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Nestled between the mountains and the Delaware River laid an esoteric town in New Jersey, open to farmers, merchants, and heretics of the like. Some called it Foxhole, others claimed that Asylum was a more fitting name, but its residents preferred the more pleasant-sounding Hollow Hills. The first men have been out into the woods and returned with birds or nestlings at hand, when the Indians were more generous, and the town came to be known for its most lucrative commodity. Five years before the Revolution, and most certainly everyone had seen a falcon at least twelve times in their lives and touched one at least five.
Within Hollow Hills was a family, and the worst of them was a pair of rustic lads, the Brothers Kratt. They were always ready for a fight or a frolic, and despite their inclination to madcap pranks and practical jokes, they intended more mischief than malice. Their antics never ceased to worry their mother, and the mothers from miles around, but the townspeople had to admit that thanks to the Kratts, there was never a boring day. Even their sisters had to admit, their feats of skill never failed to impress.
The eldest brother was Martin Kratt, a boyish lad with a perpetual smile on his face. His hair was very fair, though many rumored that it was the sun that had taken its color. Unlike most boys in the town, Martin was a skilled swimmer, oft seen in the brooks and river, frolicking about with the birds and fish. He was seen at the schoolhouse, companion and playmate to boys and girls alike, but never accepted an invite to sup with them. He was a brother of the string, and would provide joy during the dusk hours. There were claims out of county that Martin could be found on the docks or at the sea shore, with a book and a stick of charcoal in hand. No one ever denied or confirmed these wild tales.
Christopher Kratt was four years his brother's junior, and far shorter, but was oft observed to look exceedingly knowing, especially compared to Martin. His hair was more dirt than daylight, and he oft returned home with a healthy coating of it. He had an inquisitive gleam in his eyes and was always seen with an Indian at the edge of the wood or on top of a tree. They never gave him any grievances and he provided for them out of his own pockets.
The common folk refused to acknowledge this. Mrs. Kratt would open her door and find a familiar face, raging about how the boys were bound for hell and Lord knows what was wrong with them. She simply shrugged and said what happened was in the hands of the Lord.
"They're your boys!" It was common reply thrown her way. "You let them continue with their... their... their lunacy?"
The madam would only respond with a smile. "Oh, those boys live in their own world. Who am I to tell them to leave?" and that was end of that.
At the old abandoned farm at the edge of the town, where the old family that once resided there twenty years ago either died or disappeared, the townsfolk often found the boys playing with the cracked hog pen posts and digging through the black soil on the fields. They would gather the bright berries and point at the various bees, oft remarking that they should look and do.
But their favorite sanctuary was the old barn. A thick, black cord hung from the doorway, knotted at the end, and constantly swaying in the wind. A lad would climb to the hayloft, knot in hand, and seat himself on it and push off the edge. Chris always had the first swing, as the superior climber and his brother's occasional generosity.
He would laugh and cry that strands of hay had gotten stuck in his shirt.
"Scratch it!" responded Martin. He bit into the apple he picked from the fields. "I want a turn!"
Chris skidded to a halt. "Here!" He climbed back to the loft, passing the knot to his brother. Martin laughed and threw himself over the edge, passing the apple core to his brother.
Those lads were never seen indoors by anyone but their mother and the schoolmaster. They were good students, and even better farmhands, but their pranks and jokes left few amused. Mrs. Varmitech and her son, Zachary, were often the sources of their ridicule. Young Zach was a pale boy that many would mistake for a scarecrow that crawled out of the field. Zach once paraded a stolen filly in front the Kratts, galloping about and drenching them in mud. The brothers in turn followed him with an old hound who was trained to howl at the sound of his voice, drawing curious glances and whispers in his direction.
Zach responded by fibbing about the brothers to the schoolmaster, a conscientious man who ever bore in mind the maxim spare the rod and spoil the child. But it was to no avail, as the brothers pranced out one late school night and the schoolmaster never spoke of what happened.
