But faster yet came a ghastly white shape: a spectral horse’s head rising from the depths. In an instant, the milk-white stallion had emerged from the water. It galloped from wave to wave as though it were crossing land. A moment later it reached the shore, and sped like the wind across the sand to where the hapless Lee stood watching in horror. Never once did the burning eyes—like twin coals in the beast’s head—leave Lee’s own.
When it was only a few paces from him, the horse stopped, snorting and stamping the ground impatiently. A power he could not resist forced Lee to mount the dreadful steed. The moment he was astride the devil horse, the creature carried him to the highest cliff of the island.
From here Lee could clearly see not only the burning ship, but also, in the water tinted white and red by the ghostly blaze, he could make out the bodies of all those he had slain. They rose from the depths, their arms outstretched to him, beckoning him into their midst. Clearest of all was the image of the wretched señora, whose pale, waterlogged skirts seemed to melt into the waves upon which she walked. She pointed her finger at him and smiled a grim smile that turned his insides to ice.
“Have mercy, I beg you!” cried the former pirate.
But the horse shook its head as if it understood his plea. To his horror, Lee saw there was no mercy in the faces of his ghostly victims. With a shudder, he remembered that he had not shown any one of them mercy. All around, the night was filled with their calls: “Join us, join us, join us.”
But more terrifying yet was the señora. As if his fright were some vast joke, she threw back her head and laughed. At first the sound was as shrill as a seagull’s call—but it quickly deepened until it became as loud as the howl of gale winds that would tear a ship apart on the open sea.
Then the ghostly woman made a single gesture with her hand and vanished in a spout of flame.
Suddenly the specter horse leaped into the air and plunged down through the night air as if it were a steep slope. Across the sand it galloped while Lee twisted and cried out in wild despair.
But he was bound to the horse by some fearful spell. Soon the steed was racing across the water lit by the burning ship. All around Lee, half-submerged figures clawed at his boots and clutched at the tails of his coat.
On and on the demon horse rode, until the fiery hull rose before Lee like a curtain of flame. With an anguished cry, he flung his arms over his eyes.
There was a final burst of twining red and white flame that lit the sea from one end of the island to the other. Then horse and rider, ship and ghosts vanished—extinguished as suddenly as a candle flame.
There was only an expanse of shadow-dark waves rolling endlessly, endlessly shoreward.
The Golden Arm
(British Isles—England)
There was once a handsome but miserly man who traveled far and wide in search of a wife. He cared little that a woman was young or old, pretty or plain, sweet-tempered or shrewish—he only insisted that she be rich, not poor.
At last he found a beautiful woman who was raven-haired, blue-eyed, and rosy-cheeked, with lips as full and ripe as cherries. She had been born without a right arm; but her father was so rich, he had had the finest goldsmith in England fashion her an arm of gold. It was this and her own fortune that made the miser decide to marry her. In truth, he was fonder of her golden arm than of all his wife’s other gifts combined.
At first the young woman was in love with her husband, and dreamed that her good nature would sweeten his sour disposition. But his greed and miserliness soon turned her as sharp and bitter as himself. They spent long days and longer nights arguing. Whenever it seemed that she might go away and leave him, he would stroke her cheek, pat her golden arm, and promise to mend his pinchpenny ways.
But he never did. Again and again she would threaten to leave, but she never did. As time went on, the man grew even more tightfisted with their money.
In the depth of winter, his shivering wife said,
We have no wood,
We lack for coals:
Outside the winds howl like lost souls.
Husband, dear, I beg you, please,
Let me buy fuel before we freeze.
But he answered,
Wood and coal cost more each day.
I will not pay and pay and pay,
And so throw all my wealth away.
Not one penny will you get today.
When their underfed horse no longer had the strength to pull their ancient carriage, his wife pleaded,
Our starving horse
Is skin and bone.
Our greaseless carriage wheels groan.
Husband, dear, I beg you, please,
Let me buy some oats and grease.
But all he would say was,
Oats and grease cost more each day.
I will not pay and pay and pay,
And so throw all my wealth away.
Not one penny will you get today.
They had no food in the larder, and hunger made the poor woman frantic. She begged,
Our tea is weak,
Our soup is thin,
We live on crusts and turnip skins.
Husband, dear, I beg you, please,
Let me buy some meat and cheese.
But his answer was always the same,
Meat and cheese cost more each day.
I will not pay and pay and pay,
And so throw all my wealth away.
Not one penny will you get today.
Soon his wife grew sickly from lack of food and from loneliness. She would sit by the cold hearth, the fingers of her hand of flesh twined around the fingers of her golden hand, listening to the wind whistle up and down the chimney.
Her husband often sat beside her, just as silent, his eyes drawn always to the golden arm, which seemed to grow more beautiful every day, while her other arm wasted away.
Finally she took to her bed, knowing she would not rise from it again. Her husband sat beside her, stroking the golden arm, while she said:
Husband, as my last request,
I charge you: See that I shall rest
For all eternity
In the gown I wore as bride
With my golden arm beside,
Then shall I slumber peacefully.
