After many years in Her Majesty’s service, the fictional Englishman Brigadier Donald Ffellowes is now retired and living in New York City. At his club he is in the habit of thrilling his fellow members with tales of macabre adventures in his career, all supposedly true. The story that follows, addressed to a group of American club members, is one of these.
In the early days of your, and indeed everyone’s, Great Depression, I was the most junior military attaché of our Washington embassy. It was an agreeable part of my duties to mix socially as much as I could with Americans of my own age. One way of doing this was hunting, fox-hunting to be more explicit. I used to go out with the Middleburg Hunt and while enjoying the exercise, I made a number of friends as well.
One of them was a man whom I shall call Canler Waldron. That’s not even an anagram, but sounds vaguely like his real name. He was my own age and very good company. He was supposed to be putting in time as a junior member of your State Department.
It was immediately obvious that he was extremely well off. Most people, of course, had been at least affected a trifle by the Crash, if not a whole lot, but it was plain that whatever Can’s financial basis was, it had hardly been shaken. Small comments were revealing, especially his puzzlement when, as often happened, others pleaded lack of funds to explain some inability to do a trip or to purchase something. He was, I may add, the most generous of men financially, and without being what you’d call a “sucker,” he was very easy to leave with the check, so much so one had to guard against it.
He was pleasant-looking: black-haired, narrow-faced, dark brown eyes, a generalized North European type and as I said about my own age, barely twenty-six. And what a magnificent rider! I’m not bad, or wasn’t then, but I’ve never seen anyone to match Canler Waldron. No fence ever bothered him and he always led the field, riding so easily that he hardly appeared to be conscious of what he was doing. It got so that he became embarrassed by the attention and used to pull his horse in order to stay back. Of course he was magnificently mounted; he had a whole string of big black hunters, his own private breed, he said. But there were others out who had fine “cattle” too; no, he was simply a superb rider.
We were chatting one fall morning after a very dull run and I asked him why he always wore a black hunting coat of a non-hunt member. I knew he belonged to some hunt or other and didn’t understand why he never used their colors.
“Highly embarrassing to explain to you, Donald, of all people,” he said, but he was smiling. “My family were Irish and very patriotic during our Revolution. No pink coats (“pink” being the term for hunting red) for us. Too close to the hated Redcoat Army in looks, see? So we wear light green and I frankly get damned tired of being asked what it is. That’s all.”
I was amused for several reasons and said, “Of course I understand. Some of our own hunts wear other colors, you know. But I thought green coats were for foot hounds, beagles, bassets and such?”
“Ours is much lighter, like grass, with buff lapels,” he said. He seemed a little ill at ease for some reason, as our horses shifted and stamped under the hot Virginia sun. “It’s a family hunt, you see. No non-Waldron can wear the coat. This sounds pretty snobby, so again, I avoid questions by not wearing it except at home. Betty feels the same way and she hates black. Here she comes now. What did you think of the ride, Sis?”
“Not very exciting,” she said quietly, looking around so that she should not be convicted of rudeness to our hosts. I haven’t mentioned Betty Waldron, have I? Even after all these years, it’s still painful.
She was nineteen years old, very pale, and no sun ever raised so much as a freckle. Her eyes were almost black, her hair midnight and her voice very gentle and sad. She was quiet, seldom smiled and when she did my heart turned over. Usually, her thoughts were miles away and she seemed to walk in a dream. She also rode superbly, almost absent-mindedly, to look at her.
I was a poor devil of an artillery subaltern, few prospects save for my pay, but I could dream, as long as I kept my mouth shut. She seemed to like me as much, or even more, than the gaudy lads who were always flocking about, and I felt I had a tiny, the smallest grain of hope. I’d never said a thing. I knew already the family must be staggeringly rich and I had my pride. But also, as I say, my dreams.
“Let’s ask Donald home and give him some real sport,” I suddenly heard Can say to her.
“When?” she asked sharply, looking hard at him. “How about the end of cubbing season? Last week in October. Get the best of both sports, adult and young. Hounds will be in good condition and it’s our best time of year.” He smiled at me and patted his horse. “What say, Lime? Like some real hunting, eight hours sometimes?” I was delighted and surprised, because I’d heard several people fishing rather obviously for invitations to the Waldron place at one time or another and all being politely choked off. I had made up my mind never to place myself where such a rebuff could strike me. There was a goodish number of fortune-hunting Europeans about just then, some of them English, and they made me a trifle ill. But I was surprised and hurt too, by Betty’s reaction.
“Not this fall, Can,” she said, her face even whiter than usual. “Not-this-fall!” The words were stressed separately and came out with an intensity I can’t convey.
“As the head of the family, I’m afraid what I say goes,” said Canter in a voice I’d certainly never heard him use before. It was heavy and dominating, even domineering. As I watched, quite baffled, she choked back a sob and urged her horse away from us. In a moment her slender black back and shining topper were lost in the milling sea of the main body of the hunt. I was really hurt badly.
“Now look here, old boy,” I said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t possibly accept your invitation under these circumstances. Betty obviously loathes the idea and I wouldn’t dream of coming against her slightest wish.”
He urged his horse over until we were only a yard apart. “You must, Donald. You don’t understand. I don’t like letting out family secrets, but I’m going to have to in this case. Betty was very roughly treated by a man last year, in the fall. A guy who seemed to like her and then just walked out, without a word, and disappeared. I know you’ll never speak of this to her and she’d rather die than say anything to you. But I haven’t been able to get her interested in things ever since. You’re the first man she’s liked from that time to this and you’ve got to help me pull her out of this depression. Surely you’ve noticed how vague and dreamy she is? She’s living in a world of unreality, trying to shut out unhappiness. I can’t get her to see a doctor and even if I could, it probably wouldn’t do any good. What she needs is some decent man being kind to her in the same surroundings she was made unhappy in. Can you see why I need you as a friend so badly?” He was damned earnest and it was impossible not to be touched.
