by David Wise
In that same heartbeat, the ghastly rider drew a shining steel sickle from his voluminous cape. And in terrible clarity, the watchmen saw a single ruby-red droplet slide along the razor edge of the curved blade, cling to the needle-sharp tip, and then drop away, vanishing in the dark wind before striking the cold cobbles below.
The dogs cowering in terror, the would-be killers released their victim, who fell to his knees. Backing away, the watchmen moved with the restrained steps of shackled prisoners. The mounting cold had seized their joints with brutal force, congealing the blood that was so hot moments ago, making even the tiniest motion difficult. Panic-filled eyes were unwillingly pinned upon the approaching madness, this specter of death. Only their hearts moved freely, slamming inside their heaving chests.
"This. . is impossible," mouthed the portly owner of the whip, dropping his weapon from limp fingers. "Impossible!"
And with those soft words, their hearing violently returned. Strident thunder, like a never-ending avalanche, boomed from the maelstrom in the tumultuous sky, the concussions wildly shaking the bare winter trees. And yet the approaching hoofbeats overwhelmed the fury of nature, seeming to physically fill the frosty air. The fiery pounding hit their faces with stinging force like angry, invisible slaps.
No thought of battle occurred to the watchmen. Escape was their only wish. Flight and survival. But their will to act was as frozen as their shivering limbs. All they could do was stand trembling, helpless as children, and watch primordial death enter their world.
The leering horse looming larger, more solid than the surrounding granite peaks; the dire specter galloped straight toward them. The tall man with the axe attempted to throw himself backward, to fall off the cursed highway, but it was as if he was nailed into place. His magic charms and good luck pieces were still at home instead of in pockets where they might have done him good. He tried a desperate prayer to the gods, but none seemed to hear.
In somber ritual, the phantasmal rider raised the lethal sickle, perfectly blotting out the slim sliver of moon, casting the small group of men and dogs in a freezing shadow of doom.
And then he was amid them.
Frantic, the dogs went under the charging stallion and were ruthlessly trampled by the great hooves, helpless as wheat before a thresher. The horse and rider exploded between the shaking men, the deadly sickle swinging back and forth with the rhythm of a clock pendulum. Shivering in his bloody rags, Anatole heard a whistling pass and saw red-tainted silver flash in the harsh moonlight. The freak stared agape, drooling upon his lopsided chin, as the heads and bodies of his tormentors dropped separately to the roadway.
Now the slayer was upon him, and the hermit closed his mismatched eyes, throwing a perfect arm before his hated face. There was only a scant meter of road between them. Yet the pounding hooves seemed to take forever to reach him, the deafening noise growing until it shook the universe. His stomach heaved as, large and powerful, the sickle swept past him with tingling nearness. Braced for death, Anatole dementedly imagined that several somethings flew past him, moving all around him, brushing near enough to disturb his matted hair and tug on his tattered clothes.
But nothing else happened. As the nerve-wracking seconds wore on, the hoofbeats receded and the sounds of the forest slowly came again. Crickets. An owl hooting. The rustle of leaves. Fearful of what new horrors might assail him, Anatole managed to force his one good eye open a crack.
There was nobody in sight. Even the mist was gone. The trembling hermit stood alone in a grassy field surrounding by lush forest greenery. Collapsing to the dirt, Anatole wept, his body shaking with exhaustion and the sheer joy of living. Alive. He was still alive! Gods above, had it been only a dream? Some wild fever vision brought on by near starvation? Or perhaps he had been beaten insane by the villagers. Yes, that must be the answer.
But shakily rising to his feet, Anatole the Freak noticed dark shapes lying motionless in the green grass: the horribly mutilated dogs, the fresh human corpses. The scene telescoped before him, filling his mind, almost smashing his sanity, and in that instant of crystallized reality, deep in his heart, a new type of fear was born.
Shivering again in spite of the muggy summer warmth, Anatole lurched away from the dead watchmen, forcing himself to stumble toward the dirt road. Once on relatively flat ground, the hermit sprinted through the fearful darkness, heading for the village. The mayor must be told. The people warned! This had not been a dream, but a living nightmare. The dreaded headless horseman of myth had come to their valley! What could they do? How could any of them hope to survive?
