by David Wise
Captain Emett slammed his glass down. "Aye! Keelhaul the creature!" snapped the fisherman. "Draw and quarter him!"
"Burn him alive is probably best," advised Hecthorpe, scratching his cheek. "That way his screams will tell the world of his death."
"And with him gone, that headless horseman should leave also!"
"Aye."
"Makes sense."
Tapping out his pipe, the mayor warned caution. "We shall handle the killing ourselves, with no help from others. Speed and secrecy are our best chance. Remember, the last men who tried to hang that abomination are being buried even as we speak," he intoned, the breath fogging from his mouth.
All conversation abruptly stopped as a wave of arctic cold washed over the large room. In heart-pounding fear, the men glanced about and saw that the table and chairs where they gathered were no longer in the den of the mayor's house, but now in the middle of a dark forest. Mountains rose on each side, forming a valley for the starry night overhead. And beneath them the decorative carpet was gone, replaced by a gravel road that stretched from horizon to horizon, from crescent moon to sea.
And then a silhouetted figure appeared on the distant, silvery ridge. A cloaked human without a head sitting on a great warhorse. . which was galloping toward them down a cobblestone roadway.
Struggling to rise from their chairs, the village councilmen found that even the slightest motion was difficult, as if invisible chains bound them to the spot. Forcing hands into pockets, three of the four clutched their good-luck charms, and the men wrenched free of the paralysis and stood. Moving with slow desperation, Mayor Ceccion went to the corner where his weapons cabinet should have stood, and he fondled and fingered the empty air, searching for the wall rack with its steel sword and crossbow. But nothing met his urgent touch. Impossible! This must merely be an illusion. It must!
The strident pounding of iron hooves filled the frigid air, and faintly the terrified men could hear the ghostly rattle of plates and glasses somewhere else, far off in another place. Another world.
Cursing loudly, the river captain knocked over the table as a shield and the stonemason brandished a chair in one hand. In his mighty grip, even that simple stool should be a deadly weapon. Unable to rouse himself, the sweating coopersmith sat motionless, darting eyes betraying his terror.
Thundering ever closer, the leviathan horse bared its teeth in a ghastly rictus, and the dire horseman raised his sickle high, the curved blade eclipsing the moon, casting them all in soul-freezing shadow.
A scream trapped in his throat, Hecthorpe twitched helplessly in his seat. Franklin threw the chair, and it missed both man and horse. Captain Emett drew a belt knife, but it tumbled from spasming fingers. Choking on his rising gore, Mayor Ceccion dropped to his knees, praying for divine rescue. But in the lurid nightmare of black and silver, they all knew death was but moments away. Nothing could save them. Nothing.
The pounding hooves deafened them. The crimsonlined cape flared wide like blood-soaked dawn, and in a heartbeat, the protean pair was among them. The silvery blade flashed downward. The hardwood table exploded into splinters. Cries of anger were horribly terminated, and three grisly thuds sounded on the cobblestone road.
Standing at the edge of the roadway, unable to move back another step because of some unseen barrier that resisted his best efforts, Mayor Ceccion closed his eyes against the slaughter, and felt a white-hot pinprick on his throat. Tiny as the pain was, it shattered his silence.
"Forgive me, Lord!" he managed without moving his taut neck. "I beseech your mercy!"
Incredibly, astonishingly, he lived for another moment, two, three. The tiny prickling burned into his vulnerable flesh an impossibly long time. As painful seconds stretched into forever, all around him, Ceccion heard the gnashing and chattering of hundreds of teeth. The source of the feasting noise was unthinkable. Then the pressure of the sickle increased, warm blood trickled down his throat, and suddenly the mayor knew he was being asked a question. One for which the wrong answer meant instant death.
"On my honor," he wailed, tears flowing beneath his closed eyelids. "I swear none will be allowed to harm the f-frea. . Anatole!"
And miraculously, the stabbing agony was gone. Blessed relief washed over the man as he slumped to the gravel road. The stentorian hoofbeats faded away, along with the stomach-turning sounds of chewing.
