The Hex Witch of Seldom by Nancy Springer

worst, because they bore the most weight. Shane’s front toes were worn so short that his hooves stood almost upright, straining his pasterns. Far worse: up his left front hoof ran a crack, and the pressure of every step widened it and forced it longer.
    â€œI bet that started yesterday. I should have seen it before. I shouldn’t have been riding you. Now it’s worse.”
    Bobbi turned away with tears stinging her eyes and began to walk. After a moment Shane followed her down the overgrown tram road.
    By midday, with no food in her stomach, Bobbi was reeling, but she kept stubbornly on. She stopped being aware of the forest around her and saw only the ground beneath her feet. Another damn creek. Down the bank, slosh through the water, don’t bother to find the driest way, up the other side, good. Shane, following her, stepping clear of the rocks in the creekbed, plodding through the water. Cold water probably felt good on those hooves. They had to hurt.… She didn’t look at his head, his eyes, only glanced back at his legs from time to time as he followed her. She felt her feet starting to stumble and tried to correct them, but it was all she could do to put one in front of the other. She concentrated on that. Left foot step, right foot step, left foot again. Staggering a little. No longer much aware even of the black-horse-not-a-horse behind her—and then a gentle nudge in the middle of her back sent her toppling onto the ground.
    It was soft as a bed down there, springtime-damp and leafy. Bobbi lay blissfully still a moment before she realized what had been done to her and pride made her move.
    â€œHey,” she protested weakly, rolling over to scowl at Shane.
    Looming above her, he seemed gigantic. His eyes, a blue glow—no, white. Shane was the world. Shane-blaze took her, she saw nothing else, and in it, in his eyes, she saw—the gypsy dancers, the dragon with gray hair, the old woman with the walking stick that moved, the young beauty in the flounced and ruffled dress, and—and the man in the black shirt. He had turned to look straight at her, and his eyes under the broad brim of his black hat blazed piercing blue, fire and ice. The shirt glistened; silk. Something white glinted at his neck, under the open collar.
    â€œBobbi,” he said.
    She felt her mouth fall open in astonishment. “Shane,” she blurted, “you can talk to me!”
    â€œSometimes. Listen. There’s no need for this. Get up on me and ride. It’s not much farther.”
    â€œBut you weren’t meant for that!” Still lying on the ground, looking up at him, too weak and dazed to care that she was being crazy and seeing things again, Bobbi said, “You were meant to be the rider. You had—a big horse, the best in the world. You rode—”
    â€œHush,” he said. His face was youthful but not boyish; it was hard, clean-shaven, lean and sunburned. The lines of his brows and nose and jaw were straight, with a set look about the jaw. Small weather-marks showed around his eyes; perhaps he was not young after all, but ageless. His mouth was strong, somber. The form behind his form was that of a horse, a black mustang. Bobbi had no trouble thinking of him as man and mustang both.
    He said, “I’ve been eating. I can go for the little while longer it will take. You can’t. Get up and get on me.”
    â€œThe crack will get worse.” Bobbi’s eyes never left his.
    â€œIt will be only for a few hours. Until the tram line ends.”
    â€œAnd what is there?”
    â€œA friend. Shelter, food.”
    Bobbi had not blinked, but the blue-white blaze vanished, and with it the man in the black silk shirt. She was staring up at Shane the wild horse, and the mustang had turned his head away.
    Bobbi rolled to one side and got up off the ground with an effort. She steadied herself with one hand against the nearest tree.
    â€œI hate to do it,”