ίππος χλωρός

Joah turns fitfully in her sleep, kicking the quilt and sheets to the floor unknowingly. “The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.” A multitude of whispers stirs the air. “Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.” She tries to lift her head, shaking the sleep way, and finds herself standing on a barren promontory, the dull orange moon low in the sky. She turns slowly around to see a pale green horse, ribs protruding, sickly and weak. Voices as dry and barren as a wasteland murmur, “Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods.” Her eyes gaze up from the horse to its skeletal rider, wrapped in a winding sheet, a long thin stave in its hand. The sound of a death rattle, then the whispers: “For nothing now can ever come to any good.” The horse and rider move toward her as a chittering sound comes from the rider’s unmoving mouth. “ίππος χλωρός, θάνατος,” it says. The rider extends one bony hand to Joah, pulling her up behind it. She mounts and rides.