelation, until at last, just as the cold desert night was falling, she balked and would go no further. “I dare not,” was all the reply Eilidh got, when she asked why the little dun pony would go no further. “This is not a place for me. Take the feathers, and the flute, and the dress of gold. Take your red stone knife. And return to me at daybreak, for that is when you will find if you are cunning enough to best the phoenix.” Snorting uncomfortably, the pony pawed at the ground. “Remember, Eilidh, do not flinch, do not fear, and do not turn back - nothing could be worse. May all luck go with you.”
Biting her lip, Eilidh nodded. Kissing the little dun pony lightly on the forehead, she slung her bag over one shoulder, that held all the things the pony had mentioned, and hurried off towards the dunes that obscured her view, forcing herself not to look back, for she knew that if she did, she would never summon up the courage she needed. Over the dunes she went, struggling to climb the shifting sand beneath her calloused bare feet, burnt raw already from the hot sand. And when, at last, she crested the gentle rise of sand, she gasped.
Flames licked in a great sea across the desert, so hot that she could feel it even from her position, a good twenty feet above. Beyond them, and so distant that she had to squint to see it through the wavering air, was a river, obsidian-black, with no bridge or clear means of crossing. And beyond that, far in the distance and isolated on a high plateau, was a building, almost a temple, open to the air and shining with a light that grew brighter even as she watched, and then flickered out abruptly, leaving her blinking.
“To the first test first, then,” said Eilidh to herself, and started down the slope. But she had scarcely begun when the fierce heat repelled her, and she was forced to stop in her tracks, only her iron will keeping her from flinching, as the little dun pony had warned her not to do. She stood there for a long while, unable to go forwards, unwilling to go back, and put her mind to the solution. When it came to her, she cursed herself for not having thought it sooner.
Now, there is a legend about silk that the fairies spin, and it tells that, though the fibres may seem smooth and soft, they will fight back any attack, like steel armour or better. When the weave is tight and the cover total, it will hold back heat and cold, wind and fire, as well as turning aside steel or iron.
As she slit the excess material from the train of the dress, winding it around her face and hands, and changed quickly into the golden dress, Eilidh could only pray that her weave was as tight as it must be for this, for she had no doubt that, if she were to leave even an inch of her skin exposed, she would burn away to nothing.
It would have seemed a lesser feat in a hero’s tale, but no more bravery was ever taken for Finn McCumhail to face the beast of Tara, or for Beowulf to dive beneath the surface of the lake, than it took for Eilidh to wind the last end of golden cloth around her eyes, plunging her into darkness, and take the first step into the unknown.
She felt nothing; not heat, nor cold, nor the wind on her cheek nor the sand beneath her. Alone in the darkness, without knowing where she was or what she was about, she walked for who knows how long, not knowing whether she had reached the end, or how she would know if she had. It felt as though it had been hours, walking through the darkness, until at last she could take it no longer. Gritting her teeth and setting her jaw, she unwrapped the littlest finger of her left hand. She felt a searing heat, and then nothing at all, and, before she could even cover it again, the finger was gone, crumbled to ash, and so she knew that it was not safe.
And she walked on and on, until her curiosity once again overcame her worry, and she unwrapped the second finger of her left hand. The heat was stronger, and she bit her lip, the flesh charring to the bone. It did not hurt, but she could not feel it, and so she knew that it was not safe.
On and on she walked, cradling her wounded hand in the crook of her gold-covered arm, until at last, she could not believe that dawn had not come, and she unwrapped the third finger of her left hand. It burnt, and burnt, and went on burning, pain searing through her. But though the skin blistered and the flames licked at it, the heat was not enough to scorch it away, and so she knew the end was near. She kept that last finger unwrapped, holding it out in front of her like a lifeline, and she walked on in the darkness, hope rising in her heart.
When she could no longer feel flames lapping at her finger, which was now mangled and useless, she stopped in her tracks, reaching up and removing the bindings from her eyes. The light from the flames behind her made her blink a moment, but when she looked up at the sky, she could see that it was not yet midnight, and that the greater part of the time she had been given still remained. Looking down at herself, she saw that the cloth was almost burnt through, even through the fairy magic, and was horrified to think how close she had come to death.
But no time was left for reflection. Not far off ran the black river, by which no plants grew and nothing moved. Here, all was silent, and all Eilidh could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears.