A wave of warmth from the crackling fireplace shook him to the core, and, daring to open his eyes, the mayor saw that the room was in shambles. Everything was smashed and broken or splattered with fresh blood. Even the beheaded corpses of his friends, even their clothes, were torn to shreds as if wild dogs had savaged the bodies. Gingerly touching his stinging throat, Mayor Ceccion saw his fingertips were stained red. But he still lived. He lived!
Loud knocking on the door finally penetrated his joyous thoughts, and weakly he staggered across the wreckage to throw aside the locking bar. Instantly, his neighbors rushed in, almost knocking the mayor down. But then his well-intentioned rescuers jerked to a dead halt as they saw the brutal scene of murder. A man stuffed a fist into his mouth so as not to scream. Another backed out into the hallway and headed quickly for the stairs. A scarred young woman in soldier's livery scowled and tightened the grip on her sword pommel.
Weeping and sobbing, Ceccion told his tale to the dumbfounded villagers, and soon the story spread like wildfire throughout the no-longer-sleeping town. The horrid news went from house to house in frantic, fevered whispers. The shocking warning of the hysterical mayor galvanized the frightened citizenry, first in a panic, then in terrified immobility. The headless horseman had struck again. So if you wish to live. . do not harm the freak.
Sluggishly, Anatole stirred in his sleep, feeling oddly warm and comfortable. Something soft brushed his cheek, and the hermit sat upright in his bed to see that a nice new quilt of blue cloth and goose feathers was covering his rickety bedframe.
Swinging his legs to the floor, Anatole saw that the dirt floor of his sagging cabin had been swept tidy during the night. Arising, he blinked at the sight of actual cloth curtains on both of the windows of oiled paper. Incredible!
A tantalizing aroma caught his attention, and the hermit spun about to see that the upside-down barrel that served as his table was covered with an old linen cloth and piled high with a mound of food. Food! He rushed forward and dared to touch the unbelievable cornucopia, testing its reality. A loaf of bread not yet stale. An entire wheel of cheese with only a bit of mold on one side! A wicker basket of apples! A smoked roast of beef wrapped in waxed paper and greasy twine! A bottle of real wine! The smell of it all together was heady, almost narcotic. It was more and better food than he would normally eat in a year.
Wasting no time, Anatole sat himself down and began to feast, half afraid the bounty would vanish before his disbelieving eyes as he awoke from this delightful dream. After sampling everything, he settled in for a royal meal of bread and cheese, with an apple for desert. The beef he would save for a dinner celebration. He could barely remember what meat tasted like anymore.
Burping softly as fitting tribute to such a momentous feed, Anatole went to check on last night's fire and behold! next to his red-glowing, crude firepit was a rusty hatchet of steel. Wonders of wonders! It was a gift for a king! He owned nothing made of steel. It was impossibly expensive. Examining the tool, he marveled at its sharpness despite the thin layer of rust, and lightly cut a finger testing the edge. Amazing. He could probably shave with such a magical device.
Going outside to examine his prize in daylight, Anatole found a clean, dry suit of old patched clothes on a new clothesline. Placing the precious hatchet on the small wood pile, the delighted hermit stripped himself naked, washed with cold water from the trickling stream running through the bog alongside his ramshackle cabin, and dressed quickly. The grayish undergarments were soft as clouds. The mismatched socks thick and cushiony. Without any patches, the pants felt oddly smooth to his legs, and the oversized tunic was s
o loose and flexible that he wondered if he was wearing it correctly. The boots of stained brown leather rose to his calves, giving him a feeling of height and authority. They didn't fit very well, and the left heel was cracked, but who cared? They were infinitely better than his ancient sandals.
A plaintive moo sounded from his left. Behind some moss-covered scrub trees, the hermit discovered a scrawny cow tethered in the grassy clearing. Anatole was overwhelmed, tears of joy blurring his sight. How could all of this. . why would. . who. . Turning about in wonderment, he spied a parchment note tacked to his battered door. Rushing over, Anatole gingerly removed the piece of homemade paper and struggled to read the printed message. His only schooling had been received sitting outside the window of a classroom and listening until the teacher chased him away. It was difficult, but as memory sluggishly flared, the block lettering began to make sense and the awful words written there pierced him like an arrow. These things, this junk, was a gift from the villagers. And with them, he would have 'no need to visit the town again for supplies. Ever.
