The Head, the Heart, and the Horse.

No longer even a shadow, the caravel had been swallowed by the fog. Waves echoed over the isle; lost gulls cried unseen. Superstitions and tall tales had never suited Irving, though neither did obscurity or disgrace. From one side of the island to the next, pebbles crunching beneath Buttercup’s hooves and mist sheening his face, there was nothing but rock and the understanding that he might have wasted his family’s last penny getting here. The waves grew louder, then a slip. Buttercup neighed in fear, and Irving’s heart hammered as he watched the rocks tumble over the cliff’s edge into an endless plunge.

“A long fall, Horseman,” an icy voice said.

Irving jumped at the sight of the tall, robed figure. Beneath the hood curled a malignant grin of jagged teeth, rotten orange eyes, and ash-colored skin that drank the fog’s ambient light. Even with the severe hunch, even upon Buttercup’s back, the man stood eye-to-eye with Irving. The stranger looked over the misty crag and said, “All Hallows' Eve is not a day to travel.”

Who else would be out on this desolate Atlantic rock? Irving swallowed roughly. “I’m looking for a man known as the Trader.”

The figure extended a skeletal hand, sending a shiver up Irving’s arm. “It’s an honor, Sir.”

The yellow grin curled upwards as the figure stalked toward a small boulder and sat. The wind cried, and he asked, “What could a dashing gentleman like yourself need from me?”

“A lot,” Irving said, dismounting and holding Buttercup’s reins tight to still her thrashings.

The man’s face darkened under the shadow of his hood. He gestured for Irving to continue.

“I am both a journalist and proprietor of a newspaper called the New York Robin. It’s a family business, but recently we’ve run into… problems. Competition, debt, betrayal. These are situations I thrive in, but—”

“Speak plainly and tell me what you want.”

Irving clenched his teeth, irked by the impertinence but glad to be straightforward. “What I seek is the heart of a woman. Through her, eminence.”

Snorting laughter echoed across the island. “Like all of them.”

No man or woman was like Irving; all were too impetuous to be equals. Great men are led by intellect. “The woman I seek is one of import. Her mother is a descendant of French nobility, and her father a Captain in the Continental Army. They hold significant sway within the thirteen colonies and possess a greater measure of wealth. I’ve done my best to court my Caroline, but I’m afraid something about my nature puts her off. Apparently, while I bear a laudable mind, I am, in her words, heartless. ‘Devoid of sentiment.’”

The Trader nodded in agreement. “What do you hope to receive from her?”

“I have great plans for myself and this new country, but none of them work from ruin.”

“So what you truly desire is to live through the ages?” the man said, stroking his chin.

“I suppose.”

“A tall order. Immortality comes in many forms, and eternity is a long time.”

Irving’s hand clenched anxiously. He’d yet to hear of the man saying no. Then again, perhaps those souls never made it back to the mainland. The Trader’s sharp nails clicked as he rolled his fingers in thought. “What say you to this: while I cannot change the hearts of those beyond my reach, I can change yours; provide one so zealous and overflowing that no woman could deny your passion. So powerful it sustains you through the ages.”

A fervent heart was a slave’s heart, but if it was the only thing between him and prestige, it was a small cost. Irving clenched his fist and asked, “Name your price.”

“A head for a heart.”

Irving’s brow furrowed in perplexity.

“Just a turn of phrase,” the stranger laughed. “We can settle our debt one year from now.”

Irving felt assured this man, like any other mystic, didn’t fully understand his craft. Mindless arts. He’d heard the rumors, but there was no such thing as a soul to trade. “I don’t plan on coming back.”

“I’ll find you.”

“Very well, anything but my horse.”

“So you do hold some sentiment.”

“No, it’s merely that a horseman goes nowhere without his horse.”

“Worry not, the price is low. In fact, I’m sure you’ll come running headfirst.”

Buttercup’s hooves clopped softly up the manor’s path. Orange and brown leaves blew in the crisp autumn wind. Irving breathed deeply of the woods and tried—and failed—to remember why he’d ventured out this morning. He laughed; a man must live for the moment.

