The Horsemen

“Have we met before, sir?” Marsha asked the man sitting at the far side of the counter.

Marsha was tending the counter of the general store, and felt a twinge of recognition when she looked at him.

He was different to say the least. Marsha had the distinct impression that he was a sailor: Beneath his tricorn, his brown hair was tied back in a manner popular with seafarers, his skin tanned and weathered. He seemed to be still quite young but his blue eyes held an aged weariness.

He wore a greatcoat, which would open on occasion, and Marsha’s eyes could see the butts of pistols thrust into his belt, the scabbard of a saber protruding from under his coat like a tail. 

The stranger smiled. “Why? Do I seem familiar to you?” 

Marsha racked her brain for where she could have seen him before, but the more she thought, the more likely it seemed to be a mistaken memory. The only thing that matched was the intense impression she had of an unknown man with blue eyes who had saved her life as a child. That was impossible though, as that had happened back during the war of Independence - when the Mohawks had raided - and this man seemed to be exactly the same age as the other.

He could not be as young now as he was then. 

“You do seem fa-Nevermind. Just the powder and shot?” 

“It will do,” the man nodded. 

“Where are you headed?” Marsha asked. 

“A small Dutch village in the upper state. I’m told there’s been some strange goings-on there.”

Marsha frowned. “I have heard of it. Be careful sir, the Dutch settlers have a reputation for flights of fancy, but I feel that this particular story holds grains of truth.” 

The stranger smiled that world weary smile again. “You’re more right than you know. Goodbye, little Marsha. I’m happy to see your burns have healed.”   

Marsha’s mouth fell open as he made for the door. 

“It is you!” She gasped. “But I don’t understand! You look the same.” 

The stranger turned back to her. “Memory is a faulty thing my dear. I assure you I’m not the same as I was then.” 

Marsha shook her head. “I don’t believe you. But, surely you can tarry a bit longer? I should at least give you a proper thank you for saving my life.” 

“No thanks needed,” he replied, tipping his tricorn to her. 

“Who are you?” She whispered after his retreating form. 

The man stopped and looked behind himself for just a moment, his sharp features peering just over his coat. “Just call me Fortune.” 

Outside the general store, the trees were beginning to lose their leaves and turning every color imaginable. The man that called himself ‘Fortune’ mounted a chestnut brown horse and gave its sides a firm kick. The horse started off down the winding, empty dirt road. 

“The New World is changing,” Fortune muttered. “For good or ill, I canna say.” Behind him, the bell of the general store’s door rang as it opened.

“Wait!” Marsha called to him.  

He turned towards her. “I’m just passing through. You don’t have to thank me for anything.”

She shook her head in astonishment as the revelation hit her once more. “So ‘twas you!”

“I wish you all the best miss,” he said with a weary sigh. “But I must be going.”

“Take me with you,” she demanded, stamping her small foot in the dirt of the makeshift road.

Fortune sighed once more. “And what of your shop?”

“Blast the shop.”

“Sorry, little one: I do not have time to teach you the ways of the road.”

“Take me with you or I’ll... I’ll... tell everyone! I’ll tell everyone you’re... some kind of vampire! Some kind of unholy, immortal thing!”

Fortune chuckled. “No one that knows me will be surprised, and those that don’t won’t believe you.”

Fortune snapped his heels once more into his steed and rode towards the mysterious Dutch settlement, leaving the young woman in his dust. Fortune sighed, she was not the first who wanted to be a companion, but he had had too many attach themselves to him. ...The pain of loss never softened when he inevitably outlasted them. 

He had always traveled where he was needed: across the seas, through forest, desert, and plain, over mountains, and to the darkest places. There was always some evil to battle, some monster to be put down, or just a simple bad man whose story needed ending. 

How long had the years dragged on? He knew that one day they would cease. One day he’d meet his end, his good fortune would finally run out, or maybe - just maybe - he’d be called to a place of rest, like Arthur to Avalon, the shames of his past finally absolved. 

His current journey took him through the trails and towns, many settlements which used to be just a trading post had grown and prospered, filled with enterprising souls basking in the pride of their young nation. But his eyes noticed what others missed: beneath the brightness there was darkness. Not in what could be seen, but in what was no longer visible. 

Where were those that once traded? Where were the people of the land? Where once they were common, now they were few, pushed further away from the lands they once held dear. 

Finally, after days of lonely reminiscing Fortune made it to his destination, a sleepy town on the edge of the woods. Windmills and farmlands dotted the landscape. It did look like a piece of the Flemish lands had been relocated to the new world. He took to a boarding house, paid the mistress of the place, and started up the stairs to his new temporary abode when he heard a familiar voice.

“Finally!” Marsha said, standing in the doorway of a room down the hall. “I’ve been here nearly a day already.”

Very few things surprised Fortune anymore. The lass would have had to have hired a coach directly after he left and wouldn’t have had time to rest. Fortune sighed a long drawn out sigh. 

“You should not have come here, nor spent your livelihood to pursue me.” 

“I had to! I-I would have been haunted by questions.”