“Well, that’s all very well,” I mumbled, “but she’s still dead set against my coming, you know. I simply can’t come in the face of such opposition. You mentioned yourself as head of the family. Do I take it that your parents are dead? Because if so, then Betty is my hostess. It won’t do, damn it all.”
“Now look,” he said. “Don’t turn me down. By tomorrow morning she’ll ask you herself, I swear. I promise that if she doesn’t the whole thing’s off. Will you come if she does and give me a hand at cheering her up? And we are orphans, by the way, just us two.”
Of course I agreed. I was wild to come. To get leave would be easy. There was nothing much but routine at the embassy anyway and mixing with people like the Waldrons was as much a part of my duties as going to any Fort Leavenworth maneuvers.
And sure enough, Betty rang me up at my Washington flat the next morning and apologized for her behavior the previous day. She sounded very dim and tired but perfectly all right. I asked her twice if she was sure she wanted my company and she repeated that she did, still apologizing for the day before. She said she had felt feverish and didn’t know why she’d spoken as she had. This was good enough for me and so it was settled.
Thus, in the last week in October, I found myself hunting the coverts of—well, call it the valley of Waldrondale. What a glorious, mad time it was! The late Indian summer lingered and each cold night gave way to a lovely misty dawn. The main Waldron lands lay in the hollow of a spur of the Appalachian range. Apparently some early Waldron, an emigrant from Ireland during the 1600’s, I gathered, had gone straight west into Indian territory and somehow laid claim to a perfectly immense tract of country. What is really odd is that the red men seemed to feel it was all fine, that he should do so.
“We always got along with our Indians,” Canler told me once. “Look around the valley at the faces, my own included. There’s some Indian blood in all of us. A branch of the lost Erie nation, before the Iroquois destroyed them, according to the family records.”
It was quite true that when one looked, the whole valley indeed appeared to have a family resemblance. The women were very pale and both sexes were black-haired and dark-eyed, with lean, aquiline features. Many of them, apparently local farmers, rode with the hunt, and fine riders they were too—well-mounted and fully familiar with field etiquette.
Waldrondale was a great, heart-shaped valley, of perhaps eight thousand acres. The Waldrons leased some of it to cousins and farmed some themselves. They owned still more land outside the actual valley, but that was all leased. It was easy to see that in Waldrondale itself they were actually rulers. Although both Betty and Can were called by their first names, every one of the valley dwellers was ready and willing to drop whatever he or she was doing at a moment’s notice to oblige either of them in the smallest way. It was not subservience exactly, but instead almost an eagerness, of the sort a monarch might have gotten in the days when kings were sacred beings. Canler shrugged when I mentioned how the matter struck me.
“We’ve just been here a long time, that’s all. They’ve simply got used to us telling them what to do. When the first Waldron came over from Galway, a lot of retainers seem to have come with him. So it’s not really a strictly normal American situation.” He looked lazily at me. “Hope you don’t think we’re too effete and baronial here, now that England’s becoming so democratized?”
“Not at all,” I said quickly and the subject was changed. There had been an unpleasant undertone in his speech—almost jeering—and for some reason he seemed rather irritated.
What wonderful hunting we had! The actual members of the hunt, those who wore the light green jackets, were only a dozen or so, mostly close relatives of Canler’s and Betty’s. When we had started the first morning at dawn I’d surprised them all, for I was then a full member of the Duke of Beaufort’s pack, and as a joke more than anything else had brought the blue and yellow-lapelled hunting coat along. The joke was that I had been planning to show them, the Waldrons, one of our own variant colors all along, ever since I had heard about theirs.
They were all amazed at seeing me not only not in black, but in “non-red” so to speak. The little withered huntsman, a local farmer named McColl, was absolutely taken aback and for some reason seemed frightened. He made a curious remark, of which I caught only two words, “Sam Haines,” and then made a sign which I had no trouble at all interpreting. Two fingers at either end of a fist have always been an attempt to ward off the evil eye, or some other malign spiritual influence. I said nothing at the time, but during dinner asked Betty who Sam Haines was and what had made old McColl so nervous about my blue coat. Betty’s reaction was ever more peculiar. She muttered something about a local holiday and also that my coat was the “wrong color for an Englishman,” and then abruptly changed the subject. Puzzled, I looked up, to notice that all conversation seemed to have died at the rest of the big table. There were perhaps twenty guests, all the regular hunt members and some more besides from the outlying parts of the valley. I was struck by the intensity of the very similar faces, male and female, all staring at us, lean, pale and dark-eyed, all with that coarse raven hair. For a moment I had a most peculiar feeling that I had blundered into a den of some dangerous creatures or other, not unlike a wolf. Then Canler laughed from the head of the table and conversation started again. The illusion was broken, as a thrown pebble shatters a mirrored pool of water, and I promptly forgot it.
The golden, wonderful days passed as October drew to a close. We were always up before dawn and hunted the great vale of Waldrondale sometimes until noon. Large patches of dense wood had been left deliberately uncleared here and there and made superb coverts. I never had such a good going, not even in Leicestershire at its best. And I was with Betty, who seemed happy, too. But although we drew almost the entire valley at one time or another there was one area we avoided, and it puzzled me to the point of asking Can about it one morning.