He stopped at the wrought iron gates and observed the beauty of their new home: the spiked turrets, stone gargoyles, and ivy-coated walls. A living mystery. His eyes turned to the windows of the third-story study. Father was no doubt watching up there. If only I could take his sorrow, Irving thought. The sale of the Robin to the New York Gazette had been tough, the move upstate and out of preeminence tougher.

What was that? Irving thought, seeing a rising plume of dust up the hill’s path. Well, who doesn’t like surprises? With a tender kiss and a handful of grains, Irving left Buttercup in the stable and skipped toward the front door, thinking of—

“Caroline?” he asked, finding her in the foyer with two large traveling cases in hand. Her flaxen hair was hidden beneath a bonnet, and she wore her denim dress, the one she said was most comfortable for long carriage rides. “Is everything alright?”

She sighed and looked solemnly at the floorboards. “It’s over, Irving.”

God, what was wrong? She did look fairer than usual. “What do you mean?”

She removed the silver band from her ring finger. The room grew cold. “You know what I mean.” A rapid rhythm beat in his temples. “Don’t pretend that you haven’t seen it coming.”

“I’ve seen nothing of the sort,” he said.

“Then it proves the issue. You’re an idiot.”

“I am not! I’m a learned man!” he said, his voice booming through the halls, still unclear on what was happening.

“It’s too much. You’re too impetuous. It’s like living with a child. Do you even remember this morning? You got up in the middle of breakfast and ran out the door because you thought you saw a fairy. My father says, ‘Great men are led by intellect—”

The heat of hell rose from his heart and into his voice. “So, this is about your father, eh? Because I’m not some great Captain like him?”

She placed the ring on the sideboard. “You’re a fool…”

“You are the fool! Your father is the fool! I’ll show you! I’ll… I’ll join the Continental Army and win this war! Be twice the man he is. I’ll have the heart of a nation! Be remembered forever. Do you really want to walk away from that?”

Wooden wheels creaked atop the courtyard’s cobblestone.

“I hope you find what you need,” she said.

“Don’t do this, Caroline,” Irving said, dropping to his knees under the weight of sorrow. She shook her head and passed. A strong impulse arose to strike her, deal back the pain and… never. Perhaps the world, but never her. Irving caught Captain Taylor’s gray eyes for a moment as Caroline stepped into the carriage. All at once, Irving’s passions overcame him. He drew the hunting knife from his belt and plunged it into the wall. With a scream, he scored the floral wallpaper and drove it in again and again as the sounds of the carriage faded.

“Irving?” his mother called from upstairs.

He seethed through his teeth, dripping sweat from his chin. Was he serious? Could he really win the nation’s heart and hers in one go? Immortality comes in many forms. Fort Lockdale was only six miles away. Last he heard, they were looking for recruits.

“Is everything alright?” his mother called again.

“Yes, Mother…” he said, wiping the sweat and tears. “I just have something to attend to.”

The wooden ramparts burst against singing iron. Return fire rained from the watch posts. British war drums rang under the commotion.

“We need men on the eastern wall!”

“They're pushing up from the south!”

Cannonballs shot overhead. Wood shrapnel flew like touch-me-nots in early spring. Irving’s head vibrated in delirium as he watched his brothers-in-arms fall from the walls. Beyond the calamities of battle, a slate sky loomed. Beneath the smell of gunpowder, something unholy soured the air.

“The Brits have got us surrounded!” a young soldier said, grasping Major Toussaint’s arm as he stormed across the courtyard. “We must surrender—!”

He slapped the boy. “Pull yourself together,” he growled in his thick French accent. “Private Gawainworth!”

Is that my name? Irving wondered.

“You’re supposed to be on the north wall!” Toussaint said. He looked down at Irving’s damp trousers and scowled. The Major continued to spray tobacco-colored spittle. Irving watched his mouth move but could make no sense of the words. Did you really think you could win a nation with a rifle and a sword?

 “You’re supposed to be on the north wall!” Toussaint said. He looked down to Irving’s damp trousers and scowled. The Major continued to spray tobacco colored spittle. Irving watched his mouth move but no sense could be made of the words. Did you really think you could win a nation with a rifle? Irving wondered. Did you really think this was the way to her heart? 