Casting aside the note like an unclean thing, Anatole felt a cold anger form in his belly, and his large hands closed into fists of rage. Damn them. Gods damn them all! So only their fear of death would earn him charity, eh? All he had ever wanted was to be left alone, to live a normal life. And all he ever received was beatings and starvation and hatred and scorn and. .
As a clear, reddish dawn crested the vine-encrusted trees of the swamp, bathing the cabin in bloody light, his breathing became deep and steady. Plainly, after last night, the townspeople were so incredibly afraid of the horseman that they had decided to appease the deadly lord of the roadway by bribing the hated freak. And this is how they decided to buy his favor? Keep him in the stinking swamp? With a dying cow, stale food, and discarded clothes? This was payment for all the wrongs done to him? As a gift from friends it was staggering, magnificent. As tribute it was rubbish. Worse. It was garbage! An insult.
The noxious smells of the muck and mire mixed freely with that of the food and his soap-clean clothes. Anatole suddenly felt violently i ll, and turned to retch in the bushes. Afterward, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his new shirt, the hermit stood and stared with unseeing eyes of hatred at the burning sun. Well, now he was in charge, holding their very lives in the palm of his hand. In bitter satisfaction, the freak closed that hand, crushing its imaginary contents, and dumped the remains onto the ground. Offend me, he thought in ill-restrained fury, and my mysterious friend shall slay you like cattle. Like sheep!
Hitching up his pants, Anatole started across the string of rocks that bridged the bubbling mud around his little island home. In broad daylight, without a mask, he was going to go to town and walk about. And bedamn anyone who tried to stop him. Let's see how they like tasting fear for a change. The horseman had presented a bill to the villagers, and it was up to Anatole to collect it. In full.
Sternly ambling into the village, feeling angrier with every step, Anatole was shaken to be greeted with cheery hellos from the gate guards. Stumbling from surprise, he waved to them in return. Once past the city wall, the freak was endlessly called to by strangers and enemies alike. Everybody gave a smile, and it took the hermit awhile to realize that these were false expressions — mouths lifted in grins, but eyes cold and hard, brimming with darker emotions.
Going boldly down the main street, he spied that many windows slammed closed before he could look at the inhabitants of the houses. But when he saw them first, the people beamed, and some even called his real name. Astonishing. He hadn't known that they even knew his name! Anatole had never been called anything but 'freak. 'At first the hermit hesitantly waved back, wondering if he had misunderstood the note. But slowly the duplicity of it all became clear, embittering his heart, and he stopped playing the fool in their game.
Some of the townsfolk halted dead in their tracks and openly stared at the hermit. Quietly, their neighbors pulled them aside and whispered into astonished ears, faces rapidly changing from disgusted surprise, to fear, and then to forced friendliness, neck muscles tight from the strain of cowardly grins.
In the center of town, the great square was jammed with people pushing heavily laden carts of produce, barrels of wine and fish and pickles, boxes of shoes, nails and bolts of cloth. It was market day. Everyone seemed to be yelling prices, and all arms were carrying parcels and packages of brown paper. As he moved among them, the shoppers parted, giving the youth a wide berth despite the fact that the market square was heavily packed.
Some youths lounging in an alleyway spied the disfigured freak, and one grabbed a stone, preparing to throw. With fearful cries, his companions wrestled the offender to the ground. "Are ye mad?" whispered one, straddling the chest of his struggling companion.
Another hissed," Aye, want to die, fool? "
"Want us all to?" quietly demanded a third, trembling hands pulling the stone free and hiding.
In the bustling market, a mustachioed green grocer offered Anatole a huge, delicious-looking red apple. The hermit accepted with thanks, but noted that the fellow secretly wiped his hands on his apron afterward. The hermit dropped the fruit to the ground, where dozens of uncaring shoes trampled it underfoot.
"Get a canvas bag, ya walking dung pile," softly muttered a busy clerk, ladling milk into a bucket for a waiting customer," and put it over that gruesome head before you sour my cream."
Somebody laughed, and a friend elbowed the fellow in the stomach, cutting the noise off.