“And to the second test second,” said she to herself, the words falling flat against the still air, and started towards the river. But the moment the tip of her shoe touched the water, if water it was, there was a hiss and the leather froze to the surface. No matter how she pulled, it would not come free, and already, the cold was spreading up her leg. At last, as she pulled back one last time, the leather ripped, and she stumbled backwards, leaving leather and skin to sink below the icy surface.
At this, she did not know what to do. The river was too wide to cross in a leap or a bound, but there was no other way to cross. Opening the bag she carried, she looked inside, at the feathers and the flute and the knife, and could not see how they might help her. For a long time, she stood there, the heat of the fire at her back and the cold of the river before her, and then she tugged the golden dress off, casting it onto the river, all scorched and slowly sinking. Then, taking a deep breath, she lunged forwards, running across on the blackened silk. With each step she took, the dress sank lower in the black water, and it wasn’t long before she was running on thin ice, the cold ripping the skin from the soles of her feet with each stride.
She reached the other side just as the dress disappeared beneath the opaque black water, leaving red footprints on the sand as she landed. The dark sand was cold beneath her feet, and the night air colder still. Pulling two flints from her pocket, she struck a spark, lighting one of the feathers to light her way. It was long, like a pheasant’s feather, but it shone as though cast from beaten gold, and although it lit swiftly, the flame did not die away, nor burn away the shaft. It burnt with a pleasant orange light, much brighter than it should have been, and, as she watched, the light focused on a point in the distance, and she saw the temple. Jaw clenched, she set out across the black sand, bloodied feet and burnt fingers stabbing with pain, shift white in the darkness. When at last she reached the temple, the dawn was breaking, and as the sun rose and Eilidh mounted the steps into the building, there was a great flash of light and a flame burst into being in the stone walls, burning the fathers she carried so quickly that they simply crumbled to dust in her hands.
“To the third test third,” said she to herself, struggling to hold her courage, and as the flame died down to crackle in the pit at the centre of the temple, she stepped forwards.
“What do you here, Eilidh?” asked a voice, deep and sonorous, and she spun, unable to find where it came from.
“You have burnt my feathers to me,” the voice went on. “What do you here?”
Eilidh swallowed, her throat dry, all cunning leaving her. She could feel the eyes of the unseen speaker on her, and she somehow knew that he could see every sin, every ill thought, everything she had ever done. It was a judgement, she knew instinctively, and all she could do was pray that she was not found wanting.
And then the phoenix walked out of the coiling smoke, and her breath caught in her throat. At first, it was a bird that strode towards her, but then, quite suddenly, there was a handsome young man, with feathered skin and flashing golden eyes, wreathed in flame. On his finger was a ring which seemed to burn a thousand colours, and she knew at once that it was the Ring of the Sun, which she had sought so long.
“What will you give me for it?” he asked, as if reading her thoughts, and slipped the ring off his finger, holding it in the palm of one hand.
“What is your price?” Eilidh replied, knowing instantly that, whatever it was, she would pay it.
“Give me a song,” he said with a smile, and his voice was musical. “That is my price. That, and a promise that, no matter what it shows you, you will not cast this ring aside. For whoever wears the ring sees the world as it truly is, and that is a burden that can be hard to bear. Do you promise?” She nodded. “Then play for me.”
Smiling, she pulled out the flute, putting it to her lips. But before she could begin, he raised a hand.
“The knife you bear…” he added, his voice serious. “You do not know what it is, do you? It holds a great spell upon it, that once it is drawn, it cannot help but spill blood. Its bearer will never be beaten in battle, and until you sheathe it, your foe will stand no chance against you. And so…” He put a hand to her cheek, his eyes sad. “May you never use it. Now play.”
This time, he let her play, the strange tune filling the temple, and when she was done, he held out his hand. “Give me the flute,” he said, dropping the ring into her hand. “It is not good for it to be in this world too long.” And as she handed it to him, wordlessly, he smiled. There was a great light in it, and she closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she was at the palace, and the little dun pony stood beside her. Bending down, she threw her arms around the pony’s neck, her relief almost palpable, and then straightened up, looking at the ring in her hand. It shimmered, almost glowing, as she closed her fist on it and turned to the palace gates, taking a deep breath.
Inside, she found the king’s son quickly. He turned to see her, surprise written on his face, and then concern. “Did you get it?”
But Eilidh was silent. For, as she had turned the ring over and over in her hand, she had slipped it onto her finger, and now she saw the king’s son as he truly was - greedy, and prideful, and cold as stone. She saw the lines of cruelty around his lips, and the arrogance in his eyes, and she could not think why she had ever loved him.
