They got something right, I thought as I watched her approach. She is riding a mule. It’s my neighbor’s mule and it doesn’t look happy, but as least she put in the effort. It’s careening in a panicked manner and she’s sitting astride holding onto his mane, but it could be worse. She could be walking.
None of our gods walk. They ride donkeys and wild asses, ponies and horses, cobs with rough heads and thoroughbreds with flowing manes, all the colors you could ever want, immortal and strong, eternal companions. And Grandmother Death rides a black mule, long-eared and clever, wearing a bridle of white leather and a saddle with space for you behind his rider. Come along a-me, she’ll say, come along a-me. Then she’ll reach down with her free hand and pull you up to take you away.
I know the woman who approaches is Grandmother Death the way you know the sun is rising behind the mountains, the way you know in dreams that the stranger beside you is your one true love.
The way you know where the lamp is in the pitch-dark room.
But she herself is not what I expected. Her hair is black and wild, her eyes outlined with the same dark shade. Even as the mule bolts towards me, she sits tall, wearing the clothes that my ancestors wore, in the days when women sat a horse as we should, a leg on either side and a mind in the middle.
I don’t know how she stopped the charging animal, but he drew up snorting and blowing with his nose just touching my chest. Stepping away from my body, I touched his heavy neck and looked up into his rider’s face.
She smiled, and held out her hand.