Fortune shook his head. “Some things are best left unknown. Trust me. What I do here is dangerous.”

Marsha pursed her lips. “Is it because you think I am frail? I won’t be a burden. I can handle myself.” She hefted a blunderbus from within the coach. Fortune’s eyes widened and Marsha took the opportunity to make her case. “Always keep this on hand in case of brigands.” 

“There are worse things than mere brigands out here,” Fortune grunted.

“You won't be rid of me that easily, ‘Fortune,’ or whatever your name actually is.”  

The man shook his head. “Please, I didn’t save you those years ago for you to toss your life away on some fancy.” 

Marsha’s eyes lit up. “So you do actually admit that it was you!” 

Fortune merely turned away allowing her that small bit of victory: He had other issues to worry about than a curious woman riding his coattails. He left the inn after tossing his belongings into his room. Marsha followed after him daintily. Her petticoat got mud on it and she occasionally grunted, vigorously trying to remove the stains. She gave up after a while. Through the quaint muddy village street he strode, the locals casting curious glances his way as he walked past. After a moment, he hoisted Marhsa up onto his saddle behind him, wrapping her arms around him as though he were a tree trunk.

“Thank you once more,” she said.

Fortune merely nodded, then thought for a moment. “You say you’ve been here nearly a day? Notice anything?”

Marsha nodded. “Now that you mention it, there is one thing in this village that caught my attention. Brom Bones, the village buck. He and his gang were drinking heavily at the tavern, singing old Dutch songs.” 

Fortune grunted, “What about him gained your attention? Aside from the obvious.”

Marsha flushed. “I admit he was handsome, but no, he seemed to command everyone’s attention. I think they were celebrating something.” 

Fortune nodded. “I see. A group of men drinking late into the night, what does that sound like to you?”

Marsha’s eyes widened. “A pre-wedding celebration?” 

He and Marsha rode down towards the white church at the end of the village. Bells rung up ahead, and by the time they reached the church the doors had flung open as a bride and groom exited, followed by a cheering crowd. Fortune stepped to the side allowing the procession to pass as none of the attendees seemed to notice him or Marsha, not till one of the older attendees noticed them.

“Travelers from out of town? You were most fortunate to make the journey before dark fell. The woods are not safe, you know.”

Fortune smiled. “Well I do have uncanny good luck, it’s why my friends call me Fortune, and why I’m not allowed to play at cards.” 

The man laughed. “I shall bear that in mind, Mr. Fortune. We were just celebrating a union between Katrina Van Tassel, and Brom Bones. What a union they shall make!”

Fortune raised a brow. “They have courted long?” 

“Indeed. Though it wasn’t till after the schoolmaster’s… err… incident that their marriage was proposed. He quite fancied Katrina himself… Ahh, forgive me. I tend to ramble.” 

“I’ll say,” Marsha muttered from behind.

“What of the schoolmaster?” Fortune queried. 

The man shifted uncomfortably. “The schoolmaster, yes. A harrowing tale… not to be told on a joyous day as this… say is that a sword you’re wearing? You know I once parried a musketball with my smallsword during the war.” 

Fortune smiled. “Skill or luck?” 

The man stammered as if trying to decide which was best, to be humble or boastful. “Perhaps both?” he finally answered. 

“A fair answer,” Fortune replied.

After the man had left Fortune regarded Marsha. 

“He was quick to change the subject regarding the schoolmaster,” she stated. 

“Far too quick. Come then, the tongue will loosen when alcohol flows, and a wedding celebration is sure to have plenty of that.”

Fortune and Marsha followed the parade of celebrators to the tavern. Soon the tavern was completely filled along with the clamor of voices, clinking glasses, and the raucous sound of fiddle and drums. Fortune kept a steady, watchful gaze as he entered with Marsha by his side. Marsha’s eyes, meanwhile, darted about - taking in the scene as villagers danced and drank, caught up in the merriment.

Marsha whispered. “I don’t think we’ll get much out of anyone tonight. They’re all deep in their cups.”

“Not quite,” Fortune said, eyes narrowing toward a small group in the far corner. Brom Bones sat at the head of a table surrounded by his friends. Though the rest of the tavern was lost in revelry, Brom’s group spoke in low tones, their faces marked with something darker than celebration.

Fortune motioned for Marsha to follow as he approached the table. Brom’s laughter died down when he noticed them, his eyes locking with Fortune’s. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “A stranger among us,” Brom said, raising his glass. “Welcome to the wedding feast! Come, join us!—if you’ve a mind for celebration...”

Fortune inclined his head politely but did not sit. “Congratulations on your union, Mr. Bones. Though I’m more interested in a certain story from this village regarding the disappearance of the schoolmaster.”

At this, Brom’s smirk faltered. His companions exchanged uneasy glances, but Brom leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. “That tale again, is it? Ichabod Crane, the poor fool. Got himself scared witless one night, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him since.”

“Scared by what?” Fortune pressed, his voice low, but his gaze unyielding.