    “Priiiivattte!” Toussaint shouted, his fleshy cheeks red and quivering. “Do you remember the day you came to me? Filled with vinegar and piss, swearing that you would be the pin upon which the war would turn? Do you remember! This is your day! Legends are found where no one wants to go.”

     Seraphim’s chords played from on high. The sounds of cannonfire washed out under the waves over a distant shore. His glory would not be found behind a wall. Irving turned from the Major’s orders and started towards destiny. As he crossed to the stables he heard some ethereal voice in the back of his head, “Head for a heart.”

Irving’s nostrils flared. The bastard gave me nothing, he thought. I’ll take it all myself.

“Happy All Hallow’s Eve,” it said. 

Past the bucking stallions, he found Buttercup and grasped her shivering chestnut cheeks.

“We ride.”

     But where was his musket? Back in his quarters? No time. There was a scythe against a wall near a felled horse. He felt its weight and imagined himself riding with it in hand, the impassioned cries of allies and shrieks of terror from the enemy. They’d make him a General for this. With one hand on the reins and the other holding his future, they galloped.

     “Open the gates!” Irving shouted to the boy working the crank. Buttercup reared. “Now!”

     Terror flashed in the boy’s eyes. He hid his face and the log gate creaked open. 

A column of light broke through the clouds and shone down warm upon his face. There was no need to look back, they’d follow. 

     Major Toussaint shouted, “Horseman!”

     That’s what they’ll call me, Irving said to himself. The Horseman. Wrapped around the base of the hill, dim behind clouds of powder smoke, awaited lines of soldiers and cannons.

Scythe raised high, Irving locked eyes with a single cannoneer and rode. He stirred not at the explosion of smoke nor the thunder. In eternal seconds, he watched the ball fly. Legends were not brought down by anything so meager. 

 *

Darkness. The Horseman pounded in panic against the confines of the shadowed prison, acclimating to the strange sensation of his head lying separate from— yet somehow still controlling— his body. In the remembered face of his circumstance, his hands stilled. How many All Hallows Eves now? One hundred? Two? He pushed open the lid of his stone coffin with immortal strength and sat. The tomb was black, but he remembered its boundaries and the skull— one of them— in the corner. Whether it was his or not, he couldn’t recollect. He took his scythe, leaning against the wall, and ran his fingers down the vertebrae which made up the shaft.

     The thick stone doors ground open to a full moon and a cloudless indigo sky. He spared a solemn glance to the mossy graves beside his tomb. Jedediah Winston Gawainworth and Laurene Elizabeth Gawainworth. By the matching surnames on the headstones and door of his mausoleum, he understood that they bore some relation, but he wasn’t sure how. “Rest easy.”

     A bony snout pressed against his shoulder with an impatient neigh.

“Good evening,” the Horseman said, reaching to his spectral steed. She nestled her midnight head into his chest. He couldn’t remember her name, but ‘Buttercup’ seemed right. 

He turned his somber gaze to the decrepit gray manor, bowing under the weight of time and sinking into the earth. Lost winds sang through the woods. They trekked forth, and on the backdoor found a crossing of yellow tape and a sign proclaiming, “This site is protected by the National Historical Society. Entrance or vandalism is punishable by felony. Up to—”

Rageful hands tore the lot. Trespassers once more. He squeezed his skull tight and a small fracture rang out. That too was their fault. 

The door frame cracked against his strength and a deep stale exhale bellowed from the kitchen. Broken glass and trash lay strewn across the rotten floors. Large slash marks and holes scored the floral wallpaper. He couldn’t comprehend who’d do such a thing, only feel the heat of wrath and due revenge. Through the lounge, family room, foyer, and up to the next stories, he dragged his skeletal fingers along the bloodstained walls. Hoof clops followed into the decaying, third-story study which called him year by year. His steps pounded past the sooty fireplace and rows of rotten books towards the grand window. He laid his head on the windowsill and watched the black valley below as Buttercup curled onto the floor and laid her head to her hooves.

“How’s that old heart of yours?” a cold voice said.

“Why do you torment me?” the Horseman asked, turning his head on the sill to face the creature. 

The Trader sat sipping from a golden chalice, fangs gleaming through his smile. “Eternity is a long time. A man reaps what he sows.”

