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 so 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.