There is much that is ridiculous about suffering nightmares while reading David Hufford, though mine do not resemble the Old Hag. My nightmares are just what they sound like, mörur, mares. I think they are bays.
Sleep, for me, is also a horse, a gray. Just now he is balky and obstreperous. The idea is to get him to arch his neck and step neatly and nicely through the gates of horn, a model of dressage, carrying me effortlessly into the night hours. These days, though, he dives out between the jumps or swerves stubbornly into the thorny hedges.
The nightmares are no less fierce for their sex. Night after night, they raise their forehooves and clash stallionlike with the gray. The horses scream, their chests crash together, and I can feel the impact on the keel of my own chest. I cannot see who or what goads them on from behind.
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