And most importantly. . why had he?
Running. Running. A light flashed between the tree branches, then disappeared as the road rose and swept downward. A distant call of laughter was heard through the darkness, then the dirt road curved, and crackling torchlight washed over the panting hermit. Surrounded by a tall stone-block wall, the gates of the city stood wide and inviting, as if there were nothing to fear. The fools!
Dashing inside, Anatole glanced wildly about at the dim houses, their facades illuminated by the flickering of street torches. Who first? Anyone? A city guard? The mayor! Turning right at the fountain, the hermit scrambled down the brick side street.
Every shadow seemed to reach out for him; the sound of a passing horse and wagon almost made him scream; a bare tree branch swiped at him like a giant hand; eyes seemed to peer from every eave. Clutching his throbbing head in both hands, Anatole spun about in a mad circle, wasting precious minutes as sanity returned. Imagination. It was all in his mind. He hoped.
The wooden outline of a shoe hanging from an iron post marked a cobbler's house. Anatole rushed to the door and banged furiously on it, then yanked the cord for the upstairs bell. He could hear it clang within, but no one came and no lights appeared. Despite the summer warmth, cold sweat poured down his back. Anatole spun and started to bolt, but paused midstep. Where next? The city alarm bell for fires? Where was it? He had rarely come this far into town.
Memories of screaming women, laughing men, and children with stones rose to memory, but he forced those phantasms down. They all hated him for his ugliness. Mocked him! But it was still his village, his home, and he must warn them. A breeze scented with freshbaked bread wafted along the street, and the clouds parted, allowing the silvery light of the moon to bathe the city in an unearthly blue. Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, Anatole thought of other nights, other midnight beatings. The city constable, of course! But he would be on his rounds, checking doors and locks. Was there no place where he could find. . the Dog 'n Bull. Yes! Perfect!
His lungs heaving for breath, the hermit once more lurched off and began racing deeper into the village. He passed a dog rooting in some garbage, and it stared curiously at him. A loving couple, arm in arm, strolled eastward as he went west crossing a small bridge, but they paid him no mind. Turning at the half-built library, Anatole saw a brightly lit section of street, illumination streaming from the windows of the Dog 'n Bull. Accordion music sounded from within, mixed with laughter and pounding boots. As he approached, the double doors burst open, and out staggered a singing man who walked as if on a storm-tossed ship. The hermit passed him, and the fellow doffed a hat he was not wearing and started to say something, then went pale and backed away, white-faced and trembling.
The oak doors were warm and smooth beneath his fingers as Anatole shoved them open. Bright light and music washed over him, and he blinked, tilting his head away from the smoke-filled air to protect his bad eye. Tables jammed with laughing people filled the central room, a wooden wheel made into a chandelier hung from the ceiling, and half a pig was roasting in the huge fireplace. He shuffled inside and across the sawduststrewn floor.
"Hey, stranger!" called out a man behind the bar, sliding a tankard of ale down the countertop to a waiting customer. "Welcome to the Dog 'n Bull! What can I. . good gods above!"
"It's the freak!" shrieked a woman, and the music stopped. In ragged stages,
all talking ceased and every head turned to stare. More than one person spit upon the floor, and several drew their belt knives.
"The mayor," wheezed Anatole, his throat bone dry from panting. "I need to find. . "A half-filled container of ale was on a table near him, and impulsively the hermit grabbed the blackjack and drank deeply. The leather was warm to his touch. and the tar lining gave the ale a flavorful tang. Then the mug was painfully slapped from his grasp.
"Aye, and we don't want you drinking from our mugs!" cried the bartender, towering above the cringing man. "I'll have to burn the thing now. That's nine coppers you owe me, freak!"
Shoving aside their chairs, men moved toward the hermit, their faces menacing scowls.
"They're dead!" he shouted over the growing rumble. "I saw it! They're all dead!"
The mass advance stopped.
"Who's dead, ya murdling goon," barked a squat shepherd, shaking his blackjack until it sloshed over.
