It was Granny who first told me I must never go anywhere near Dead Horse Cove. Sitting in his armchair by the log fire, Father nodded sagely in agreement.
One day, when one of them retold it for the nth time, I spoke up: “Father, why?”
“Well, my son, the cliffs are very unstable there. Once, a long time ago, a prime shire went over the edge. The ploughboy wasn’t very experienced and went too close to the cliff edge. He was very fortunate and jumped off just before the whole lot went down. The plough tackle landed on the poor horse, a hundred feet below.”
That made a big impression on my seven-year-old self. But, at eighteen, I had the invincibility of youth in me, and one summer evening when I was courting Sarah, I suggested we go for a walk along the cliffs.
It was that in-between time, just after sunset. The church bell sounded, calling the faithful to evensong, its continuous ding-dong carrying across the fields. We walked hand in hand, then stopped to kiss, my tongue rasping across her chin like a dog's lick.
When we came to the cove, I saw the landscape had changed. Instead of a sheer cliff, the ground had slipped, and the angled turf presented a narrow path to the beach.
I led Sarah down, though she protested at first, fearful of the cove’s reputation. In reality, it was an easy descent, and eventually we stood on the sand.
We turned and sat with our backs to the bunched tussocks of grass. My arms went around her waist, and I pulled her against me, kissing her madly.
Sarah was as much in want of passion as I was. Gradually, we subsided and lay on the sand, where my hand slipped beneath the folds of her skirt and petticoats, feeling the warmth of her thigh.
When I reached the end, I felt her privates, soft and slippery. As I pressed into her, she lifted her hips to meet my fingers.
I kissed her hard, muttering over and over, “Oh, Sarah, you’re the finest maid in the parish.”
My fingers kept their movement, feeling her wetness become a flood. Then, her body lifted off the ground in a great arc, and she uttered a long guttural groan.
It was my signal; I pulled down my britches, rolled on her and entered in one quick act. I thrust into her, setting a pace that surprised me with its speed and intensity. Spending inside her was the most beautiful experience of my life, a searing pleasure that flooded through me.
We lay together, panting, as I cradled Sarah’s head in my hands. The silence of the beach was broken only by the breaking surf at our feet. The world was perfect.
Perfect until a strange rustling noise set my nerves on edge. It was chilling and evil in a way I could not fathom.
Then, I watched in horror as the ground around us slithered like a snake. In a heartbeat, soil and stones were carrying me away, and Sarah disappeared. Our final touch was her little hand clawing at my fingers. In no time, I was in the sea, floating above the roiling soil.
The horrors of that night have never left me. I was cursed, desiring no other woman, and wanted by none. Sarah was never found, left buried deep under the landslip in Dead Horse Cove.