The years had gone by, and the lads were now men. Martin was studying in Carolina, but he would make his way home every so often. Years away made him a Jack of legs, one that children oft mistook for a giant had he not knelt down and explained the truth. Moreover, Martin found ways to increase his slender income and, at the same time, awaken the cultural interests of the sleepy little village he frequented. As a musician, he gave the children and the gentlewomen lessons, and even favored them with the occasional song. A cultured man, he was a skilled artisan and poet, well-read and well-versed in every skill that appealed to the refined tastes of life.
One gentlelady even pulled him to the side of the road, shoving a purse of coins in his hand in exchange for a mural, which he soon delivered. Another man asked Martin to play for his wedding, and the young man drew too much attention at the piano and was asked to leave. The youth wandered for a while before visiting home for the holidays. He showed up one Wednesday afternoon, his brother not present, but his sisters and mother rushed at him, cooing and awning over his uniform.
He was still young at heart, as he continued with his jokes and never failed to worry his kinsmen. Even at university, he turned away from the walls and rivers and towards the horizon. He wrote to his brother frequently, reaffirming the dream they shared and the bond they held since boyhood, boasting of the day they would take to the sea.
Chris, on the other hand, had gone far into the wooded areas of the country. People claimed that the young man was seen with the Indians, more and more often. He spoke with elders and youngsters alike, and his love for life only seemed to grow with age. He rarely came home, venturing further into the wood with each turn and returning at odder hours. His mother and sisters fretted less about him, knowing that he was never seen alone.
Zachary Varmitech had left town and returned with cartloads of gold, silver, and spices. He made his way about, giving notice to his silver rings and garnet broaches, riding the a black stallion with his head held high, giving special attention to his minuscule beard. But however wealthy Zachary had become, there was little change the lad's character. He was still the spiteful scarecrow of his youth, if anything, only worsened with age. Rumors rose that a Spaniard had beaten him at the blade, and that he now concealed the well-deserved scar on his chest with the elaborate coats and shirts.
The ladies were instantly rushing to him, squealing like newborn piglets for milk to be handed out. There was no doubt old Varmitech was the richest prize in the countryside. There was always a woman that filled her mind with many sugared thoughts and hopeful suppositions. Besides, they would whisper, the Kratt Brothers had little to compare to Master Varmitech. They ran about in clothes that even a scarecrow would balk at being the owner of, much less wear. What's worse, as the younger Kratt spent more time in the woods, he began to dress in a more Indian manner as opposed to his brother, who attempted some form of civility with his mismatched coats and waistcoats.
Zachary had earned the favor of the senior gentlefolk when he paid to have his mother moved to a pasture field. Mrs. Varmitech lived a life of leisure, wearing the finest of gowns and dancing behind the bone-colored walls. When she was seen in public, side straddling a black mare, the townspeople all agreed that the old crone was down right insufferable, baying and bowing about her precious son and what a joy and blessing he was, not like those Wild Hooligans that poor Mrs. Kratt was burdened with.
She was ridding as she always was, nose tipped towards the heavens, dressed in a silk gown and hair piled high with feathers; it was a miracle her horse didn't collapse from the weight of her petticoats. A girl ran in front of the horse, chasing a stray ball, stumbling over the rocks and her boots. The mare reared back, tossing the lady who rode not astride, sending the poor widow into the mud and upheaving her hair, revealing the false structure and tufts of feathers that held it up.
The poor wretch wailed and howled with indignation, tearing at her silks and tossing the pitiful remains of her wig to the mud. She marched up, ready to chalk the poor girl with the end of her fan when a color ran up, knocking the witch to the muck by coincident, grabbing the girl, and taking with the wind. The poor woman lay in the muck, wailing and crying, until the grocer asked if she needed help, as which she bayed indignantly once more before limping back home.
Mrs. Varmitech knew who that boy was, though she never saw hide more hair of him before that fateful encounter. With his arms as long as his legs, branch-like built and blight laugh, no doubt that it was the louse Martin Kratt.
She sniffed. That boy hadn’t changed at all. She thought University might straighten him up, but it seemed that he neglected his studies for the familiar idleness from his youth. But what could she expect from a wild boy like him?
