Stories of Ourselves: "The Rain Horse" by Ted Hughes

Now the valley lay sunken in front of him, utterly deserted, shallow, bare fields, black and sodden as the bed of an ancient lake after the weeks of rain.

From the high point on which he stood the hill dipped slightly and rose to another crested point fringed with the tops of trees, three hundred yards to his right. As he watched it, the horse ran up that crest, showed against the sky – for a moment like a nightmarish leopard – and disappeared over the other side.

Down this front, from the crest, hung two small woods separated by a fallow field.

So he waited, trying to nudge the right feelings alive with the details – the surprisingly familiar curve of the hedges, the stone gate-pillar and iron gatehook let into it that he had used as a target, the long bank of the rabbit-warren on which he stood and which had been the first thing he ever noticed about the hill when twenty years ago, from the distance of the village, he had said to himself ‘That looks like rabbits.’

The near wood was nothing more than a quarry, circular, full of stones and bracken, with a few thorns and nondescript saplings, foxholes and rabbit holes.

The near wood was nothing more than a quarry, circular, full of stones and bracken, with a few thorns and nondescript saplings, foxholes and rabbit holes.

Still panting from his run, drawing his knees up tightly, he watched the bleak lines of rain, grey as hail, slanting through the boughs into the clumps of bracken and bramble.

Beyond the boughs the blue shoal of the town was rising and falling, and darkening and fading again, in the pale, swaying backdrop of rain.

The hair on the nape of his neck prickled slightly.

It was watching him intently, standing perfectly still, its soaked neck and flank shining in the hard light.

Then he was away up the slope, whipped by oak twigs as he leapt the brambles and brushwood, twisting between the close trees till he tripped and sprawled.

The horse was evidently mad, had an abscess on its brain or something of the sort.

Or maybe it was just spiteful. Rain sometimes puts creatures into queer states.

Most likely it was just going down the wood for better shelter and had made a feint at him in passing – as much out of curiosity or playfulness as anything.

The swelling gradient of fields lay in front of him, smoking in the slowly crossing rain.

He felt certain the horse had been looking straight at him. Waiting for him? Was it clairvoyant? Maybe a mad animal can be clairvoyant.

At the same time he was ashamed to find himself acting so inanely, ducking and creeping about in this way just to keep out of sight of a horse.

The water ran down inside his clothes and squelched in his shoes as he eased his way carefully over the bedded twigs and leaves.

The success of this last manoeuvre was restoring his confidence, but he didn’t want to venture out into the open field without making sure that the horse was just where he had left it.

It might have been running to get out of the terrific rain except that it was coming straight for him, scattering clay and stones, with an immensely supple and powerful motion.

As it dropped back on to its forefeet he flung his second stone, at ten yards’ range, and saw a bright mud blotch suddenly appear on the glistening black flank.

That this brute should pick him and play with him in this malevolent fashion was more than he could bear.

‘Out of it!’ he shouted, brandishing his arm.

For several minutes he kept up his bombardment without a single hit, working himself up into a despair and throwing more and more wildly, till his arm began to ache with the unaccustomed exercise.

The stone struck and rebounded straight up into the air, spinning fiercely, as the horse swirled away and went careering down towards the far bottom corner of the field, at first with great, swinging leaps, then at a canter, leaving deep churned holes in the soil.

The stone struck and rebounded straight up into the air, spinning fiercely, as the horse swirled away and went careering down towards the far bottom corner of the field, at first with great, swinging leaps, then at a canter, leaving deep churned holes in the soil.

He was halfway to the first hedge before the horse appeared, silhouetted against the sky at the corner of the wood, head high and attentive, watching his laborious retreat over the three fields.

The hill looked lifeless and desolate, an island lifting out of the sea, awash with every tide.

The hill looked lifeless and desolate, an island lifting out of the sea, awash with every tide.

It hung under the surface of his mind, an obscure confusion of fright and shame, as after a narrowly escaped street accident.