Mortimer Goodson, set out in search of the witch. He kept the sun at his back so that the air was still cool, and the mare still strong and eager. They pounded the dirt paths cut into the greens and browns until they found her, singing simply and walking free. Her feet were bare, with flowers on her dress. And though he told her to stop, she smiled at him and walked. Like a shadow on his vision, wherever he looked, there walked Lillian, her body ahead of his . . .
Stop, he told her and yet she walked. While he was watching, landmarks passed that shouldn’t have. As if the mountains and the coast and railroad town had been pressed together. When Mortimer Goodson took from his saddle and pulled down his hat off his gray hair, he found his skin had grown tight, and the fingers on his hands had grown long and thin. His eyesight was no longer good, but he could see behind him that he could not make the return.
Gently, she put her arm through his. And though, Goodson resisted, Lilian held onto him: Do not despair. I can use the time you didn’t, she promised. Don’t despair.
-FM
El Golpe Avisa 