Where the track narrows and overhanging trees makes it spooky I usually hesitate, there is here a profound melancholy on seen in the eyes of reformed drunks. I hear a rider coming up behind me I give way, on a white stallion, sits a thin woman, she looks straight ahead and sees me not. Thorns from trees have scared her face, blood drips like rose petals on her blouse. In the soft underground I see no hooves mark. Legend has it an Englishwoman had tried to cross the river a day when it was deep, horse and human was never seen again. I know where they are, the stallion is the whit crested wave that slam on to sandy shore and tried to get a hoof hold, solid enough for the dolphin nearby to ride it. If they succeed they will be able to ride east where dawn begins.