Directly behind the Big House (it had no other name) the ground rose very sharply in the direction of the high blue hills beyond. But a giant hedge, all tangled and overgrown, barred access to whatever lay up the slope. The higher hills angled down, as it were, as if to enclose the house and grounds, two arms of high rocky ground almost reaching the level of the house on either side. Yet it was evident that an area of some considerable extent, a smallish plateau in fact, lay directly behind the house, between it and the sheer slopes of the mountain, itself some jagged outlier of the great Appalachian chain. And the huge hedge could only have existed for the purpose of barring access to this particular piece of land.
“It’s a sanctuary,” Canler said when I asked him. “The family has a burial plot there and we always go there on—on certain days. It’s been there since we settled the area, has some first-growth timber among other things, and we like to keep it as it is. But I’ll show it to you before you leave if you’re really interested.” His voice was incurious and flat, but again I had the feeling, almost a sixth sense if you like, that I had somehow managed to both annoy and, odder, amuse him. I changed the subject and we spoke of the coming day’s sport.
One more peculiar thing occurred on that day in the late afternoon. Betty and I had got a bit separated from the rest of the hunt, a thing I didn’t mind one bit, and we also were some distance out from the narrow mouth of the valley proper, for the fox had run very far indeed. As we rode toward home under the warm sun, I noticed that we were passing a small, white, country church, wooden, you know, and rather shabby. As I looked, the minister, parson, or what have you, appeared on the porch, and seeing us, stood still, staring. We were not more than thirty feet apart, for the dusty path, hardly a road at all, ran right next to the church. The minister was a tired-looking soul of about fifty, dressed in an ordinary suit but with a Roman collar, just like the C. of E. curate at home.
But the man’s expression! He never looked at me, but he stared at Betty, never moving or speaking, and the venom in his eyes was unmistakable. Hatred and contempt mingled with loathing.
Our horses had stopped and in the silence they fidgeted and stamped. I looked at Betty and saw a look of pain on her face, but she never spoke or moved either. I decided to break the silence myself.
“Good day, Padre,” I said breezily. “Nice little church you have here. A jolly spot, lovely trees and all.” I expect I sounded half-witted.
He turned his gaze on me and it changed utterly. The hatred vanished and instead I saw the face of a decent, kindly man, yes and a deeply troubled one. He raised one hand and I thought for a startled moment he actually was going to bless me, don’t you know, but he evidently thought better of it. Instead he spoke, plainly addressing me alone.
“For the next forty-eight hours this church will remain open. And I will be here.”
With that, he turned on his heel and re-entered the church, shutting the door firmly behind him. “Peculiar chap, that,” I said to Betty. “Seems to have a bit of a down on you, too, if his nasty look was any indication. Is he out of his head, or what? Perhaps I ought to speak to Can, eh?” “No,” she said quickly, putting her hand on my arm. “You mustn’t; promise me you won’t say anything to him about this, not a word!” “Of course I won’t, Betty, but what on earth is wrong with the man? All that mumbo-jumbo about his confounded church being open?” “He—well, he doesn’t like any of our family, Donald. Perhaps he has reason. Lots of the people outside the valley aren’t too fond of the Waldrons. And the Depression hasn’t helped matters. Can won’t cut down on high living and of course hungry people who see us are furious. Don’t let’s talk any more about it. Mr. Andrews is a very decent man and I don’t want Canler to hear about this. He might be angry and do something unpleasant. No more talk now. Come on, the horses are rested. I’ll race you to the main road.”
The horses were not rested and we both knew it, but I would never refuse her anything. By the time we rejoined the main body of the hunt, the poor beasts were blown, and we suffered a lot of chaff, mostly directed at me, for not treating our mounts decently.
The next day was the thirty-first of October. My stay had only two more days to run and I could hardly bear to think of leaving. But I felt glorious too. The previous night, as I had thrown the bedclothes back, preparatory to climbing in, a small packet had been revealed. Opening it, I had found a worn, tiny cross on a chain, both silver and obviously very old. I recognized the cross as being of the ancient Irish or Gaelic design, rounded and with a circle in the center where the arms joined. There was a note in a delicate hand I knew well, since I’d saved every scrap of paper I’d ever received from her.
“Wear this for me always and say nothing to anyone.” Can you imagine how marvelous life seemed?
The next hunt morning was so fine it could hardly have been exceeded. But even if it had been terrible and I’d broken a leg, I don’t think I’d have noticed. I was wearing Betty’s family token, sent to me, secretly under my shirt, and I came very close to singing aloud. She said nothing to me, save for polite banalities, and looked tired, as if she’d not slept too well.
As we rode past a lovely field of gathered shocks of maize, your “corn,” you know, I noticed all the jolly pumpkins still left lying about in the fields and asked my nearest neighbor, one of the younger cousins, if the local kids didn’t use them for Halloween as I’d been told in the papers.
“Today?” he said, and then gobbled the same words used by the old huntsman, “Sam Haines,” or perhaps “Hayne.”
“We don’t call it that,” he added stiffly and before I could ask why or anything else, spurred his horse and rode ahead. I was beginning to wonder, in a vague sort of way, if all this isolation really could be good for people. Canler and Betty seemed increasingly moody and indeed the whole crowd appeared subject to odd moods.
Perhaps a bit inbred, I thought. I must try and get Betty out of here. Now apparently I’d offended someone by mentioning Hallowe’en, which, it occurred to me in passing, was that very evening. “Sam Haines” indeed!