Fear tightening his belly, Anatole spoke fast. "Hans, Emile, and Angelo. He killed them all. Cut off their heads. I saw it! In the fields by the waterfall."
Cries of outrage and confusion.
"Cut off their heads? "
"Who did it? "
"Dead, ya say? "
"The horseman," he said, his voice a whisper.
The village tax collector pushed his way through the crowd, strode closer, and stood before the hermit, his thumbs jammed inside his wide leather belt. A belt Anatole's scarred back knew far too well. "What horseman? Speak fast, freak," growled the clerk.
"It was the headless horseman," said Anatole "He came out of the moonlight on a horse blacker than the night! And he had a silver sickle — "
But his words were drowned out by gales of laughter.
"The headless horseman of Hanover?" guffawed a serving wench. "Idiot, can't ya lie better 'n that?"
Another shouted," And he attacked you in the middle of a field? Poppycock!"
"Even a child knows he can't leave da road," growled an elderly man in soldier's livery. "Ya dang fool."
Anatole's eyes flicked from one disbelieving face to another. "But it's true! And there was a road! It just appeared under us and the horseman killed everyone!"
"But not you," spoke the city constable from the mezzanine above the room. The tavern quieted as the blubbery man waddled down the steps, tucking in his shirt. A gale of feminine laughter came from upstairs and was quickly cut off by the closing of a pink door.
Three times his size, Brad Thalmeyer stood before the hermit and scowled. "You say the headless horseman came and killed three armed men, but not you."
"Yes!"
"Why? "
"I. ."
"Well? "
"I don't know," Anatole said softly, lowering his head. Rough hands grabbed his clothing, tearing it from his body.
"Aye, but we know!" stormed Constable Thalmeyer. "Those three went to hang you for that gypsy killing. Now you return with this witless tale of galloping monsters and claim they be dead! If so, then you did it, not some children's ghost!"
"I swear!" began the hermit, but a hairy fist punched him to the floor. Something banged off his forehead, and ale splashed over his face, washing the wooden planks beneath him clear of sawdust. "Hold him," stated the constable, grinding a fist into the palm of his other hand. Til find the mayor and get us a writ of execution!"
"And a rope!" cried somebody else. "Truth, 'tis high time we got rid of this. . abomination!" stated the school teacher, adjusting his spectacles.
"Who'll come with me, lads?" called the constable standing in the doorway, one great hand on the metal latch. "To help protect me from the horseman?"
A scribe rose from his table and laughingly joined the constable. "Here, Brad! I'll even help the mayor sign it, if need be!"
"Aye!"
As the double doors closed behind the laughing men, the tavern once more turned its attention to their captive. "What shall we do to make sure he don't escape us, lads?" called out a lanky herdsman, undoing a bullwhip from about his waist.
Cruelly, the crowd roared suggestions, but Anatole went still when he saw that the breath of the herdsman was foggy here in the warm tavern. Others noticed a sudden chill, too, and many shivered, drawing their clothes tighter about them. "It's him!" cried Anatole, cowering on the floor. "Gods, save us!"
The table lanterns died. The overhead candles puffed out. The blaze in the fireplace dropped to a low crackle of icy blue flame.
Outside the tavern, the constable and his companion cried out in surprise and fear; a sudden pounding of iron hooves filled the air like winter thunder, the steady, savage pounding of a racing warhorse. Then a large shadow eclipsed the window beside the door. The two men screamed in terror, screams cut horribly short.
Then the sound of the hooves faded away.
Silence reigned for several minutes, until the flames in the fireplace blazed up to full fury once more, making everyone gasp and recoil, dropping whatever they were holding. But no one moved to relight the candles or lanterns. All eyes stayed on the closed front door, and the only sounds were muttered prayers and hard, rasping breath.
Then some thick reddish liquid began to flow underneath the door and into the tavern. Knives were drawn by a dozen men; women pulled amulets into view. With slow, hesitant steps, the bartender lifted an ancient battle mace into view from behind the counter and moved past the patrons to place a gnarled hand on the latch of the front door. He pulled it open, and two headless corpses fell onto the dirty sawdust. The rest of their remains stayed outside in the middle of the street, black lumps half-hidden by blessed moonshadow.
