Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

: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?”