Well, I promptly forgot all that when we found, located a fox, you know, and the chase started. It was a splendid one and long and we had a very late lunch. I got a good afternoon rest, since Canler had told me we were having a banquet that evening. “A farewell party for you, Donald,” he said, “and a special one. We don’t dress up much, but tonight we’ll have a sort of hunt ball, eh?”
I’d seen no preparations for music, but the Big House was so really big that the London Symphony could have been hid somewhere about.
I heard the dinner gong as I finished dressing and when I came down to the main living room, all were assembled, the full hunt, with all the men in their soft emerald green dress coats, to which my blue made a mild contrast. To my surprise, a number of children, although not small ones, were there also, all in party dress, eyes gleaming with excitement. Betty looked lovely in an emerald evening dress, but also very wrought up and her eyes did not meet mine. Once again, a tremendous desire to protect her and get her out of this interesting but rather curious clan came over me.
But Can was pushing his way through the throng and he took me by the elbow. “Come and be toasted, Donald, as the only outsider,” he said smiling. “Here’s the family punch and the family punchbowl too, something few others have ever seen.”
At a long table in a side alcove stood an extraordinary bowl, a huge stone thing, with things like runes scratched around the rim. Behind it, in his “greens” but bareheaded, stood the little withered huntsman, McColl. It was he who filled a squat goblet, but as he did so and handed it to me, his eyes narrowed and he hissed something inaudible over the noise behind me. It sounded like “watch.” I was alerted and when he handed me the curious stone cup I knew why. There was a folded slip of paper under the cup’s base, which I took as I accepted the cup itself. Can, who stood just behind me, could have seen nothing.
I’m rather good at conjuring tricks and it was only a moment before I was able to pass my hand over my forehead and read the note at the same instant. The message was simple, the reverse of Alice’s on the bottle.
“Drink nothing.” That was all, but it was enough to send a thrill through my veins. I was sure of two things. McColl had never acted this way on his own hook. Betty, to whom the man was obviously devoted, was behind this.
I was in danger. I knew it. All the vague uneasiness I had suppressed during my stay, the peculiar stares, the cryptic remarks, the attitude of the local minister we had seen, all coalesced into something ominous, inchoate but menacing. These cold, good-looking people were not my friends, if indeed they were anyone’s. I looked casually about while pretending to sip from my cup. Between me and each one of the three exits, a group of men were standing, chatting and laughing, accepting drinks from trays passed by servants, but never moving. As my brain began to race overtime, I actually forgot my warning and sipped from my drink. It was like nothing I have had before or since, being pungent, sweet and at the same time almost perfumed, but not in an unpleasant way. I managed to avoid swallowing all but a tiny bit, but even that was wildly exhilarating, making my face flush and the blood roar through my veins. It must have showed, I expect, for I saw my host half smile and others too, as they raised their cups to me. The sudden wave of anger I felt did not show, but now I really commenced to think.
I turned and presented my almost full goblet to McColl again as if asking for more. Without batting an eye, he emptied it behind the cover of the great bowl as if cleaning out some dregs, and refilled it. The little chap had brains. As again I raised the cup to my lips, I saw the smile appear on Can’s face once more. My back was to McColl, blocking him off from the rest of the room, and this time his rasping, penetrating whisper was easy to hear.
“After dinner, be paralyzed, stiff, frozen in your seat. You can’t move, understand?”
I made a circle with my fingers behind my back to show I understood, and then walked out into the room to meet Canler, who was coming toward me.
“Don’t stand at the punch all evening, Donald,” he said, laughing. “You have a long night ahead, you know.” But now his laughter was mocking and his lean, handsome face was suddenly a mask of cruelty and malign purpose. As we moved about, together, the faces and manners of the others, both men and women, even the children and servants, were the same, and I wondered that I had ever thought any of them friendly. Under their laughter and banter, I felt contempt, yes and hatred and triumph too, mixed with a streak of pure nastiness. I was the stalled ox, flattered, fattened and fed, and the butchers were amused. They knew my fate, but I would not know until the door of the abattoir closed behind me. But the ox was not quite helpless yet, nor was the door quite slammed shut. I noticed Betty had gone and when I made some comment or other, Can laughed and told me she was checking dinner preparations, as indeed any hostess might. I played my part as well as I could, and apparently well enough. McColl gave me bogus refills when we were alone and I tried to seem excited, full of joie de vivre, you know. Whatever other effect was expected was seemingly reserved for after dinner.
Eventually, about nine I should think, we went in to dinner; myself carefully shepherded between several male cousins. These folk were not leaving much to chance, whatever their purpose.
The great dining room was a blaze of candles and gleaming silver and crystal. I was seated next to Betty at one end of the long table and Canler took the other. Servants began to pour wine and the dinner commenced. At first, the conversation and laughter were, to outward appearances, quite normal. The shrill laughter of the young rose above the deeper tones of their elders. Indeed the sly, feral glances of the children as they watched me surreptitiously were not the least of my unpleasant impressions. Once again and far more strongly, the feeling of being in a den of some savage and predatory brutes returned to me, and this time, it did not leave.
At my side, Betty was the exception. Her face never looked lovelier—ivory white in the candle glow, and calm, as if whatever had troubled her earlier had gone. She did not speak much, but her eyes met mine frankly, and I felt stronger, knowing that in the woman I loved, whatever came, I had at least one ally.
I have said that as the meal progressed, so too did the quiet. I had eaten a fairish amount, but barely tasted any of the wines from the battery of glasses at my place. As dessert was cleared off, amid almost total silence, I became aware that I had better start playing my other role, for every eye was now trained at my end of the table.
