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The Authentic Eclectic
The Bone-White Mare
In the seventh year of their marriage, the wife grew so sorrowful for lack of a child that no joy could be found in the house. One rainy October day, the husband found her wilting on the edge of the well.
He touched her damp hair and said, “I will travel into the mountains and speak to the old man who dwells there. I will ask him for a child.”
She jumped, the whites of her eyes gleamed like boiled eggs, and he reflected sadly on how anxious and flighty she had become, which a little one might have prevented. She said, “You mustn’t go. They say he is a warlock who conjures wicked things from ink.”
But her fearful response only strengthened his resolve. That night they packed a bag with provisions, and he met her protests with stony silence. She bade him farewell in the light of dawn the next day, dabbing at her eyes with the tip of her apron.
The husband traveled through the glen, where the red apples were kissed with dew; over the hills, where the shaggy brown cows roamed; through the woods, where the crows cackled like widows; and into the mountain pass, where he spent the night, building a small fire to warm his bones.
He enjoyed a fine supper of melted cheese and toasted bread in the purple of dusk. He paid no heed to the mountain demons who…
