Oracle by Jackie French

as though he no longer existed. He was no man’s son now, and no woman’s either.
    He gazed around. It was a grey day: grey sky, grey air thickening with mist. At first there seemed to be no oneoutside except his mother and the King’s men, but he sensed shadows watching from the doors.
    I hate you all, he thought, anger taking over emptiness. The hag is right. You are stupid and in love with your stupidity, scared of anyone who might be different. If you had hidden the goats and grain properly we would be safe.
    Suddenly his mother moved forward as though pulled by a rope, almost unwillingly. She stroked her daughter’s hair just once, then slipped Nikko a small parcel, wrapped in grape leaves and tied with grass. ‘Food. For the journey.’ Her voice was hoarse. She seemed about to say something else, then stopped.
    Perhaps, thought Nikko, she can’t find the words. How did you say farewell to your children, when you had sold them for a pen of goats, and jugs of barley grain?
    His mother had given her daughter away once before, he realised. Now it was happening again.
    I should hate you too, he thought. He tried to pull the hatred up from deep inside. Hatred would be easier to bear. But all he could remember was his mother’s voice singing him a lullaby when he was small.
    Tears prickled. He felt one trickle down his face, but he refused to wipe it away. Perhaps, if he kept his face still, no one would notice. He glanced back inside the hut out of the corner of his eyes. He could see the large lump that was his father, still unmoving under the goatskins, and another shape by the hearth that must be Aertes. He doubted that either of them were asleep. But neither looked toward the door.
    The three King’s men were already seated on the ponies. One of them gestured to Nikko to climb upbehind him. Nikko clambered on awkwardly, wiping his face unobtrusively with his arm. It felt strange to have the animal moving underneath him. Orkestres lifted his leg over Thetis’s pony, settling her in front of him. She still seemed half asleep, but gazed around at the village, at her mother standing silent in the doorway, and then down at the pony’s mane. She reached for it tentatively, then glanced back at Orkestres.
    He smiled. ‘Yes, girl. You can pat it.’
    One of the King’s men pressed his knees against his pony’s flanks. The beast began to walk, and the others followed.
    Down between the huts, children peeped from doorways. But no one spoke or waved. We don’t exist again, thought Nikko. It is easier just not to see us. It is hard to face the truth sometimes—too hard for anyone in the valley. He turned round, expecting Thetis to be weeping, or gazing back at their hut. But she was watching the pony, then looking up to study the King’s men.
    Almost, thought Nikko, as though she knows the village means nothing to us now, that we will never see it again.
    His heart felt like a spear had pierced it as he realised it was true.
    The ponies plodded out the village gate. Suddenly it began to rain.
    The rain ceased as they rode downhill, changing to drizzle then finally vanishing, leaving the sky as clear and still as a midsummer pool. An eagle wheeled around the midday sun. Was it the one that had watched them dance?
    Despite the autumn shadows the sun was soon hot. Their clothes dried. The ponies’ damp hides steamed in the heat. Several times the King’s man passed Nikko a waterskin. He drank gratefully, and handed it back.
    They had passed a handful of villages by now, the ponies slowly plodding down the mountain. Nikko had expected the King’s men to gather the tributes there too. But instead they passed each stockade without stopping.
    Part of him wanted to ask why, and a skyful of other questions too: where were they going? How long till they got there? Would they see the sea? But most of all he wanted to yell: Why are you taking us? Are we slaves or sacrifice? What other reasons could the High King have for