The Leszy kneels so that Liska can slide off and lay the hat in the grass. She says a quick prayer for the man’s soul, then climbs onto the Leszy’s back and rests her head against his neck. The return gallop is a haze, the night blurring into naught but ink and moonlight. Exhaustion rolls over Liska to the monotone one-two-three, one-two-three of the Leszy’s hooves. Their travel is slower this time, the Leszy’s breaths heavy, and the steady rocking of his movements is enough to coax Liska’s eyelids shut. She fights it, but sadness and slumber are both overpowering forces.