Turning to the girl, an unmarried cousin, on my right side, I spoke slowly and carefully, as one intoxicated.
“My goodness, that punch must have been strong! I can scarcely move my hand, d’you know. Good thing we don’t have to ride tonight, eh?”
Whatever possessed me to say that, I can’t think, but my partner stared at me and then broke into a peal of cold laughter. As she did so, choking with her own amusement, the man on her far side, who had heard me also, repeated it to his neighbors. In an instant the whole table was a ripple with sinister delight, and I could see Can at the far end, his white teeth gleaming as he caught the joke. I revolved my head slowly and solemnly in apparent puzzlement, and the laughter grew. I could see two of the waiters laughing in a far corner. And then it ceased.
A great bell or chime tolled somewhere, not too far off, and there was complete silence, as if by magic. Suddenly I was aware of Canler, who had risen at his place and had raised his hands, as if in an invocation.
“The hour returns,” he cried. “The Blessed Feast is upon us, the Feast of Sam’hain. My people, hence to your duties, to your robes, to the sacred park of the Sheade! Go, for the hour comes and passes!”
It was an effort to sit still while this rigamarole went on, but I remembered the earlier warnings and froze in my seat, blinking stupidly. It was as well, for four of the men-servants, all large, now stood behind and beside my chair. In an instant the room was empty, save for these four, myself and my host, who now strode the length of the table to stare down at me, his eyes filled with anger and contempt. Before I could even move, he had struck me over the face with his open hand.
“You, you English boor, would raise your eyes the last princess of the Firbolgs, whose stock used yours as the meat and beasts of burden they are before Rome was even a village! Last year we had another one like you, and his polo-playing friends at Hicksville are still wondering where he went!” He laughed savagely and struck me again. I can tell you chaps, I learned real self-control in that moment! I never moved, but gazed up at him, my eyes blank, registering vacuous idiocy.
“The mead of the Dagda keeps its power,” he said. “Bring him along, you four, the Great Hour passes!”
Keeping limp, I allowed myself to be lifted and carried from the room. Through the great dark house, following that false friend, its master, we went, until at last we climbed a broad stair and emerged under the frosty October stars. Before us lay the towering, overgrown hedge, and now I learned the secret of it. A great gate, overgrown with vines so as to be invisible when shut, had been opened and before me lay the hidden place of the House of Waldron. This is what I saw:
An avenue of giant oaks marched a quarter mile to a circular space where towered black tumuli of stone rose against the night sky. As I was borne toward these monoliths, the light of great fires was kindled on either side as I passed, and from them came an acrid, evil reek which caught at the throat. Around and over them leapt my fellow dinner guests and the servants wearing scanty green tunics, young and old together, their voices rising in a wild screaming chant, unintelligible, but regular and rhythmic. Canler had vanished momentarily, but now I heard his voice ahead of us. He must have been gone longer than I thought, for when those carrying me reached the circle of standing stones, he was standing outlined against the largest fire of all, which blazed, newly kindled, behind him. I saw the cause of the horrid stench, for instead of logs, were burning white dry bones, a great mountain of them. Next to him stood Betty and both of them had their arms raised and were singing the same wild chant as the crowd behind me.
I was slammed to the ground by my guards but held erect and immovable so that I had a good chance to examine the two heirs of one of the finest families in the modern United States.
Both were barefoot and wore thigh-length green tunics, his apparently wool, but hers silk or something like it, with her ivory body gleaming through it almost as if she were nude. Upon her breast and belly were marks of gold, like some strange, uncouth writing, clearly visible through the gauzy fabric. Her black hair was unbound and poured in waves over her shoulders. Canler wore upon his neck a massive circular torque, also of gold, and on his head a coronal wreath, apparently of autumn leaves. In Betty’s right hand was held a golden sceptre, looking like a crude attempt to form a giant stalk of wheat. She waved this in rhythm as they sang.
Behind me the harsh chorus rose in volume and I knew the rest of the pack, for that’s how I thought of them, were closing in. The noise rose to a crescendo, then ceased. Only the crackling of the great reeking fire before me broke the night’s silence. Then Canler raised his hands again in invocation and began a solitary chant in the strange harsh tongue they had used before. It was brief and when it came to an end, he spoke again, but in English this time.
“I call to Sam’hain, Lord of the Dead, I Tuathal, the Seventieth and One Hundred, of the line of Miled, of the race of Goedel Glas, last true Ardr’i of ancient Erin, Supreme Vate of the Corcou Firbolgi. Oh, Lord from Beyond, who has preserved my ancient people and nourished them in plenty, the bonefires greet the night, your sacrifice awaits you!” He fell silent and Betty stepped forward. In her left hand she now held a small golden sickle, and very gently she pricked my forehead three times, in three places. Then she stepped back and called out in her clear voice.
“I, Morrigu, Priestess and Bride of the Dead, have prepared the sacrifice. Let the Horses of the Night attend!”
D’ye know, all I could think of was some homework I’d done on your American Constitution, in which Washington advocated separation of church and state? The human mind is a wonderful thing. Quite apart from the reek of the burning bones, though, I knew a stench of a spiritual sort. I was seeing something old here, old beyond knowledge, old and evil. I felt that somehow not only my body was in danger.
Now I heard the stamp of hooves. From one side, snorting and rearing, a great black horse was led into the firelight by a half-naked boy, who had trouble with the beast, but still held him. The horse was saddled and bridled and I knew him at once. It was Bran, the hunter I’d been lent all week. Behind him, I could hear other horses moving.