“I did,” she said, and took a deep breath. “But not for you. Keep your jewels and your pride, my lord, and I pray that some day, you find a bride worthy of you.” There was an edge to her voice, and as his face began to redden with rage, she turned away, quite calmly, and started back through the castle, to the little dun pony.
But the little dun pony was no longer there. Instead, there stood a young woman, short and stolid, with hair the colour of the little dun pony’s hair and eyes the shape of the little dun pony’s eyes. To Eilidh, who now saw things as they truly were, she was beautiful.
When she saw Eilidh coming, the girl who had been the little dun pony smiled. And a great love swelled in Eilidh’s heart.
Taking the woman’s hand, Eilidh started back towards her cottage on the clifftops, with its apple tree and its memories. And there, on the top of the cliffs, with the wind in their hair and the spray on their skin, they shared a kiss. Then Eilidh, who was a sensible girl, went inside to treat her wounds, and the girl who had been a little dun pony went inside with her. And they lived there together, on the cliffs, and Eilidh buried the ill-fated knife beneath the apple tree, and never was there cause or wish to use it.
And if they have not died, then they are living there still.
Genre: Fairytale
Warnings: Nothing much, besides romance, both straight and lesbian.
Summary: A fairytale about hard work and standing on your own two feet.
A/N: To be honest, this story or something very much like it has been trying to get itself written since I was about ten - I love myths and legends and fairytales, but there are a few things that have always annoyed me about fairytales (even the old ones, you know, the ones written for adults). The fact that doormats and compulsively violent pricks always get nice things is one. The fact that the characters who actually do all the work rarely get a reward is another (think Ivan and the Firebird, Cinderella, Rumplestiltskin...)
What actually got me to write this, though, was an ad for Proposition 8 (that's the one to delegalise gay marriage in... um... I've forgotten the state), that yarukagetold me to watch. It's got this little girl in, and she's asked what she learnt at school, and she said she learnt that 'a prince can marry a prince, and I can marry a princess', which is apparently meant to disturb you, but actually just makes me go 'awww!' and want to find her a princess. But that got me back onto what's wrong with fairytales, and suddenly I had to write this.
So this is me, taking a break from fanfic (hah! My whole life is a break from fanfic!), and from exams, and coursework, and all those other things that are much more important. XD Oh, well. C'est la vie.
So take your seat around the metaphorical fire, listen to the metaphorical voice of the storyteller, and enjoy!
The Little Dun Pony
Once - and who knows when; it could have been ten years ago or ten thousand - there was a girl. She lived in a little cottage, built by her father, with drystone walls and a thatched roof, and a fire always burning in the grate. Behind the hut, a little mountain pony grazed on the thin scrubs of the fells, and in front of it, a little further than the horse could reach, an apple tree grew, twisted and gnarled and misshapen by the wind, like an old man crouched against the wind. And in the house, with its poorly-fixed walls and its thinly-thatched roof, lived the girl. She was a handsome girl, with eyes grey as the rock on which the house stood, hair the colour of the peat bogs a few miles south, and arms as strong as you can expect from lifting and carrying all day, and her name was Eilidh.
Her father had died when she was only a child, caught in a storm off the coast as he fought to hold his little fishing skiff on course, and dashed to pieces against the grey cliffs where the cottage stood. Her mother was a poor woman, who had never quite got over the death of her husband, and in the cold winters of the land where they lived, her health became worse by the day. Well, Eilidh tried prayer and she tried asking the faeries that were said to live on the clifftops, she tried every remedy she could think of working and a few besides, but it was no good, and on the sixteenth winter after her daughter’s birth, five years after the loss of her man and her heart, the good woman died, her heartbeat fading as she clasped her daughter’s hand.
“The chest,” she whispered, her bony hand clasping Eilidh’s strong, sun-browned one, and Eilidh nodded, looking over at the old sea-chest that had been her father’s, retrieved from a wreck long before she was even thought of. She had never seen it opened, and it was kept locked.
“What of the chest?” she asked.
“When I am gone,” said her mother, “take this key, and open the chest. All else in this house, you may sell or keep as you like, but what is in the chest must be kept safe. Safe, and always by you, for there is power in them.” She reached with a trembling hand into her bodice, and pulled out a large iron key, which she pressed into Eilidh’s hand, and then she laid back on the pillows, her eyes fluttering closed, and quietly, without seeming to notice, she slipped into death.