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Zachary had not changed much, and he was quick to renew his grudge with the Kratts. When the brothers were haggling with a merchant or grocer, Zachary would spur his horse, charging with the devil on his tail, and drenching the poor men in muck and yesterday's rainwater. When Martin was adding a fresh coat of paint to the town gazebo, Zach politely offered his men's aid, only to have the community treasure torn down. When Christopher was seen with Indians, Mr. Varmitech was seen standing on soapboxes, rallying the people against the Indian threat. Apparently, his mother was taking an afternoon stroll when she was attacked by the wild savages, screaming about the atrocities they would rain on the women and children. Soon after, Christopher lost his previous facade of civility, giving the man as much grief as he received.
One bright spring day, Zachary was riding a steed, head held high, when Christopher Kratt trotted along on a mare. The former saw his mount rear up, whinnying and kicking, as a man possessed. Chris, looking oblivious to his rival's distress, brought the mare up close, asking for directions to the brook, where the fishermen frequented. Zachary would only squawk and squall in fear and indignation. What was he, a parish watchman? He did not find the time to respond, for he was soon tossed to a nearby cart of unspeakable things that came from horses, fresh from the stables and desperately needed for the farmers' fields. By the time the poor wretch crawled out, Christopher was far gone, cackling at the skies as his mare took him to the fields.
Zachary only retaliated with hostility. Ever since he returned, he had lavish displays of wealth, opening them to the townsfolk. Every Saturday, he held an opulent evening party, leaving the gates open to all but the Kratts. Zachary himself stood at the door, welcoming all manners of parsons and patricians, indulging their various whims and wishes. But knowing the brothers since their shared boyhood, Zach should have been less surprised when he found the fairer Kratt huddled under the table, reaching up and pulling candied fruit, seeds and bits of sweetbread under the table and into his mouth.
He had been even less pleased to find the younger Kratt squirreled away in the library, surrounded by mountains of books and scrolls, pouring over the tomes without any regard for the world.
Needless to say, the evening was ruined for poor Zachary, but the townspeople had to laugh later on: it was an evening they would never forget. As always, the Kratt Brothers and their wickedness brought joy to the town. Truth be told, many of the older folks had began to miss the blood and 'ounds that they considered mundane life.
But, as with all things, the good days were not to last. Master Varmitech had heard that the brothers were seen with the gentlemen in red. The elder bother was seen carrying a soldier's bottle, gifted to him by an older officer. The wealthier gentleman had not heard the men talk, but he had heard the whispers of the filth.
Clearly, the brothers were planning something.
That autumn, the trees bore fruit, ripe and fresh, and the leaves followed soon after; they flamed and flickered across the dull straw and wheat and barely, all of which was soon cut and dried, stocked in the barns to accompany the jam and jellies. Shad and salmon would be hauled from the rivers, and men returned from their ventures in the barn, with heavy porkers and capons, ready to be spun into thick sausages and roasts. The air was rich with the fragrance of doughnuts, sweet cakes, shortcakes, apple and pumpkin pies, and a the tenderly oly koek.
There were many weddings during that season, and Martin Kratt would be heard with his violin, much to the delight of the bride and her youngest sisters and cousins. A little boy once approached the gentle giant for lessons, and the musician was more than happy to oblige. Children would other gather at the old barn; while the rope had long rotted away, Christopher was more than happy to oblige to their wishes and produce a new cord, tie it to the barn, and even push and catch them. He showed an exceptional warmth to the little ones, the less hardy and robust boys that were rather timid to approach the ladder.
In the late evenings, the townsfolk would gather at the old abandoned barn and fill each others ears with ghostly tales of Halloween, and Martin knew that there was no more firm or potent believer in the spooks and goblins than old Zachary. The young man rose from his seat, casting his hat to one corner and his coat to the other. He threw his hands out, beckoning people to come closer, sneaking the children an especially secretive grin, which was returned with impish glee, which was further embellished by the roaring fire by which he stood.