“Then allow me to pay back my debt,” the Horseman said. Too fast for any mortal to see, the chair split against the scythe’s razor tongue, but the man was gone. A rat scuttled out from a beaten hole. In fury he raised a foot and splat! 

Buttercup’s lips flopped in a sigh.

“I know…”

But what was that? Small lights at the base of the hill, cones shining into his woods. These wretches dare enter my home? he thought. It was too far removed to be mere chance. And even if not, you don’t fault the bear when stumbling into its cave.

“We ride.”

*

Silent through the black treeline and fog that was him, the Horseman rode. Five in all. Young. Dressed in strange costumes. Cheerful smiles curled to mask a fear the Horseman knew well. A man dressed as a wolf walked with his arm around a blonde and shamefully provocative rendition of a nun. Behind them, shoving, laughing, and pulling down each other’s trousers, a cheap swashbuckler and a man in the long white coat and spectacles of a research scientist. The last in their line was a caramel skinned woman in a long, denim dress and matching bonnet. Her eyes shifted back and forth in discomfort as they drew up the path, and the Horseman found himself perplexed, cold with a strange fluttering in his chest, unable to take his eyes off her.

The group stopped before the gates and shined their lights on the metal sign.

     “I told you this was a bad idea,” the scientist said, wiping the sweat from his glasses. “Look, trespassing’s a felony.”

     “And if we turn back now,” the swashbuckler added, raising his toy sabre, “we can still make it to the bars.”

     “He has a point,” the nun said. 

Cold winds carried the fog to cover the Horseman’s movement.

     “Are you kidding me?” the wolfman said. “I just drove for two hours for this shit. Jack, the nearest house is three miles away, we’re not gonna get caught. And Tony, we can still make it to the bars. Babe, this was your idea.”

     “It wasn’t my idea, it was Marge’s,” she said.

The wolfman tapped his wooden bat to his head in exasperation and said, “I’m the only one who didn’t want to waste our last Halloween on this stupid trip, but given I already spent fifty dollars on gas, I’m not leaving without at least looking inside. Marge, back me up.”

     “No one’s going home until we see a ghost,” the girl said. What was her name? Marge? 

     “Reason speaks!” the wolfman shouted, throwing his hands up in agreement.

     The nun crossed her arms. “She’s just saying that because she’s a virgin. They always survive.”

     “I’m not a virgin!” Marge said.

     “Well you look like one, so what’s the difference?”

     “Fuck you, Summer.”

     “Steve already did before we left,” the nun said, “and that’s my point.”

     The scientist buttoned up his coat. “If anyone’s gonna die, it’s Tony.”

     “It tracks,” the swashbuckler said, staring with one eye into the bulb of his light.

     “Alright, everyone,” the wolfman said, stepping tall before the group. “Listen up. We’re graduating at the end of the year and moving on to the real world. This isn’t just a house, it’s a symbol, a chance to meet the unknown. These gates are the gates of the shadow within. That house, rotten and dying, is what we are if we don’t have the strength to go in and rebuild. We’re not kids anymore. We can’t run from the boogie man. We have to rip his mask off and bring him to the light. There aren’t real monsters in the world, just our fear. Now, let’s get in there and prove, evil’s nothing but an idea. Go where no man has gone before.”

The swashbuckler pointed to some graffiti on the gate. “It says Boner was already here.”

The wolfman’s palm clapped his face. “If you don’t come, no one’s getting a ride home. Now cut the chain.”

 I have given them their chances, the Horseman thought, sliding through the shadows, ire in his trembling fists. The gates swung with a rusty cry and a colony of bats fled towards the tender shine of the moon.

“It looks like shit,” Jack said, belching.

     “Looks like where Batman would live if his parents were crack addicts,” Summer said.

     “I don’t know,” Margret said. What was it about her? The face, the voice. Her presence. It brought an unknown serenity to his soul. “It looks like a mystery.”

     Cones of light penetrated sacred secrets. 

     “What did you say the rider’s name was, Marge?” the scientist asked.

“Irving Gawainworth.”

     The Horseman yanked Buttercup to a halt. 

     “The Rider isn’t real,” the wolfman said, pulling up his furry trousers.

     “Said everyone he ever killed,” said the swashbuckler.