Now, Eilidh was a sensible girl, and it didn’t seem to matter for the moment, so she set the key aside on a ledge in the windowsill, and when she had cried a little and mourned a little more, she wiped her eyes and set about doing what needed to be done. She dug for a full morning, and buried her mother in the shade of the crooked little apple tree, and she cleared away what could be sold in the house, and took it to market, and she moved the pony down to better pasture, and she went back to the weaving that she worked, to draw in a few spare coins. And it wasn’t for weeks, not until she found herself with the time to clean and sweep the house from top to bottom, that the key fell out of its alcove, clinking onto the packed earth at her feet as she dusted, and lay there glinting in the sunlight. Then Eilidh thought again of her mother’s dying words, and bent to pick the key up, striding over to where the chest stood, untouched. The key slid into the lock as easy as can be, and turned as though it had never heard of rust, and it was the work of a moment to unlock the box and raise the lid. She had expected gold, perhaps, or something else rich and valuable, something worthy of the warning her mother had given her. But instead, lying in the great confines of the massive chest, were three golden feathers, a sheathed knife carved from some sort of strange red stone, and a little wooden box, filled to the brim with some kind of powder which shimmered in the light like quicksilver. And so, not knowing what else to do, she closed the lid on the strange things, and went about her work, cooking and cleaning and weaving and feeding the pony, and forgot all about the feathers and the knife and the box.
Now, there was a palace not far from where Eilidh lived all alone with the pony and the apple tree, and in it lived the king and queen of the land. They had a son, a handsome young man, who often rode along the clifftops in good weather, with his hunting parties or alone. More often than not, his path would take him past the crooked hut with the apple tree and the little dun pony, and when it did, though she might be scraping for pennies still, Eilidh would always stop in her work, whatever it was, to watch him pass, her heart aching for him. After all, although she knew she would never have him, she would dream of him at night, of his dark, flashing eyes and his arrogant smile.
This went on for many, many months, as the seasons shifted from winter to spring to summer and the first autumn leaves began to fall. Then, suddenly, he no longer rode along the cliffs, though the weather was as good as ever and the wind was fair, and although Eilidh went about her tasks every bit as carefully and productively, she no longer threw herself into them as much.
One day, with the air crisp and the tang of frost in the air, Eilidh set out across the cliffs, towards the market several miles along the way. In one hand, she carried a basket of spun wool, and in the other, the halter of the little dun pony, which trotted along behind her, laden heavily with the weavings of the last month. It was a long walk, but the air was crisp and bright, and there was a spring in her step as she reached the town below the castle.
She had finished her trading, and the pony was now laden with fresh, uncombed wool, her basket now filled with cheap loaves and fresh eggs, and she was just about to turn for home, when a loud voice rang out, and she stood on tiptoes to see over the heads of the crowd. There was a tall man there, dressed in the livery of the palace, and her breath caught in her throat for a moment.
“Let it be known,” he cried, voice carrying through the crowd, “that the king’s son, having come of age, has called for a wife!”
At this, Eilidh felt sudden hope rising in her heart, although she knew full well that he was hardly likely to look twice at a peasant girl he had never met, among all those beautiful noblewomen, all those graceful princesses and perfect young women. Her hand tightening around the handle of the basket, she craned to hear.
“And,” the messenger continued, pausing for breath, “that he does call all those of noble birth to his palace, where he shall choose from those maidens a bride. In three days, at the castle…” But Eilidh was no longer listening. Tears springing to her eyes, she tugged on the pony’s halter and hurried away. They were almost out of sight of the town when at last she collapsed, exhausted and heartbroken, as we will be when our dreams are shattered, and broke into sobs.
“Why do you cry so hard, Eilidh?” asked a woman’s voice in her ear. Startled out of her tears, she lifted her head swiftly, looking all around, but she saw nobody, except for the little dun pony, which was watching her closely.
“They say that fairies live in these parts,” she ventured after a moment, very much surprised. “Are you a fairy?”
There was a little laugh, and then the voice said, “No fairy, Eilidh. Only your little dun pony, who you have known so long.”
Eilidh was silent for a moment, looking a little confused, and then she looked up at the pony, wiping her eyes. “I am crying because now I shall never have the chance to speak to the king’s son, for I will never be allowed through the door at this gathering, not a peasant girl with nothing to her name… foolishness, that is all.”
“Perhaps. But not hopelessness, for you do not have nothing to your name,” the pony said, and laughed again. “Do you recall the sea-chest, with its feathers and its knife and its box of powder?”
Eilidh nodded, standing up.