“Mount him,” shouted Canler, or Tuathal, as he now called himself. With that, I was lifted into the saddle, where I swayed, looking as doped and helpless as I could. Before I could move, my hands were caught and lashed together at the wrists with leather cords, then in turn tied loosely to the headstall, giving them a play of some inches but no more. The reins were looped up, and knotted. Then my host stepped up to my knee and glared up at me.
“The Wild Hunt rides, Slave and Outlander. You are the quarry and two choices lie before you, both being death. For if we find you, death by these . . .” And he waved a curious spear, short and broad in the blade.
“But others hunt on this night, and maybe when Those Who Hunt Without Riders come upon your track, you will wish for these points instead. Save for children’s toys, the outside world has long forgotten their Christian Feast of All Hallows. How long then have they forgot that which inspired it, ten thousand and more years before the Nazarene was slain? Now ride and show good sport to the Wild Hunt!”
With that someone gave Bran a frightful cut over the croup, and he bounded off into the dark, almost unseating me in the process. I had no idea where we were going, except that it was not back down the avenue of trees and the blazing fires. But I soon saw that at least two riders were herding me away at an angle down the hill, cutting at Bran’s flanks, with whips when he veered from the course they had set. Twice the whips caught my legs, but the boots saved me from the worst of it.
Eventually, we burst out into a glade near the southern spur of the mountain and I saw another, smaller gate had been opened in the great hedge. Through this my poor brute was flogged, but once through it I was alone. The Big House was invisible around a curve of the hill, and no lights marked its presence.
“Ride hard, Englishman,” called one of my herdsmen. “Two deaths follow on your track.” With that, they turned back and I heard the gate slam. At the same time, I heard something else. Far off in the night I heard the shrill whinnying of a horse. Mingled with it and nearer was the sound of a horn, golden and clear. The horse cry was like that of no horse I have ever heard, a savage screaming noise which cut into my eardrums and raised the hackles even further on my back. At the same time I made a new discovery.
Some sharp thing had been poking into my left thigh ever since I was placed on the horse. Even in the starlight I now could see the reason. The haft of a heavy knife projected under my leg, apparently taped to the saddle! By stretching and bending my body, I could just free it and once free I cut the lead which tethered my wrists to the headstall. As I did so, I urged Bran with my knees downhill and close to the trees which grew to the right, keeping unclipped at the base of the mountain spur. I knew there was little time to waste, for the sound of galloping horses was coming through the night, far off, but drawing nearer by the instant! It might be the twentieth century outside the valley, but I knew it would be the last of me if that pack of green-clad maniacs ever caught up with me. The Wild Hunt was not a joke at this point!
As I saw it I had three secret assets. One, the knife, a sturdy piece of work with an eight-inch blade, which I now held in my teeth and tried to use to saw my wrists apart. The other was the fact that I have a good eye for ground and I had ridden the length and breadth of the valley for a week. While not as familiar with the area as those who now hunted me over it like a rabbit, I was, nevertheless, not a stranger and I fancied I could find my way even at night. My third ace was Betty. What she could do, I had no idea, but I felt sure she would do something.
The damned leather cords simply could not be cut while Bran moved, even at a walk, and I was forced to stop. It only took a second’s sawing, for the knife was sharp, and I was free. I was in deep shadows, and I listened intently, while I unknotted the reins. The sound of many horses galloping was still audible through the quiet night but it was no nearer, indeed the reverse. It now came from off to my left and somewhat lower down the valley. I was baffled by this, but only for a moment. Canler and his jolly group wanted a good hunt. Drugged as I was supposed to be, it would never do to follow directly on my track. Instead, they were heading to cut me off from the mouth of the valley, after which they could return at leisure and hunt me down. All of this and much more passed through my mind in seconds, you know.
My next thought was the hills. In most places, the encircling wall of mountain was far too steep for a horse. But I could leave Bran behind and most of the ground ought to be possible for an active chap on foot. By dawn I could be well out of reach of this murderous gang. As the thought crossed my mind, I urged Bran toward the nearest wall of rock. We crossed a little glade and approached the black mass of the slope, shrouded in more trees at the base, and I kept my eye peeled for trouble. But it was my mount who found it. He suddenly snorted and checked, stamping his feet, refusing to go a foot forward. I drew the knife from my belt, also alerted—and by a sudden awakening of a sense far older than anything merely physical. Ahead of us lay a menace of a different sort than the hunters of Waldrondale. I remembered my quondam host threatening me that something else was hunting that night, and also that the men who had driven me through the hedge called after me that two deaths were on my track.
Before me, as I sat, frozen in the saddle, something moved in the shadows. It was large, but its exact shape was not easy to make out. I was conscious of a sudden feeling of intense cold, something I’ve experienced once or twice. I now know this to mean that one of what I’ll call an Enemy from Outside, a foe of the spirit, is about. On my breast there was a feeling of heat as if I’d been burnt by a match. It was where I wore Betty’s gift. The cross too was warning me. Then, two dim spots of yellow phosphorescence glowed at a height even with mine. A hard sound like a hoof striking a stone echoed once.
This was enough for Bran! With a squeal of fright which sounded more like a hare than a blood horse, he turned and bolted. If I had not freed my hands I would have been thrown off in an instant, and as it was I had the very devil of a time staying on. He was not merely galloping, but bounding, gathering his quarters under him with each stride as if to take a jump. Only sheer terror can make a trained horse so forget himself.
I did my best to guide him, for through the night I heard the golden questing note of a horn. The Wild Hunt was drawing the coverts. They seemed to be quite far down the valley and fortunately Bran was running away across its upper part, in the same direction as the Big House.