"Just gather round and I'll elucidate," the crowd started to congregate. "What goes on outside, when it gets late."
Long about midnight,
the ghosts and banshees,
they get together for nightly jamborees.
"There's things with horns and saucer eyes," he held his fingers up to the ends of his mouth, "and some with fangs about this size!"
Mrs. Kratt had to roll her eyes, along with her youngest son. She would have to give Martin a clip around the ear, but she wondered if the results were favorable. Besides, other villagers were starting to participate. What was the harm?
"Some are fat." One woman claimed.
"And some are thin!" Another nodded.
"And some don't even wear their skin!"
Martin chortled, nudging his brother with his elbow. "Oh, I'm telling you, brother, it's a frightful sight," he grinned wolfishly. "To see what goes on Halloween night."
Chris gulped.
At the corner by the room, Old Varmitech shuddered as a cold touch brushed at his spine, then gave a terrible cry before cowering under the safety of a spare curtain.
"When the spooks have a midnight jamboree,
"They break it up with fiendish glee."
"Ghosts are bad, but the one that's cursed," Martin's shifting shadow crept up the wall, gnarled fingers grasping towards the windows. "Is the Headless Horseman, he's the worst."
"That's right, he's a fright on Halloween night!"
"When he goes a-joggin' across the land,
"Holdin' his noggin in his hand,
"Demons take one look and groan,
"And hit the road for parts unknown."
"Beware, take care, he rides alone!"
"And there's no spook like a spook who's spurned,"
"They don't like him and he's really burned."
"He swears to the longest day he's dead,"
"He'll show them that he can get ahead.
"They say he's tired of his flamin' top."
"He's got a yen to make a swap,
"So he rides one night each year,
To find a head in the hollow here."
"Now, he likes them little, he likes them big,"
"Part in the middle, or a wig,"
"Black or white, or even red,"
"The Headless Horseman needs a head."
"With a hip-hip and a clippity-clop,
"He's out lookin' for a top to chop,"
"So, don't stop to figure out a plan,
"You can't reason with a headless man!"
"Now, if you doubt this tale is so," Martin's grin widened. "I met that spook just a year ago." The men and women were aghast, while the children giggled.
"Now, I didn't stop for a second look," he galloped, miming riding a horse. "But made for the bridge that spans the brook."
Many shivered, for the bridge and the nearby church were within the Lord's reach, but many did not live with such privilege.
"For once you cross that bridge, my friends,"
"The ghost is through, his power ends."
Poor Zachary, who had grown quiet pale, set himself down in a small chair, pushing his knees almost to his chest. To distract himself, he picked up an egg and mindlessly picked at the shell, pulling off bits of flesh as well as the tasteless exterior.
"So, when you're riding home tonight,
"Make for the bridge with all your might.
"He'll be down in the hollow there.
"He needs your head. Look out! Beware!"
The impresario fumbled for a bit of meat or bread, for the flavor, taking quite a bit of spiced sauce, and slathering the remnants of his egg in it. In his haste for distraction, he swallowed the egg and peppered sauce.
"With a hip-hip and a clippity-clop,
"He's out lookin' for a head to swap.
"So, don't try to figure out a plan!
"You can't reason with a headless man"
Zachary Varmitech was the last to leave the abandoned property that evening, stomping to the stables and kicking his varmint awake. There was no mention of what left in such a foul mood. Was all his work left for nothing? Were the Brothers Kratt at their antics once again, casting all his dreams to the wind once more?
This I can not say, for I was not there, but the gentleman of whom I am very well acquainted freely informed me of the following:
In a melancholic disposition, and astride a scarlet horse of an equal temperament, the topping man rode with his head down and shoulders hunched in. His manse was located on the other end of town, the only path was through the wood and over the very bridge that the Hessian was rumored to haunt. His hat was tipped haphazardly on his forehead and his lips were set whistling a familiar tune, in vain hopes of calming his quivering hands. His skin was beaded with sweat, and his nervous eyes glanced around rapidly. His whistle rang out in the wood, returning with the same hollow tone. There was the occasional addition to his melody: a croak from the brook, the desperate cries from the crows, the snap of the branches against the shrubs. Even the whinny of his horse seemed to disturb him, breaking his song and sending him shaking.