He nodded and patted her golden arm. Then she sighed and closed her eyes a final time.
After she was dead, her husband put on his tall black hat and long black coat, and even managed to have a few tears in his eyes when he met his wife’s family at her funeral. When she was laid to rest in the churchyard, he wept as though his heart were broken.
But as soon as the other mourners were gone, in the dead of night, he returned to the churchyard. There he dug up his wife’s coffin and took her golden arm. Then he hurried home with his ghastly treasure, certain that no one would ever know what he had done.
To keep the golden arm safe from thieves, he hid it under his bed pillows. For two nights he fell asleep, dreaming dreams of golden kingdoms.
But on the third night, just as he was drifting into sleep, he suddenly woke up, thinking he had heard footsteps on the staircase.
I locked the door with special care,
Surely there is no one there,
he told himself as he drew the covers up to his chest.
He heard the sound again, a step or two higher.
That’s just a mouse upon the stair,
Surely there is no one there.
But he drew the bedclothes up to his chin all the same.
A third time he heard the sound.
A drape was moved by restless air—
Surely there is no one there,
he whispered. Then he drew the blankets up to his nose.
One more time he heard the faint sound of a footstep; now it was just outside the door to his room.
Mustering all his courage, he said aloud,
I have no reason to beware:
And yet I must know, Who is there?
At these words, th
e ghost of his dead wife glided into the room. She stood at the foot of the bed and stared at him reproachfully.
Pretending not to be afraid, he spoke to the ghost, saying, “Your raven hair’s grown lank and gray.”
She answered, “The grave has stolen its sheen away.”
“Your hollow eyes brim with dismay.”
“The grave has stolen my joy away.”
“Your cheeks are marked by sad decay.”
“The grave has stolen their bloom away.”
“Your gown is stained with moss and clay.”
“The grave has stolen its beauty away.”
“Why have you left your grave this day?”
“To fetch my arm you stole away!”
At this, the man cried out, and backed away from the ghost, as deep into the pillows on his bed as he could. But before he could deny the theft, he felt fingers—hard as steel, cold as the grave—wrap around his throat.
In a moment there was only silence.
In another moment,
There was a footfall on the stair,
A gleam of gold,
Then nothing there.
The Serpent Woman
(Spain)
Long ago, in Spain, near the city of Cordova, there dwelled a man named Don Juan de Amarillo. Though he was far from young himself, he had a handsome young wife, Doña Pepa. No one knew where she came from: All anyone knew was that Don Juan had gone traveling for many years, and had returned with a new wife.
There was something uncanny about her perfect features, dark eyes, and skin as pale as marble and as cool to the touch. Her tall, thin form was strangely flexible and lithe. Though all Don Juan’s friends were charmed by her beauty and elegant manners at first, they soon went out of their way to avoid the lady.
There was a strangeness about her. When pleased, she swayed her body to and fro with delight. If she was displeased, her head seemed to flatten out, and the touch of her hand was like a bite. She delighted in spreading gossip about her neighbors, whether they had offended her or not.
To all appearances, Don Juan adored his wife. But the servants whispered that they argued from morning to night, and that Don Juan seemed deathly afraid of Doña Pepa—especially when her head flattened in anger. Stories circulated that she was a sorceress who had bewitched the unhappy Don Juan.
Because Don Juan and his wife had no children, the old man decided to leave his wealth to his poor nephew, Don Luis, of whom he was very fond. He invited the young man to come from Aragon for a visit.
Don Luis was an honest, open-hearted young man who quickly became popular with his uncle’s servants and friends. Only Doña Pepa disliked him. She seemed disgusted that people should discover that Don Juan had such poor relations.
Whenever she saw the young man, she would smile politely if anyone was watching. But when only he could see, she would shoot him a look of such scorn and hatred that he shuddered. At such moments her head flattened, her eyes grew long and narrow, and she moistened her lips (white with rage) with a hissing sound.
Don Luis lived in constant fear of her, and kept out of her way by every polite means. But she would not let him escape, and always revealed a little more of her hatred to him. He was sure that she hoped to drive him away from his uncle’s house and his inheritance. Yet, for love of the kind Don Juan, the young man said nothing.
One night, returning from a visit to a friend, Don Luis lit a candle and headed toward his room. As he walked down the hall, he stumbled over what he thought was a coil of rope. To his horror, the rope uncoiled itself, and a large black snake glided upstairs and disappeared under his uncle’s door.
Fearing for Don Juan, he pounded on the door until his uncle opened it and demanded crossly, “Why do you disturb my sleep in the middle of the night?”
“I saw a large black snake creep under your door, my dear uncle,” the young man hastily explained.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Don Juan, turning pale. “There is no serpent here.”
“I insist on searching your room,” said Don Luis.
“Very well,” said his uncle, “but be quick about it.”