“Then walk with me, Eilidh,” said the pony, shaking back her mane, “and we shall see what may be done.” And, as they set back out towards the distant shape of the crooked stone hut on the clifftop, the little dun pony explained to Eilidh what she would have to do.
When they reached home, Eilidh began to do as the little dun pony had advised her. Opening the chest, she pulled out the little wooden box, taking a fistful of the fine silver powder and replacing the box carefully. Then, going outside, she snapped a small twig from the apple tree, scattering the powder to the four winds. Three times, she murmured the word which the little dun pony had taught her - I do not know what that word is, but it was in the language of the earth and the waves and the sky, which the human tongue rarely forms - and then turned away, throwing the apple wand over her left shoulder and off the clifftop, so that it bounced down the jagged grey rocks, and was swallowed by the sea at the bottom.
And then she went back to her own work, and the little dun pony went back to grazing at the sparse greenery that grew there, so normal and innocent that, when Eilidh woke the next morning, she felt that it must have been a dream, for certain. But, when she went outside to harvest the little apples which were beginning to grow on the hunched little tree, there, at the roots, were three packages, just as the pony had said there would be. Forgetting, for the moment, the apples, Eilidh grabbed up the packets, suddenly knowing what her mother had meant when she had said that the items in the chest were powerful.
Inside, she unwrapped the silken material that kept the gifts in place. The pony had promised her a dress, but she saw no dress, only threads and ribbons. The pony had promised her shoes, but she saw no shoes, only strips of leather and needles. The pony had promised her gold and silver and ribbons for her hair, but all she saw was a little flute, of silver and brass. It was not as she had expected, not at all, and for a moment, she wondered if she had been tricked, if this was all a cruel joke at her expense. And yet… the little dun pony had said there would be tests along the way.
“Very well, then,” she said to herself, and was surprised by the firmness in her own voice. “This is the first test.”
All day long, she wove, leaving her other work in the corner as she struggled with thread that was finer than anything she had worked with before, silk that snapped time and again as she hauled the shuttle too hard through the loom. When night fell, she had a great panel of golden silk, larger than she was by far, and she cut and hemmed by firelight until it was so dark that she could hardly see the silk at all. And the next day, as soon as the first greyish light crept into the hut, she was back at work. This time, she sewed; sewed until her fingers were raw and bleeding, so that she had to stop and bind them before she could continue. But by noon, she had a dress which, if not perfect, shimmered like sunlight each time she moved in the fairy-spun silk, smooth gold shot through with threads of dark, forest green. That, she decided, would have to do, and set about the shoes. These were harder. Many tears she shed over them, and long into the night she sewed, praying to whoever was listening that she would not go wrong and have to begin again.
Somebody must have heard her prayers, for, though it took her the rest of the second day and a good portion of the third, when she was done, she was left with a pair of silver-glittering shoes, like twin pools of midnight on her feet. Then Eilidh looked down at her hands, blistered and stained with blood, and at the fire, burning low in the grate, and she stood up, the look on her face forthright and determined.
“Well,” said she to herself, picking up the flute that was all that remained of the gift, “let us see what we shall see. The other gifts were of use, perhaps this too can help me.” And, tucking the glittering instrument into her worn old cloak, she set out to the town, the crisp autumn sunlight shining down on her. As she walked, she considered the flute she carried, and how she could put it to use, and when she reached the town, she set in front of her the basket she carried, put the flute to her lips, and began to play. She had expected a discord, at best, and at worst no sound at all, for she had never played before but the note that came was sweet and true, and without even thinking, she let her fingers fly over the holes, as though of their own accord, and played tune after tune, without even knowing how she played them, until night was falling and the basket was full of coins. Then, as the streets emptied, she picked up the basket and its precious contents and, stopping only to buy herself ribbons, she set out on the long walk home.
And so she had a dress, and shoes, and silver and gold and ribbons for her hair.
Now, she woke the next morning, bright and early, and pulled on her fairy-silk dress, and slipped her feet into her silver shoes, and tied up her hair with the forest-green ribbons she had bought. Outside, the little dun pony waited for her, under the old apple tree.
“Cast a little of the powder over me,” the pony said, “and then climb onto my back, and I shall take you to the palace.”
Now, Eilidh was worried by this; after all, she would hardly seem a fine lady if she arrived on a little dun mountain pony. But then she thought how the pony had advised her before, and she hurried to fetch the box. The instant the grains of silver powder landed on the little dun pony’s back, patches of white began to appear, as though the dullness was peeling off the pony’s coat, and in the blink of an eye, there stood a white horse where before there had been a little dun pony.
