Then she saw it turn a little, lifting its head. She called out to Pauvla Agrippa’s husband who, startled with the movement and the cry, dropped the rope.
The mare had turned toward the sea; for an instant it stood there, quivering, a great thin, bony thing with crooked legs; its blind eyes half covered with the black coarse lashes. Pauvla Agrippa with her head thrown a bit back rested easily, it seemed, the plaits of her yellow hair lying about her neck, but away from her face, because she was not supported quite right; still she looked like some strange new sea animal beneath the net that held her from falling.
Then without warning, no-man’s-mare jumped forward and plunged neck-deep into the water.
A great wave came up, covered it, receded and it could be seen swimming, its head out of the water, while Pauvla Agrippa’s loosened yellow hair floated behind. No one moved. Another wave rose high, descended, and again the horse was seen swimming with head up, and this time Pauvla Agrippa’s hands were parted and lay along the water as though she were swimming.
The most superstitious among them began crossing themselves, and one woman dropped on her knees, rocking from side to side; and still no one moved.
And this time the wave rose, broke and passed on, leaving the surface smooth.
That night Tasha picked up Pauvla Agrippa’s sleepy boy and standing in the doorway prayed to the sea, and this time she found comfort.
The flame of your red hair does crawl and creep Upon your body that denies the gloom And feeds upon your flesh as ’t would consume The cold precision of your austere sleep— And all night long I beat it back, and weep.
It is not gentleness but mad despair That sets us kissing mouths, O Khalidine, Your mouth and mine, and one sweet mouth unseen We call our soul. Yet thick within our hair The dusty ashes that our days prepare.
The dark comes up, my little love, and dyes Your fallen lids with stain of ebony, And draws a thread of fear ’tween you and me Pulling thin blindness down across our eyes— And far within the vale a lost bird cries.
Does not the wind moan round your painted towers Like rats within an empty granary? The clapper lost, and long blown out to sea Your windy doves. And here the black bat cowers Against your clock that never strikes the hours.