Don Luis searched everywhere but found nothing. He was so quiet that he did not awaken Doña Pepa, who slept on until the moment he was leaving. Then she suddenly opened her eyes; her head flattened, and her eyes grew long and narrow. The young man quickly left the room with many apologies, but his dreams that night were filled with loathsome snakes.
The next morning, Don Luis found only his aunt when he went down to breakfast.
Doña Pepa stared at him coldly. “I warn you, nephew, you do not belong here,” she said. “If you stay, I will teach you the true meaning of fear.”
As she said this, she seized him by the wrist. He felt a stinging pain. He threw her hand aside and hurried out. But by the afternoon his arm had begun to swell and throb, until he had to go to the doctor in town.
The doctor examined his arm, noted a wound on his wrist, and said, “That is a serpent’s bite.”
“No,” said Don Luis, “my aunt grabbed my arm in anger.”
“I can give you medicine for the bite,” said the doctor, who had met Doña Pepa many times. “For the rest, you will have to decide your own course of action.”
The two men shared a glance of deep understanding.
That night, as Don Luis climbed into bed, he found the black snake coiled by his feet. Instantly he drew his sword and struck the reptile, cutting off a piece of its tail. The snake reared its head and bared its fangs, preparing to strike. But Don Luis slashed another piece off the tail. Hissing, the snake flowed to the door, then under it.
Don Luis followed it upstairs and saw it disappear under Don Juan’s door. Don Luis did not alarm his uncle this time. He decided that the snake had a hiding hole in the wall or floor of the room and would remain hidden from any searchers.
The next morning, Doña Pepa did not appear. “Your aunt has a habit of sleepwalking,” Don Juan explained to his nephew. “Last night she stepped on something sharp.”
For days, Don Luis did not see his aunt. When she reappeared, she greeted him politely enough, but he noticed that she walked with a limp.
That night, Don Luis was surprised by the snake, which had hidden in a corner of his room. Only his quick reflexes saved him. He spun away from the deadly jaws, grabbed his sword, and struck the creature a few inches below its head. The wounded snake escaped before he could strike it again. When he looked down the hallway, he could see no trace of the thing. But he was sure that it had fled to its secret hiding place in his uncle’s room.
For a month afterward, Doña Pepa kept to her darkened room. His uncle explained that she had fallen victim to a fever that required her to rest and avoid all company. At last, looking paler than ever, she appeared and accompanied Don Juan on an errand to Cordova. As she passed Don Luis, her dark eyes flashed with such hatred that he felt it like a blow.
When they were gone, he began a search of their room, determined to find out the secret of the black snake. He looked everywhere, but found nothing. Then, in a chest under a window, he discovered a skin striped like a serpent’s. He guessed that the snake had hidden in the chest long enough to shed its skin.
Don Luis was taking the unwholesome thing downstairs when he heard his uncle’s carriage returning. Since it was evening, the great fire in the main hall was burning. Without a thought, the young man threw the skin on the fire. It blazed, then quickly crisped and curled into nothing.
Suddenly there was a great commotion at the front door. Servants ran to and fro as Don Juan came in, carrying Doña Pepa, who had fainted. They set her on a couch, where she lay looking very pale and ill. A man was sent to fetch the doctor.
“What happened, dear uncle?” asked Don Luis.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” his uncle answered. “We had just stepped from the carriage when your aunt suddenly screamed that her skin was on fire. She began to twist about and beat her hands upon her skirt as tho
ugh it were in flames. A moment later, she fell into my arms.”
Don Luis glanced at the fireplace, where not a trace of the snakeskin remained. He remembered his mother telling him, when he was a child, “God sometimes punishes an evil woman by making her become a snake every night for a number of years equal to her crimes.”
His thoughts were interrupted when the doctor arrived. He rushed to Doña Pepa’s side, took up her hand, and felt for her pulse.
“What is the matter with her?” asked Don Luis.
“She is dead,” replied the doctor.
Though Don Juan was genuinely saddened by his wife’s untimely death, it seemed to his nephew that a burden of worries had dropped from him. His uncle’s friends, arriving to offer comfort, commented that they had not seen the old man looking so well in years.
For a time, Don Luis concerned himself with setting his uncle’s affairs in order. He began to think that his aunt’s death at the moment he burned the snakeskin was merely an unhappy coincidence.
Then one morning the old woman who was his uncle’s most trusted servant confided in Don Luis. “You know, señor, I prepared Doña Pepa for burial. While I was busy at my sad work, I saw the figure of a large snake traced upon the length of her body. Was that not strange?”
“Indeed,” said Don Luis. “My aunt, God give her rest, took many secrets with her to the grave. And that, I think, is best for all of us.”
Loft the Enchanter
(Iceland)
In the Middle Ages there was a boy named Loft, who chose to study magic, learning certain small spells and charms from a hermit who lived in the wilderness a distance from the village. It was rumored that the man had once been a great sorcerer but had lost most of his skill—and his senses—when he probed too deeply into the shadowy world of magic.
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