This story was suggested to me while driving south onRoute 71 in Ohio, by a pre-storm cloud formation whichresembled a group of horsemen.
^ When he was thunder in the hills the villagers laydreaming harvest behind shutters. When he was an avaj| lanche of steel the cattle began to low, mournfully,II deeply, and children cried out in their sleep.He was an earthquake of hooves, his armor a darktabletop of silver coins stolen from the night sky, whenthe villagers awakened with fragments of strange dreamsin their heads. They rushed to the windows and flung theirshutters wide.
And he entered the narrow streets, and no man sawthe eyes behind his visor.
When he stopped so did time. There was no movementanywhere.
—Neither was there sleep, nor yet full wakefulnessfrom the last strange dreams of stars, of blood. ...
Doors creaked on leather hinges. Oil lamps shivered,pulsated, then settled to a steady glowing.
The mayor wore his nightshirt and a baggy, tossledcap. He held the lamp dangerously near his snowy whiskers, rotating a knuckle in his right eye.
The stranger did not dismount. He faced the doorway,holding a foreign instrument in one hand.
"Who are you, that comes at this hour?"
"I come at any hour—I want directions, I seek mycompanions."
The mayor eyed the beast he rode, whiter than hisbeard, whiter than snow, than a feather ...
"What manner of animal is that?"
"He is a horse, he is the wind, he is the steady pounding of surf that wears away rocks. Where are my companions?"
"What is that tool you carry?"
"It is a sword. It eats flesh and drinks blood. It frees