Plaits of a morning.

‘Janare?” I lean closer, intrigued. My pizza has just arrived at the table but I wait to start.

“They are sort of like witches from the Campagna region, who steal horses and ride them all night. They leave them back in their stables at dawn, their manes braided.”

“It happened to my grannie’s horse,” my man says, nodding sagely, eating a sliver of salame from his cold meat and cheese board.

“Get away, really?” I say.

‘She found it with plaits one morning.’

Ricardo continues his story: “You can stop them stealing your horse by putting a bag of salt outside the door of the stable. She can’t help but count the grains of salt and by the time she’s finished, it will be daybreak.’

An OCD-horse-stealing-compulsive-plaiter.

‘They dance around trees too,’ my man adds, putting some jam on a slice of cheese.

I immediately imagine May Pole dancers, ribbons swirling.

‘Yes, but you don’t want to bump into them at night,’ Ricardo says, ‘They will disembowel you.’

Right so.

© M. E. Walsh

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