I caught a glimpse of its high, lightness gables, black against the stars as we raced over some open ground a quarter mile below it, then we were in the trees again, and I finally began to master the horse, at length bringing him to a halt. Once again, as he stood, sweated and shivered, I used my ears. At first there was nothing, then, well down the vale to my right front came the sound of the questing horn. I was still undiscovered.
You may wonder, as I did at first, why I had heard no hounds. Surely it would have been easy for this crew to keep some bloodhounds, or perhaps smear my clothes or horse with anise and use their own thoroughbred fox hounds. I can only say I don’t know. At a guess, and mind you, it’s only a guess, there were other powers or elements loose that night which might have come into conflict with a normal hunting pack. But that’s only a guess. Still, there were none, and though I was not yet sure of it, I was fairly certain, for even the clumsiest hound should have been in full cry on my track by now. The Wild Hunt then, seemed to hunt at sight. Again the clear horn note sounded. They were working up the slope in my direction.
As quietly as possible, I urged Bran, who now seemed less nervous, along the edge of the little wood we were in and down the slope. We had galloped from the hill spur on the right, as one faced away from the house, perhaps two thirds of the way across the valley, which at this point was some two miles wide. Having tried one slope and met—well, whatever I had met, I would not try the other.
My first check came at a wooden fence. I didn’t dare jump such a thing at night, as much for the noise as for the danger of landing badly. But I knew there were gates. I dismounted and led Bran along until I found one, and then shut it carefully behind me. I had not heard the mellow horn note for some time and the click of the gate latch sounded loud in the frosty night. Through the large field beyond I rode at a walk. There was another gate at the far side, and beyond that another dark clump of wood. It was on the edge of this that I suddenly drew rein.
Ahead of me, something was moving down in the wood. I heard some bulky creature shoulder into a tree trunk and the sound of heavy steps. It might have been another horse from the sound. But at the same moment, up the slope behind me, not too far away, came the thud of hooves on the ground, many hooves. The horn note blew, not more than two fields away, by the sound. I had no choice and urged Bran forward into the trees. He did not seem too nervous, and went willingly enough. The sound ahead of me ceased and then, as I came to a tiny glade in the heart of the little wood, a dim shape moved ahead of me. I checked my horse and watched, knife ready.
“Donald?” came a soft voice. Into the little clearing rode Betty, mounted on a horse as dark as mine, her great black mare. I urged Bran forward to meet her.
“I’ve been looking for you for over an hour,” she whispered, her breath warm on my cheek. I was holding her as tightly as I could, our mounts standing side by side, amiably sniffing one another. “Let me go Donald, or we’ll both be dead. There’s a chance, a thin one, if we go the way I’ve thought out.” She freed herself and sat looking gravely at me. My night vision was good and I could see she had changed into a simple tunic of what looked like doeskin and soft, supple knee boots. Socketed in a sling was one of the short, heavy spears and I reached over and took it. The very heft of it made me feel better. The glimmering blade seemed red even in the dim tree light and I suddenly realized the point was bronze. These extraordinary people went in for authenticity in their madness.
“Come on, quickly,” she said and wheeled her horse back the way she had come. I followed obediently and we soon came to the edge of the forest. Before us lay another gentle slope, but immediately beneath us was a sunken dirt road, which meandered away to the left and downhill between high banks, their tops planted with hedge. We slid down a sandy slope and our horses began to walk along the road, raising hardly any dust. Betty rode a little ahead, her white face visible as she turned to took back at intervals. Far away a cock crowed, but I looked at my watch and it was no more than 3 A.M. I could hear nothing uphill and the horn was silent. We rode through a little brook, our path crossing it at a pebbly ford only inches deep. Then, as we had just passed out of hearing the gurgle of the stream, a new sound broke the quiet night.
It was somewhere between a whinny and a screech and I remembered the noise I had heard as the two riders had driven me through the hedge. If one could imagine some unthinkable horse-creature screaming at the scent of blood—eagerly, hungrily seeking its prey, well, that’s the best I can do to describe it.
“Come on, we have to ride for our lives!” Betty hissed. “They have let the Dead Horse loose upon us. No one can stand against that.” With that, she urged her mount into a gallop and I followed suit. We tore along the narrow track between the banks, taking each twist at a dead run, always angling somehow downhill and toward the valley mouth.
Then, the road suddenly went up and I could see both ahead and behind. Betty reined up and we surveyed our position. At the same time the horn blew again, but short, sharp notes this time and a wild screaming broke out. Three fields back up the long gentle slope the Wild Hunt had seen our black outlines on the little swell where we paused. I could see what looked like a dozen horsemen coming full tilt and the faint glitter of the spears. But Betty was looking back down along our recent track.
From out of the dark hollows came a vast grunting noise, like that of a colossal pig sighting the swill pail. It was very close.
Betty struck her horse over the withers and we started to gallop again in real earnest. Bran was tired, but he went on nobly, and her big mare simply flew. The Hunt was silent now, but I knew they were still coming. And I knew too that something else was coming. Almost, I felt a cold breath on my back, and I held the spear tightly against Bran’s neck.
Suddenly, Betty checked, so sharply her horse reared, and I saw why as I drew abreast. We had come very close to the mouth of the valley and a line of fires lay before us, not three hundred yards away on the open flat. Around them moved many figures, and even at this distance I could see that a cordon was established and from the hats and glint of weapons, I knew not by the Waldrons or their retainers. Apparently the outside world was coming to Waldrondale, at least this far. We had a fighting chance.