What was peculiar was that, when Varmitech focused on a certain sound, he could swear that the sounds of the forest were... a warning of some sorts. Perhaps, to caution him?
"Headless Horseman... Headless Horseman... Headless Horseman... Headless Horseman... Headless Horseman..."
"Beware," the birds cried. "Beware, beware!"
He shook his head. It was just food, or perhaps the wine. He had too much to eat, and his digestion was not aided by the contemptuous varmint on which he was astride. The wine of obviously of a poorer quality, which might have contained some malicious powder or snuff, no doubt the work of those Wild Rats.
These warnings, perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. Frogs do not talk. Birds do not talk. Taking a man's head would surely kill him.
With a new form of courage ignited in his bosom, Zachary set off with his head held high and his eyes focused on the moon.
Something stirred in the distance. It was not the wind that caught his ears, but the rustling of leaves, the tingling of the senses. There were things that caught the corner of his eye, only to vanish when he faced them head on. His horse reared back suddenly, kicking and whining despite all his best kicks. Annoyed, he decided to search for the source of the poor beast's torment, attributing it to a hysteric but temporary break from the natural order. But to his great shock and dismay, he saw a feint shadow.
There! There in the distance, just beyond the shrubs. It was a man, perched on a horse, his body shrouded in a worn cloak.
Zachary called out to him, and received no response. Disgruntled, but deciding to keep a polite face, he commanded the man to show himself, so that he would know who it was whether forgiveness would be bestowed upon such a stranger.
There was no response, only a rearing of the horse into a slow trot. The stranger approached Varmitech, leisurely, listlessly, laggardly, with one hand on the reins and another resting on his lap.
No! Zachary squinted. The hand he thought idle was nursing an object, spheric and limp, against his chest.
Perhaps it was his head, as it was missing from his shoulders.
With a terrible cry, Zachary kicked his horse and hurried down the road. There was the thump-thump of an extra set of hooves behind him, growing louder and louder. There was a terrible laugh, and the distinct scratch of leather and steel.
It was only when his sense returned did he steer the horse around. The church! By the bridge. It was far from the town, just at the end of the wood. He kicked the horse harder, his heel catching on the stirrup and the saddle burst, falling to the side, leaving him with the reins, arms wrapped taunt around the creature's neck. The dust rose to his face, clouding his face and neck, burning his eyes and mouth, yet he clung on.
The bridge was closer, and the church too! Within a man's height, a man's reach, an arm's reach, he was practically upon it!
As the horse's hooves landed on the wooden blanks, thud, thud, thud, there was a terrible cry from the behind. He looked back.
The rider stopped at the foot of the bridge, rearing back upon his horse, cursing to the skies in his wretchedly, high voice. He raised one arm to shake at him, and another to pull back and suddenly jerk forward with a boyish motion. His head fell forward, hard, into the chest of Zachary Varmitech, pushing him to the floor at foot of the church.
The next morning, Zachary's hat was found on the edge of the brook; close beside it: a shattered pumpkin and the bent, hard leather that might have resembled a saddle; but there was no trace of the old impresario. Very few mourned him, for his shrewish mother was touring the South, and searches were conducted in a rather pathetic fashion. After two days of relentless pursuits, they disbanded, concluding that there was very little left to examine.
But it was not the time for mourning, for shortly thereafter, the Brothers Kratt had met an enterprising Spaniard, who agreed to take them to the ends of the earth on her ship. The Captain was generous enough to allow them the rest of the year to say their goodbyes before they set to sea, mother and sisters waving from the shore.
Now rumors persisted that Varmitech was still alive, by the word of a wealthy widow and her manservant, flourishing in a distant county. But of course the good commonfolk refused to believe such nonsense! For they know that he had been spirited away by the Headless Horseman.