     Marge smiled. “Real or fake, legends exist. Superman will live longer than any of us.”

The nun asked, “What’s with you and useless shit? Your double joints, your obsession with nautical knots, your endless facts about cryptids? You’re a literal I-Spy champion.”

“I’m well versed,” Marge said, peering through the shudders. “Apparently he was a reporter before he lost his mind—” 

Lost my mind? the Horseman repeated. 

She went on but the words rang at too high a frequency. “After that he ran face first—” 

Lost my mind! he growled. The only thing I have lost is my patience. Heart burning any semblance of thought, the Horseman strode forth through the gates. “And what do you know!” the Horseman said. Wolves howled in the distance. The five turned, eyes white with dread.

     The Horseman raised his skull in one hand and said, “You speak on that which you do not know, mock what you do not understand, and draw on land not meant for mortal feet. Three is the devil’s number…”

     Chattering teeth and the stench of urine gave him strength. The wolfman stepped forward, branding a wooden bat and screamed, “Back the fuck up! I hit one ten off the—”

     Schlink. The head bounced and body fell. The nun’s screams went silent against the scythe’s steel. Rocks skipped numbly off the Horseman’s chest, the two men cursing as they scrambled for gravel to throw. One large stone strayed upward and crack. A small fracture rippled around his skull. 

Through chattering teeth, the scientist said, “I’m sorry—” before tasting justice. The swashbuckler turned to run yet made not a step before the scythe ripped through his flabby chest.

This Marge stood shaking, pressed against the doorway like a cornered cockroach. The Horseman dismounted and, step by step, drew up the stairs. He held his head close enough to see with certainty. Evergreen eyes, freckles, and flaxen hair. Why was everything veiled in fog? His hand said to strike, yet his heart held him still, a weight against the bit of satisfaction. Time, he thought, I needed time.

“Please…” she said. “I’ll leav—”

The Horseman snatched her by the throat, raised her off her feet, and watched her eyes seal to the darkness.

  *

Orange embers carried from the study’s hearth, a warmth he could only dream of. The Horseman scratched anxiously at the peeling leather armrest in bleary ponderance. Buttercup looked up from her slumber and chuffed. The woman’s breath rang shallowly against the ropes wrapped around her chest. Was he to hold her tight or strike her from the earth?

At last she shifted within the chair, her eyes fluttered, and panic swelled. The Horsemen set his head on his lap and inched his seat closer.

     She looked around with a trembling and uncertain gaze until her situation became clear. All at once, she thrashed. “Help! Someone!”

     “Stop,” the Horseman said, calmly.

         “Help!” she screamed, rocking so hard that the chair fell. 

He righted her and brought his head within inches. “I… said… stop…”

     A sheen of terror glittered in her eyes. Her gaze turned to the scythe resting against the side table. Her hurried breath gave him power. The Horseman’s boots pounded towards the fire. He brought his skull close enough to burn, but felt nothing, only confliction.

     After some time she spoke, “...What do you want?” 

     His mind ran in incoherent circles. “I don’t know.” Why not end her now, he wondered. She’d brought them here. Sourced this unknowable turmoil. So why show mercy?

“This was your fault,” he said. “Not mine.”

Silence hung in the air. But a different sort. The way she was staring at him was not in terror, but curiosity. A look which only worsened his unease.

     “… What are you?” Marge asked.

     Why did she care? It was just an act. A means to escape and prove him the fool. Oh hell, what did it matter? She wouldn’t live to see dawn. “A ghost maybe. Rage incarnate. Ignorance. I wake each year on this evening and roam these halls. How or why, I know not.” He set his head on the side table, took up his scythe, and paced towards the grand window. “You said you knew me. You said my name.” Irving Gawainworth. It was like a word he had no definition for. 

The girl’s eyes bounced between him and the door. 

The Horseman continued, “I see small hints of him, a man who cared too much, and still does.” A sudden lash of anger struck in observing his tarnished home. “But am I just supposed to let everything go! What sort of a man does that? Lets the world come into his house and piss on the walls? Laugh at his name!”

     Her gaze softened with a shimmer of condolence. Who was she to pity him? 

     “What else do you know about me?” he asked.