Though the words had been whispered, Anatole heard them anyway, and he shied his disfigured head away in shame. Listening carefully, he could hear a hundred people talking at once in the square, all of them plainly, purposefully, ignoring him. Standing alone and isolated in the bustling crowd, the hermit sagged in defeat. Annoying the townspeople lacked the pleasure the original notion had offered, and with a sigh, the disfigured youth sadly turned to leave. This was not a good idea. Why should he act like them? Time to go back to the swamp where he belonged. At least they would never beat him again.
To all nine hells with the village. He would never return.
Walking briskly around a corner, the hermit accidentally bumped into a woman and child hurrying along, making them drop their purchases. The woman gasped at the sight of him; the child went stock still and stared with perfectly round eyes.
Shyly giving his most pleasant smile, Anatole bent over and picked up one of the packages, offering it to the little girl.
"You dropped this, pretty one," he said politely.
Stuttering in fear, the mother attempted to smile and say thank you, but the child screamed in terror.
"Mommy! Mommy!" she shrieked, hiding in the fold of her parent's skirt. "Don't let the ugly monster eat me!"
The package dropped from his limp hand. "B-but, ma'am, I was only — "
"Leave us alone!" sobbed the woman, lifting the weeping girl into her arms. "Get away, you filthy beast! Don't you dare hurt my daughter!"
What? Stunned, the hermit could only gape as the two hurried frantically away down the street. Was he truly that repulsive, even now, in these good clothes? He glanced at the bright noon sun, his old enemy who so clearly displayed his flawed features. And only dimly did he hear the reactions of the growing crowd of onlookers.
"What happened? "
"The swamp freak tried to hurt a little girl!"
"Eh? He attacked a child? "
"The dirty scoundrel!"
"Monster!"
"He's as bad as that horseman!"
"They're probably brothers!" "Or his son!"
"Hear that? Da freak is the bastard son of the horseman!"
"What should we. ."
"I won't stand for. ."
"Never again. ."
"I don't care what the horseman can do. ."
"Kill the son of a bitch!"
On those words, Anatole went cold and quickly turned, just in time for a brick to strike him painfully in the chest. He staggered, and
his shoulder smashed into a store window, breaking the glass. A glistening shard sliced into his arm, and a rivulet of blood flowed down his chest, marring his new clothes.
In absolute horror, the crowd gasped aloud and went motionless, an evilly grinning youth standing amid the terrorized adults. Pale faces looked everywhere, frightened eyes staring, every second increasing their panic as the whole town waited for galloping death to appear out of the thin air and strike them all. Stanching his wound, Anatole did not dare speak, also expecting the terrible slaughter to begin.
Oh, gods, not again. Not again!
But moments passed in silence, minutes, and nothing happened. Nothing at all.
Brandishing a meat cleaver, a butcher woman in a bloody apron snarled," Look, all of ye! The mayor was wrong! That blasted swamp-thing has no magical protector."
A dozen voices spoke in outrage and hate. "So it was all a lie!"
"A trick of the freak!"
"There be no horseman!"
"Aye!" loudly stated a burly stevedore, gloved fists bunched and shoulder's bent in a fighter's crouch. "An'I say we end this charade now!"
Countless people everywhere took up the cry. "Kill the freak! Hang 'im! Burn 'im!"
As the crowd surged forward, Anatole dashed through an alleyway, clambered over a wooden wall, and landed in a pile of garbage. Uncaring of soiling his clothes, the youth fought a path through a tangle of thorny rose bushes and managed to reach the next street. He ran on.
On the other side of the buildings he could hear the noise of a growing mob; shouts for weapons, rope and pitch, tar and feathers, boiling oil and dull axes. Their rabid cries fueled his feet to greater speed.
Sprinting through the city gates, Anatole pushed aside the yawning guards and jumped over a pile of hay fallen from the back of a two-wheel cart. There were woods on each side, but it was sparse greenery and offered no real protection from the mob. As he forced his muscular body onward, he laid his plan of escape. North along the king's road to the big bridge, then he would jump into the river and swim with the current until reaching the east end of his swamp. Once there, they would never find him. And in the night, he would leave this valley forever. And he privately hoped the horseman would come that evening and kill them, one and all. The whole damn town.