Her poor severed head clung by a shred to her bleeding body, still cringing with the reproach of the rod, but she strode on regardless. Only the eye of the Third Needle was turned on her as she plunged into the Riverbed, determined to give herself, whatever might come of it. The Third Needle pricked his way back to the city, shining lustily in the sunglare, threading his way through the maize fields.
On the third step of the temple, outside the city gate, sat Aseyndiros, expectant. From afar he saw the glittering Needle and waited, mutely, for what he knew must come. The Needle passed the temple with a single stride, and pierced his way through the gate without a word, but Aseyndiros understood the symbolism of this supreme step and ran in the opposite direction, bearing the bowl of sacred marmalade to use in case of emergency. Beads of dew formed on his ankles but his hands were, as usual, dry. Still there was a flavor. His pace was rapid. He knew what would be required of him and in such cases one must not lose time. Nor did he.
The River rose from his bed high against the dyke walls. All was over. She had fulfilled her promise to herself, and the River had assisted her. In drinking the dregs, however, she remembered and shuddered. Was the River, IN THE END, of the stuff men are made of? That was what she wondered. She also remembered the seeing Needle. Her third thought was for her head which still clung, with strange persistency, to her tired body. And it was very damp.
When Aseyndiros found that the River had arisen he knew he was too late. He threw the bowl of marmalade far into the brake and a wandering coyote carried it home to his mate, wondering the while. There is no novelty to be found in this world in individual objects but what strange combinations can we not dream out. The coyote found it so. That was their first real night.
As for Aseyndiros, he hesitated. His love was great but the strength and fluidity of the River repelled him. Many of us would have hesitated and he was limply vacillating, muttering the while some strange scraps of the old sagas. If he had seen her he would have known what to do. Some instinct would have impelled him to act. But he was busy with the dregs and undiscoverable. O, how her head throbbed!
There is little more to tell, for of the further history of the Needle, the coyote, and her, little can be known. Their lives generally were more secluded than the others. Of course they had their days. The River flowed on. Its bed bids you welcome. Aseyndiros could do nothing. And for that matter the River expected nothing from HIM.