     She remained quiet, discreetly shifting her arms beneath the ropes. 

“Speak!”

     Marge turned her face away in renewed fear. “You were a journalist. Your family owned a paper.”

     “Then?”

     “Are you going to kill me if I tell you?”

“I will if you don’t,” he said, pacing slowly towards her.

     “They say you lost your mind, that your fiancé left you, that you joined the arm, and in the end, ran alone into a line of cannons.”

     A trembling vexation overcame him, as a fractal of memory flashed. Riding downhill, cannonfire, two traveling bags, a cold misty island. “I would never do such a thing! Only an idiot would. I was a learned man!” he said, slamming the scythe’s butt to the floor.

     “I’m sorry…” she said, shuddering with closed eyes. “I must be wrong.”

     “Of course you are! Of course!” he said, mumbling half-formed indignations as he paced. Why didn’t the scythe feel the same? Too light or too heavy. Just wrong. It crashed upon the floor and he retreated towards the window. “I’m so tired, Caroline,” he said, staring at the violet sky and the first hints of dawn. “Of hurting, waking to find my home tarnished. I can’t think, can’t know,” he said, burying his fist through the wall. “And next year it’ll be the same.” 

     Her shifting stopped. Gently, she asked, “Does it have to be that way?” 

     “There are no heavens for me. No hell beyond this. That’s what it is to be nobody.”

         Dejection pulled her gaze to the floor. “Do stories of nobodies last hundreds of years?” 

         “... What are you talking about?” he asked, looking upon the bodies in the court.

         “People tell your story across the world.”

         Don’t believe her, he said to himself. “I’m not in the mood for jest.”

         “I’m not joking. You’re a legend.”

         The room spun. A fluttering lightened his chest. What was this sensation? 

         “People are drawn to what they don’t understand,” she said. “I know I am.”

         Was this what he’d been waiting for? Why he came back? To know his days hadn’t been in vain?

         “What do they say about me?” he asked, dawn spears piercing the horizon.

     Muffled footsteps rang behind him. The fluttering stopped. He looked back to Marge, the ropes loose and untied, scythe in hand and rolling her shoulder until it popped back into place.

     That elation escaped him. The consequence of mercy. “Do what you must,” he said.

     She dialed her target at his chest, lined up the tip. We reap what we sow. If I must, so shall she, he said to himself. The Horseman opened his arms. Who knows. Maybe this is it. 

The scythe crashed on the hardwood. Once more the Horseman floated in perplexity.

     “I have a feeling you’ve been in pain for a long time,” Marge said. “I won’t add to it.”

     “But… your friends?”

     Sorrow glittered within her eyes. “Something has to change. No one deserves this.”

Buttercup stood, clopped to Marge’s side, and nuzzled her cheek. The Horseman stood frozen, baffled, the painful prick of hidden joy stinging his heart. Morning’s light met the room.

The hints of a smile showed in her dimples. “I was really hoping to meet a ghost tonight.”

“Are you satisfied?”

“I don’t know.” His heart twisted in watching this child, much stronger than he, turn out of his life. She stopped at the door and said, “I’d love to understand you.”

     A leaden weight sealed his feet to the ground. “As would I.”

“Maybe next year?” she asked.

“With any hope, I’ll be long gone.”

“... Legends never fade. They only change.”

Her footsteps thumped down the stairs and across the courtyard. Time froze for one benevolent moment as she looked back from the gate. For once he knew hadn’t misstepped. For once, he felt at ease. Head in hand, he felt the magnetic calling and started towards his rest.

From the door of his tomb, he looked to the rising sun. The Horseman wrapped his arms around Buttercup and felt… something. Was this the sun’s warmth?

 *

The Horseman’s hands shot up to push the lid off his coffin, but it wasn’t there. In fact, the mausoleum was lit, and somehow his skull rested upon his shoulders. He felt it to be sure and touched what seemed to be the smooth texture of a pumpkin.

     “Good morning,” Marge said, sitting in a folding chair, novel in hand.

     He sat up and smiled. “It’s… you…”

         “Hope you don’t mind the pumpkin. Your skull was falling apart.”

At her sides rested two large traveling cases filled with books and magazines.

“What are those,” he asked.

“Stories about you.”