“Go inside and fetch a piece of your weaving,” the horse told her, in the dun pony’s soft voice, “the finest and the best, and put it on my back. It will serve for a saddle.”
Eilidh hastened to do as she was bid, and when they arrived at the palace that afternoon, there was not a princess nor a queen who looked more noble than she, though her fingers bled still, and her skin was tanned as deep as can be expected from one who has never known comfort. It was a dream, she thought, as she swept into the ballroom, the fairy-spun silk trailing behind her. Only a dream, she thought, as she watched the dancers twirl and step and glitter in the candlelight. No more than a dream, she thought, as she herself joined them, the arm of the king’s son around her waist, but oh, if it were but more!
Now the king’s son, though he was proud and arrogant, was by no means stupid, and he noticed the marks on her hands, and the missed stitches on her dress and on her shoes. And when he asked her about them, Eilidh being an honest girl and smitten with him besides, she could not help but tell him the truth - who she was, and why she had come, and how she loved him, at which he frowned. For, prideful and avaricious, he immediately began to think how she might prove to him that she was worthy - and what he might gain from it, besides.
“Find me the Ring of the Sun, that the phoenix in the East keeps,” he told her, as the music came to an end, “and bring it to me before the month is out. Then, I shall marry you.”
Eilidh bit her lip, torn between ecstasy at the thought that he would even consider her, and fear. For the phoenix in the East lived many hundreds of miles away from her own land, and the journey was long and treacherous. Nobody had ever returned who had taken that path. But if the Ring of the Sun was all it would take to secure his love, she decided, then she would find it, were the journey a thousand times greater, a thousand times more dangerous.
They set out the very next day, Eilidh and the little dun pony, who had taken her own shape again and trotted along beside the girl quite happily. First returning to the cottage on the clifftop, Eilidh changed back into her own dull clothes, collected together her few possessions - her golden dress and silver slippers, the coins she had earned with the flute, a spindle, and the feathers, the knife, and the box from the old sea-chest - and returned to the little dun pony.
When she saw Eilidh coming, though, the pony shook her head. “Leave the dust here,” she said, “for the fairies who gave you that gift live only here, on these clifftops, and they will not be best pleased if their good earth leaves this land.”
Remembering the good advice that the pony had given her before, Eilidh did as she was bid, and, as she hurried back, spotted the flute, lying on the windowsill. She snatched it up as she passed, pulling the thick cloak she wore over her shoulders as she strode out of the door, climbing onto the back of the little dun pony.
They rode for days, stopping only briefly each night - even so, before the week was out, Eilidh noted with some dismay that she had only a few coins left. Already, the country around them was growing dryer and hotter, and there was less and less shelter to be found from the relentless heat. For a few days, coming as she did from the windswept clifftops, Eilidh enjoyed this warmth, but it soon began to be more a terror than a joy, as each day’s journey seemed to double in length and halve in distance. When she voiced her fears to the little dun pony, though, she only received a shake of the head and an assurance that it would only be a few more days… a few more days… a few more days.
At length, just as Eilidh was beginning to despair, the little dun pony squinted into the distance and shivered.
“The way lies ahead,” said the pony, shaggy head hung low as she took a few more steps. On her back, Eilidh lifted her head, hope shining in her eyes. The pony went on walking, eyes fixed on the horizon, as though she had not just made that revelation, until at last, just as the cold desert night was falling, she balked and would go no further. “I dare not,” was all the reply Eilidh got, when she asked why the little dun pony would go no further. “This is not a place for me. Take the feathers, and the flute, and the dress of gold. Take your red stone knife. And return to me at daybreak, for that is when you will find if you are cunning enough to best the phoenix.” Snorting uncomfortably, the pony pawed at the ground. “Remember, Eilidh, do not flinch, do not fear, and do not turn back - nothing could be worse. May all luck go with you.”
Biting her lip, Eilidh nodded. Kissing the little dun pony lightly on the forehead, she slung her bag over one shoulder, that held all the things the pony had mentioned, and hurried off towards the dunes that obscured her view, forcing herself not to look back, for she knew that if she did, she would never summon up the courage she needed. Over the dunes she went, struggling to climb the shifting sand beneath her calloused bare feet, burnt raw already from the hot sand. And when, at last, she crested the gentle rise of sand, she gasped.
