I get onto the rocking horse. I cling low on its neck. It rocks out into the hallway. I look down the length of the hall. The horse turns, positioning itself. Then it tilts backwards on its curved runners, it rears and goes charging down the hall. “We don’t have enough speed,” I think, as through the open door the wall of the bathroom looms. I gasp, and we spring through the wall.
We sail in the night above the houses. Down below are the chimney pots and yellow-glowing curtained windows. We circle. A baby tumbles past. I look about. It’s raining babies. Gently, in their diapers, sucking their thumbs, they tumble softly by, fast asleep.
I cling tighter to the horse’s neck as now we bank and start to climb. The rushing wind brings tears to my eyes. The houses grow tiny. The stars get bigger and sparkling, the shimmering moon looms ahead. At its edges I can see the folds where the night is pinned to it. As we draw on, a sudden dread makes my stomach quiver. “We’re not supposed to go through there,” I think. “No, we mustn’t try to go through.” The gathered material rushes up. We crash against it. The horse struggles, it forces at the cloth, butting with its head, straining furiously. “We mustn’t, we mustn’t!” I cry. In the clamor and turmoil my grip comes loose. The horse goes shooting away from me, head over heels down a dark furrow. Screaming, I slide down the velvet, picking up speed. “Too fast, too fast!” I scream as I go rocketing frightfully — and then suddenly slow and drift down towards the soft roofs among the sleepy rain of babies. Just before I fall asleep, I look for the horse. I see it, wheeling relentlessly, out of control, heroic, along the turbulent rim of the stars.