Women screamed in terror, men cursed, chairs were overturned, and the trembling hermit released. The bartender backed against the wall and splayed his arms as if seeking support. Somebody started to cry, and another began to retch.
Levering himself to his feet, Anatole said nothing, but he winced as he moved his wrenched right arm. In response, a young barmaid wordlessly drew a fresh blackjack of ale and placed it before the shuddering hermit. Anatole watched the action, not understanding for a moment. He glanced upward at her, and she shied her lovely face away, but made a wiggling motion with her fingers. Eagerly, he took the mug in both hands and carefully drank the frothy brew. It was wonderful, fresh from the barrel, not the bitter dregs he usually stole from the drained barrels in the alleyway. Still cold from the cellar, the ale chilled his empty stomach, and he shivered violently.
On impulse, he placed the empty on the counter and pushed it toward the woman. Without comment, she refilled the mug and slid it back to him. Reveling in his good fortune, Anatole sipped his drink and watched as the people in the tavern whispered to themselves and moved away from him.
Over the leather rim of his blackjack, Anatole saw it in their eyes. In the faces of every man and woman present. A new emotion. Not disgust, not contempt. But something he had never seen before. Fear. Fear of him!
Hmm.
A few hours later, the mechanical clock in the church tower struck midnight, the reverberations of the great bronze bells rolling in somber majesty over the little village. Everywhere, in every house and store, hushed voices spoke of the bizarre events that had occurred. Most prayed that the night of terror was over. Surely five dead was a bountiful enough harvest for any hellish minion. But a scant handful believed differently, and they gathered in secret at the house of the mayor, clustered around a hand-hewn table of forest oak to speak of death. And life.
"The two of them are obviously linked," growled Mayor Ceccion, pouring dollops into the glasses of his guests. The three men sipped the vintage, taking courage from the sweet English brandy made of cider and molasses.
"Some sort of weird connection here," added Franklin. Rising from his chair, the stonemason glanced nervously out the side window of the second-story room. The brick street, well lit by torches, was deserted. He allowed the lacy curtain to drop back into place. "That swamp freak with his bastard face and this monste
r without a head. Ye, gods! No head!"
"And five good men dead," added Hecthorpe. The fat cooper frowned at the full glass on the table before him. One sip had been enough. Wretched stuff. "Two in the very heart of our town!"
At the head of the table, a tall, lanky man removed his ancient fisherman's cap and stuffed it into a back pocket of his weathered pants. "Aye, but what be this thing wanting?" demanded Captain Emett, tossing off the homemade brandy as if it were weak tea. He took the bottle and gave himself a proper refill. "Tribute? Revenge? "
"The dead hate the living," said the mayor softly, over the crackling of the fire," because we can still hope and laugh. No other reason is necessary."
In silence, the men listened to the beating of their hearts and acknowledged the wisdom of the statement.
"Accepted. So, how do we stop this bedamned spook?" asked Franklin, rubbing his aching right wrist. The arthritis there usually pained him only with the coming of winter. "Can we kill the undead with pikes and axes? "
"Is he really a ghost?" pondered Hecthorpe, heavy brows lowered in thought. "Mayhaps it's only a magician's trick. A black bag over his head, something like that."
"A possibility," muttered Ceccion, taking his clay pipe from the mantle and lighting it from a candle. Now within a cloud of brackish smoke, he added," But anyone who can slay men faster than reaping wheat is still a problem we need to solve quickly."
"No living man can behead others from the back of a striding horse," snorted the stonemason. "It be impossible! Not even I am that strong!" To make his point, the bricklayer flexed his arms and chest, the seams of his shirt threatening to burst apart.
"Agreed," puffed the mayor dourly. "So that brings us back to why this monster is attacking our town. The freak?"
Muttered agreements. There seemed little doubt on that point.
"So what do we do? "
"Kill him," said Hecthorpe grimly. "We have five dead on account of that misshapen man-thing."