Flames licked in a great sea across the desert, so hot that she could feel it even from her position, a good twenty feet above. Beyond them, and so distant that she had to squint to see it through the wavering air, was a river, obsidian-black, with no bridge or clear means of crossing. And beyond that, far in the distance and isolated on a high plateau, was a building, almost a temple, open to the air and shining with a light that grew brighter even as she watched, and then flickered out abruptly, leaving her blinking.
“To the first test first, then,” said Eilidh to herself, and started down the slope. But she had scarcely begun when the fierce heat repelled her, and she was forced to stop in her tracks, only her iron will keeping her from flinching, as the little dun pony had warned her not to do. She stood there for a long while, unable to go forwards, unwilling to go back, and put her mind to the solution. When it came to her, she cursed herself for not having thought it sooner.
Now, there is a legend about silk that the fairies spin, and it tells that, though the fibres may seem smooth and soft, they will fight back any attack, like steel armour or better. When the weave is tight and the cover total, it will hold back heat and cold, wind and fire, as well as turning aside steel or iron.
As she slit the excess material from the train of the dress, winding it around her face and hands, and changed quickly into the golden dress, Eilidh could only pray that her weave was as tight as it must be for this, for she had no doubt that, if she were to leave even an inch of her skin exposed, she would burn away to nothing.
It would have seemed a lesser feat in a hero’s tale, but no more bravery was ever taken for Finn McCumhail to face the beast of Tara, or for Beowulf to dive beneath the surface of the lake, than it took for Eilidh to wind the last end of golden cloth around her eyes, plunging her into darkness, and take the first step into the unknown.
She felt nothing; not heat, nor cold, nor the wind on her cheek nor the sand beneath her. Alone in the darkness, without knowing where she was or what she was about, she walked for who knows how long, not knowing whether she had reached the end, or how she would know if she had. It felt as though it had been hours, walking through the darkness, until at last she could take it no longer. Gritting her teeth and setting her jaw, she unwrapped the littlest finger of her left hand. She felt a searing heat, and then nothing at all, and, before she could even cover it again, the finger was gone, crumbled to ash, and so she knew that it was not safe.
And she walked on and on, until her curiosity once again overcame her worry, and she unwrapped the second finger of her left hand. The heat was stronger, and she bit her lip, the flesh charring to the bone. It did not hurt, but she could not feel it, and so she knew that it was not safe.
On and on she walked, cradling her wounded hand in the crook of her gold-covered arm, until at last, she could not believe that dawn had not come, and she unwrapped the third finger of her left hand. It burnt, and burnt, and went on burning, pain searing through her. But though the skin blistered and the flames licked at it, the heat was not enough to scorch it away, and so she knew the end was near. She kept that last finger unwrapped, holding it out in front of her like a lifeline, and she walked on in the darkness, hope rising in her heart.
When she could no longer feel flames lapping at her finger, which was now mangled and useless, she stopped in her tracks, reaching up and removing the bindings from her eyes. The light from the flames behind her made her blink a moment, but when she looked up at the sky, she could see that it was not yet midnight, and that the greater part of the time she had been given still remained. Looking down at herself, she saw that the cloth was almost burnt through, even through the fairy magic, and was horrified to think how close she had come to death.
But no time was left for reflection. Not far off ran the black river, by which no plants grew and nothing moved. Here, all was silent, and all Eilidh could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears.
“And to the second test second,” said she to herself, the words falling flat against the still air, and started towards the river. But the moment the tip of her shoe touched the water, if water it was, there was a hiss and the leather froze to the surface. No matter how she pulled, it would not come free, and already, the cold was spreading up her leg. At last, as she pulled back one last time, the leather ripped, and she stumbled backwards, leaving leather and skin to sink below the icy surface.
At this, she did not know what to do. The river was too wide to cross in a leap or a bound, but there was no other way to cross. Opening the bag she carried, she looked inside, at the feathers and the flute and the knife, and could not see how they might help her. For a long time, she stood there, the heat of the fire at her back and the cold of the river before her, and then she tugged the golden dress off, casting it onto the river, all scorched and slowly sinking. Then, taking a deep breath, she lunged forwards, running across on the blackened silk. With each step she took, the dress sank lower in the black water, and it wasn’t long before she was running on thin ice, the cold ripping the skin from the soles of her feet with each stride.