Between us and the nearest fire, a black horseman rode at us, and he was only a hundred feet off. The raised spear and the bare head told me that at least one of the valley maniacs had been posted to intercept me, in the unlikely event of my getting clear of the rest.
I spurred the tired hunter forward and gripped the short spear near its butt end, as one might a club. The move was quite instinctive. I knew nothing of spears but I was out to kill and I was a six-goal polo player. The chap ahead, some Waldron cousin, I expect, needed practice, which he never got. He tried to stab at me overhand, but before our horses could touch I had swerved and lashed out as I would on a long drive at the ball. The heavy bronze edge took him between the eyes and really, that was that. His horse went off to one side alone.
Wheeling Bran, I started to call to Betty to come on and as I did saw that which she had so feared had tracked us down.
I am still not entirely certain of what I saw, for I have the feeling that part of it was seen with what Asiatics refer to as the Third Eye, the inner “eye” of the soul.
The girl sat, a dozen yards from me, facing something which was advancing slowly upon us. They had called it the Dead Horse, and its shifting outlines indeed at moments, seemed to resemble a monstrous horse, yet at others, some enormous and distorted pig. The click of what seemed hooves was clear in the night. It had an unclean color, an oily shifting, dappling of gray and black. Its pupilless eyes, which glowed with a cold, yellow light, were fixed upon Betty, who waited as if turned to stone. Whatever it was, it had no place in the normal scheme of things. A terrible cold again came upon me and time seemed frozen. I could neither move nor speak, and Bran trembled, unmoving between my legs.
My love broke the spell. Or it broke her. God knows what it must have cost her to defy such a thing, with the breeding she had, and the training. At any rate, she did so. She shouted something I couldn’t catch, apparently in that pre-Gaelic gibberish they used, and flung out her arm as if striking at the monster. At the same instant it sprang, straight at her. There was a confused sound or sounds, a sort of spinning, as if an incredible top were whirling in my ear, and at the same instant my vision blurred.
When I recovered myself, I was leaning over Bran’s neck, clutching him to stay on, and Betty lay silent in the pale dust of the road. A yard away lay her horse, also unmoving. And there was nothing else.
As I dismounted and picked her up, I knew she was dead, and that the mare had died in the same instant. She had held the thing from Outside away, kept it off me, but it had claimed a price. The high priestess of the cult had committed treason and sacrilege and her life was the price. Her face was smiling and peaceful, the ivory skin unblemished, as if she were asleep.
I looked up at the sound of more galloping hoof-beats. The Wild Hunt, all utterly silent, were rounding a bend below me and not more than a hundred yards away. I lifted Betty easily, for she was very light, and mounted. Bran still had a little go left and we headed for the fires, passing the dead man lying sprawled in his kilt or whatever on the road. I was not really afraid any longer and as I drew up at the fire with a dozen gun barrels pointed at me, it all felt unreal. I looked back and there was an empty hill, a barren road. The riders of Waldrondale had vanished, turned back apparently at the sight of the fires and the armed men.
“He’s not one; look at the gal! That crowd must have been hunting him. Call the parson over or Father Skelton, one of you. Keep a sharp lookout, now!”
It was a babble of voices and like a dream. I sat down, staring stupidly and holding Betty against my heart until I realized a man was pulling at my knees and talking insistently. I began to wake up then, and looking down, recognized the minister I had seen the previous day. I could not remember his name but I handed Betty down to him when he asked, as obediently as a child.
“She saved me, you know,” I said brightly. “She left them and saved me. But the Dead Horse got her. That was too much, you see. She was only a girl, couldn’t fight that. You do see, don’t you?” This is what I am told I said at any rate, by Mr. Andrews, the Episcopal minister of the little Church of the Redeemer. But that was later. I remember none of it.
When I woke, in the spare bed of the rectory the next day, I found Andrews sitting silently by my bed. He was looking at my bare breast on which lay the little Celtic cross. He was fully dressed, tired and unshaven and he reeked of smoke, like a dead fireplace, still full of coals and wood ash.
Before I could speak, he asked me a question. “Did she, the young lady, I mean, give you that?”
Yes, I said. “It may have saved me. Where is she?”
“Downstairs, in my late wife’s room. I intend to give her a Christian burial, which I never would have dreamed possible. But she has been saved to us.
“What about the rest of that crowd?” I said. “Can nothing be done?”
He looked calmly at me. “They are all dead. We have been planning this for three years. That Hell spawn have ruled this part of the country since the Revolution. Governors, senators, generals, all Waldrons, and everyone else afraid to say a word.”
He paused. “Even the young children were not saved. Old and young, they are in that place behind the house. We took nothing from the house but your clothes. The hill folk who live to the west came down on them just before dawn, as we came up. Now there is a great burning: the house, the groves, everything. The State Police are coming but several bridges are out for some reason, and they will be quite a time.” He fell silent, but his eyes gleamed. The prophets of Israel were not all dead.
Well, I said a last goodbye to Betty and went back to Washington. The police never knew I was there at all, and I was apparently as shocked as anyone to hear that a large gang of bootleggers and Chicago gangsters had wiped out one of America’s first families and gotten away clean without being captured. It was a six-day sensation and then everyone forgot it. I still have the little cross, you know, and that’s all.
Source: Lanier, Sterling. “His Coat So Gay.” Witch’s Brew. Ed. Alfred Hitchcock. New York: Random House, 1977. (Originally appeared in: Lanier, Sterling. The Peculiar Exploits of Brigadier Ffellowes. Sterling Lanier, 1972.)
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