“The Headless Horseman, they say,” Brom replied with a mockingly dramatic flair. “The ghost that haunts the woods. But who can say? Maybe the wind spooked him, or maybe he ran off in the night, hoping to find greener pastures.”

“Or maybe he met a worse fate,” Fortune said, his voice like iron.

Brom’s grin faded entirely now. “Are you accusing me of something, stranger?”

“Nothing more than curiosity. It seems odd that Ichabod disappeared just before your engagement to Miss Van Tassel. Was there a rivalry between you two?” Fortune’s tone was casual, but his eyes gleamed with intent.

“Ichabod, a rival? Pah!” Brom scoffed.

“Alright... and who is this headless horseman?” Fortune asked. 

Brom’s face darkened again. “Who was he, more like. A Hessian officer in the war - lost his head to a cannonball. He’s been haunting the woods ever since, searching for a new head. If you believe in such things.” 

“What do you believe?” Fortune prodded. 

Brom gripped his mug tightly, his knuckles whitening. 

“I believe in what I can perceive.” For a moment, Brom’s bravado cracked. His eyes flickered with fear, or perhaps guilt but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He stood abruptly, towering over Fortune. “I don’t know who you think you are, coming here and stirring up old ghosts. But I suggest you leave it be, stranger.”

Fortune didn’t flinch, meeting Brom’s glare head on. “Ghosts have a way of returning when left unresolved.”

Brom let out his breath. “You’re lucky this is a festive night, I have a mind to give you a sound thrashing, and cast you out of town.” 

“I will be here tomorrow if you still have the stamina after tonight.” 

Brom’s face grew red, though from rage or embarrassment was unclear. Without another word, Brom pushed past them, his gang following him out of the tavern. The sound of the wedding festivities returned, but the air between Fortune and Marsha remained heavy. 

“He knows,” Fortune said simply.  

“Do you think he killed him, or scared him away… or do you think the horseman did it?” Marsha asked.

“I’m open to every possibility.” Fortune replied as he inched his saber a few inches from the scabbard. He stared upon the blade as if expecting some guidance. 

“What now?” his companion asked. 

Fortune shrugged, “I usually find when I’m not sure of a thing, to just pick a direction and go. Things tend to fall in place.” 

She blinked. “That sounds tiring.” 

“Oh it is. Now is the time I suggest you take your leave.” 

Fortune and Marsha rode atop Fortune’s faithful steed as night crept over the village. The sounds of the wedding feast faded into the distance, replaced by the eerie rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. A chill crept through the air, and Marsha pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked in a hushed tone, her eyes scanning the dense trees around them.

Fortune remained silent for a moment, his hand resting on the hilt of his saber.

“Never am.” he replied. 

 "If the stories are true that thing out there is no man...” Marsha said, hugging him tighter.

They followed a narrow path winding deeper into the forest, the silence broken only by the soft crunch of leaves under-hoof. As they neared the clearing where Ichabod had supposedly vanished, an unnatural stillness settled over the woods. Even the wind seemed to die, leaving the night oppressive and heavy.

Fortune halted abruptly, his senses tingling. “We’re not alone,” he muttered.

A low, distant sound, like the rumble of thunder, reached their ears. Then, the unmistakable clopping of hooves echoed through the trees, growing louder with each passing moment. Marsha’s eyes widened.

A shape emerged from the shadows, a dark horse, riderless, yet charging toward them with terrifying speed. Its eyes burned with an otherworldly light, and steam billowed from its nostrils like smoke from a forge. As the horse approached, a figure materialized behind it, shrouded in mist. 

The Headless Horseman. 

Fortune fired one of his flintlocks as a warning, but the rider pressed on undeterred.  

“This is where you get off,” Fortune said to Marsha as he let her down. 

He drew his saber and white flames burst from the blade. The horseman stopped, and then conjured a saber of his own. It was as if it had been formed from the very shadows. The horseman pointed his sword at Fortune, the challenge clear. 

“So be it,” Fortune replied. 

The two horsemen charged one another as Marsha drew back. Their blades met in a loud ringing noise. Sparks danced in the air, the two horsemen circled around their sabers meeting again and again, it was clear both were experienced fighters and riders. 

Fortune grit his teeth as he felt the chill of death envelop him, as if his life were being drained from his very being. But the flames of his saber seemed to keep him alive as he charged past the horseman and circled back for another pass.      

The hessian met the charge. 

“This is madness!” Marsha declared, grateful she was being ignored. 

The fight raged, until Fortune found his saddle cut and he fell to the muddy road. The horseman raised his sword in triumph before bearing down on the hapless Fortune. 

With a roar, Fortune slashed up with his saber. The blade met the ghost and the horse and rider dissolved into something like ash. 

Marsha held her arm in front of her face and then waited a moment. 

“...What... What happened?” 

Fortune huffed, “Dissipated. He’ll be back. Ghosts only pass on if you know what they want.” 

The woman blinked. “I-I think I have had my fill of this!”

“Smart,” Fortune wheezed as he got to his feet. His sword's flames were out now. No evil to face. 

“Take me home,” Marsha said politely. “And along the way, tell me your real name.”

Fortune smiled.