She reached the other side just as the dress disappeared beneath the opaque black water, leaving red footprints on the sand as she landed. The dark sand was cold beneath her feet, and the night air colder still. Pulling two flints from her pocket, she struck a spark, lighting one of the feathers to light her way. It was long, like a pheasant’s feather, but it shone as though cast from beaten gold, and although it lit swiftly, the flame did not die away, nor burn away the shaft. It burnt with a pleasant orange light, much brighter than it should have been, and, as she watched, the light focused on a point in the distance, and she saw the temple. Jaw clenched, she set out across the black sand, bloodied feet and burnt fingers stabbing with pain, shift white in the darkness. When at last she reached the temple, the dawn was breaking, and as the sun rose and Eilidh mounted the steps into the building, there was a great flash of light and a flame burst into being in the stone walls, burning the fathers she carried so quickly that they simply crumbled to dust in her hands.
“To the third test third,” said she to herself, struggling to hold her courage, and as the flame died down to crackle in the pit at the centre of the temple, she stepped forwards.
“What do you here, Eilidh?” asked a voice, deep and sonorous, and she spun, unable to find where it came from.
“You have burnt my feathers to me,” the voice went on. “What do you here?”
Eilidh swallowed, her throat dry, all cunning leaving her. She could feel the eyes of the unseen speaker on her, and she somehow knew that he could see every sin, every ill thought, everything she had ever done. It was a judgement, she knew instinctively, and all she could do was pray that she was not found wanting.
And then the phoenix walked out of the coiling smoke, and her breath caught in her throat. At first, it was a bird that strode towards her, but then, quite suddenly, there was a handsome young man, with feathered skin and flashing golden eyes, wreathed in flame. On his finger was a ring which seemed to burn a thousand colours, and she knew at once that it was the Ring of the Sun, which she had sought so long.
“What will you give me for it?” he asked, as if reading her thoughts, and slipped the ring off his finger, holding it in the palm of one hand.
“What is your price?” Eilidh replied, knowing instantly that, whatever it was, she would pay it.
“Give me a song,” he said with a smile, and his voice was musical. “That is my price. That, and a promise that, no matter what it shows you, you will not cast this ring aside. For whoever wears the ring sees the world as it truly is, and that is a burden that can be hard to bear. Do you promise?” She nodded. “Then play for me.”
Smiling, she pulled out the flute, putting it to her lips. But before she could begin, he raised a hand.
“The knife you bear…” he added, his voice serious. “You do not know what it is, do you? It holds a great spell upon it, that once it is drawn, it cannot help but spill blood. Its bearer will never be beaten in battle, and until you sheathe it, your foe will stand no chance against you. And so…” He put a hand to her cheek, his eyes sad. “May you never use it. Now play.”
This time, he let her play, the strange tune filling the temple, and when she was done, he held out his hand. “Give me the flute,” he said, dropping the ring into her hand. “It is not good for it to be in this world too long.” And as she handed it to him, wordlessly, he smiled. There was a great light in it, and she closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she was at the palace, and the little dun pony stood beside her. Bending down, she threw her arms around the pony’s neck, her relief almost palpable, and then straightened up, looking at the ring in her hand. It shimmered, almost glowing, as she closed her fist on it and turned to the palace gates, taking a deep breath.
Inside, she found the king’s son quickly. He turned to see her, surprise written on his face, and then concern. “Did you get it?”
But Eilidh was silent. For, as she had turned the ring over and over in her hand, she had slipped it onto her finger, and now she saw the king’s son as he truly was - greedy, and prideful, and cold as stone. She saw the lines of cruelty around his lips, and the arrogance in his eyes, and she could not think why she had ever loved him.
“I did,” she said, and took a deep breath. “But not for you. Keep your jewels and your pride, my lord, and I pray that some day, you find a bride worthy of you.” There was an edge to her voice, and as his face began to redden with rage, she turned away, quite calmly, and started back through the castle, to the little dun pony.
But the little dun pony was no longer there. Instead, there stood a young woman, short and stolid, with hair the colour of the little dun pony’s hair and eyes the shape of the little dun pony’s eyes. To Eilidh, who now saw things as they truly were, she was beautiful.
When she saw Eilidh coming, the girl who had been the little dun pony smiled. And a great love swelled in Eilidh’s heart.
Taking the woman’s hand, Eilidh started back towards her cottage on the clifftops, with its apple tree and its memories. And there, on the top of the cliffs, with the wind in their hair and the spray on their skin, they shared a kiss. Then Eilidh, who was a sensible girl, went inside to treat her wounds, and the girl who had been a little dun pony went inside with her. And they lived there together, on the cliffs, and Eilidh buried the ill-fated knife beneath the apple tree, and never was there cause or wish to use it.
And if they have not died, then they are living there still.