We move west, further and further. Even the sparsest of villages are now behind us. Eventually we three are crossing a terrain that no hermit or even beast would occupy. We are nearing the sea. In all my years, it is a sight I have never seen and the prospect of it fills me with exhilaration, with dread. Rocky cliffs jut up all around us, like the grasping fingers of a great hand. They strike me as being the parents of the heathstones, which now seem tiny and frail by comparison. Between the rocky spikes of the cliff I catch my first faint glimpse of the sea.

“May we stop?” I ask.

When the Headsman does not reply, I ask Him again, and yet again. I want so very much to race to the cliffs’ edge and take in that boundless green expanse, to hear its roaring surf, feel its cold spray against my skin.

Our path suddenly juts in a sharp incline. I feel the cadaver shift in its box, placing all the weight on my end. My exhausted arms wobble as I struggle to keep our cargo aloft.

When I spot the mouth of the great cave that yawns at the end of our path, I somehow intuit that it is our destination. After a few more paces the Headsman proves my hunch correct.

Once the casket is set down upon the stony ground, I am only able to take a few steps nearer to the sea before my body betrays its exhaustion. I collapse against a boulder. My arms and thighs burn with pain. In the distance the Moon paints a gleaming stripe across the roiling sea. I am only dimly aware of my hand as it grazes the surface of the stone that braces me. Have the howling winds of this plateau smoothed it? It feels like taut silk beneath my fingertips.

Faintly I hear the steps of the Headsman. He holds His hand out to me.

…I have placed her inside the cave…

I take the small bundle that the Headsman is offering. My fingers can barely unknot the fabric. Within are shelled nuts, a wedge of bread, fruits.

…eat…

I devour it all greedily, gratefully.

The Headsman never eats.

…tonight you rest here…

I nod gratefully, for the very thought of having to venture back to the village overwhelms me. My exhaustion is excruciating.

The Headsman never slumbers.

My stomach filled, I recline on the luxurious stone and close my eyes. The surf lulls me. I feel like an infant in the arms of its Mother, Her rolling tide rocking me back and forth, back and forth…like the woman seated in the pithouse.

Though our surroundings are arid, a garden of stone, in the distance I hear an orchestra of crickets.

I do not dream.

The warmth of the sun upon my face draws me back to the land of the living. I sit up, groan.