The tale I am about to tell has, over the years, acquired the aspect of a murky, half-forgotten dream. At times I fear my memory of that fateful night is a product of my own fevered consciousness. But I have carried secrets far too long. Now that I am old and broken, close to the shore to which we must all return, I take up pen in trembling hand to record long-ago events which have haunted me ever since.
The Kaatskil Mountains (or Catskills, as they are now called) lie on the western banks of the Hudson River—bony protrusions stretching deep into Ulster, Greene, and Sullivan Counties. Seen from the gently rolling hills of Dutchess County across the river, they are serene and majestic. Up close, they can be forbidding. Some of the peaks have fanciful names, like Big Rosy Bone Knob, Peekamoose Mountain, and Thunder Hill, while others reassure the observer with their promise of splendor: Guardian, Eagle, and Overlook Mountains.
Legends chase these hills like the summer storms that come and go in the blink of an eye—one minute there is not a cloud in sight, and the next cascades of rain pour from the heavens. The mountains are moody and unpredictable, even to those of us who have lived here all our lives. But no part of this landscape strikes more fear into the heart of its inhabitants than the low-lying marsh between Krumville and Lomontville.
The Dutch call it the Vly.
I say “the Dutch” even though I am Dutch on my mother’s side. On my father’s I am English, and so I was raised. After the British conquest of 1664, Dutch ways persisted for some time. But just over a century later, little was left here of a once-thriving culture. My mother spoke only a few scattered phrases of that language, having taken most of my father’s Anglo-Saxon customs. It was she who told me that Vly is an old Dutch word for “valley.”
I grew up with stern warnings to avoid this evil place. The sandy soil, too poor to support crops, flooded in early spring, often staying soggy until October. Some said spirits inhabited the marshes and bogs at its center; others claimed travelers could lose their way, caught up in the mists and fogs that descended quickly on warm nights. There were stories of poor souls who wandered into the center of the marshland, to be sucked underneath it, trapped in the soft quicksand. I heard snippets of still darker tales—of a great, gaunt hound that roamed the Vly at night, a ghostly creature with an insatiable appetite for living flesh. The Indians had lived in this area for generations, and it was said the Vly was a place even they avoided.
None of this was on my mind one fine Sunday in late April when I ventured out hunting with my cousin Jacob. He was a robust blond fellow, tall and strong and lively, afraid of neither man nor spirit. His family lived not far from us, just off the road that passes through Krumville. Like so many of us this side of the river, his father was a tenant farmer on lands owned by Robert Livingston. It was said the Chancellor could sit on the porch of his mansion, Clermont, and gaze across the river from Columbia County, knowing that whatever lands he saw belonged to him. Those of us whose families worked those lands didn’t own so much as a single stone or piece of straw.
Though I was the type to lie awake at night seething at such inequality, my cousin Jacob was of a carefree disposition. He would much rather be off hunting grouse with his black retriever, Dragen—dragen being the Dutch word for “bear.”
On that day Jacob and I were roaming the hills around Krumville, uncocked rifles hanging loosely at our sides, listening for the rustle of grouse in the blackberry bushes. I had just turned twelve, and Jacob was sixteen. My mother had finally agreed to let me go hunting with him—no small decision on her part, since my father had died in a hunting accident just a year before. It took pleading and bribery on my part—in the end, I agreed to help her with the washing as well as doing my share of the chores the following day.
My stomach knotted with anticipation as I strode beside my cousin, stretching my legs to keep up with his long strides. Dragen trotted at our heels, his pink tongue lolling happily from his mouth. The bees buzzed lazily in the pink and white trillium, the fields still covered with dew from the night before, glistening like teardrops in the morning sun. Lost in the beauty of the day, we wandered for some time without much thought as to where we were headed. Jacob led the way, following deer tracks along a narrow woodland trail as it turned and twisted through forest and meadow.
We lingered beside a cool spring, to eat some jerky and biscuits from our pouches and fill our bellies with clear mountain water. We stretched out beneath the shade of a chestnut tree just coming into bloom. Dragen splashed happily in the creek, lapping up water and snapping at minnows and tadpoles.
Our conversation meandered from dogs and horses to the mysteries of the fairer sex—and finally, to family. Though every clan in our little community had its share of misfortune, ours had suffered the most recent and devastating tragedy with the loss of my father. It was almost exactly a year before, to the day, that the hunting accident had claimed his life.
My cousin tore off a piece of jerky and chewed on it thoughtfully.
“What do you suppose really happened to your father?” he asked, leaning back against the chestnut’s broad trunk.
I felt my face go hot. “Why do you speak such a question? They said—”
“I know very well what they claimed,” he replied impatiently. “That he tripped and his gun discharged in his face.”
My forehead buzzed with confusion and my line of sight seemed to narrow. “What are you saying, Cousin?”
He gave me a searching look. “Consider it, Slade. Did you ever know your father to have a clumsy moment in his life?”
“Well, no, but Hugh Turner said he tripped—”
Hugh Turner had been my father’s hunting companion that day.
“A shotgun does not easily go off in a man’s face!” Jacob declared. He leapt to his feet and demonstrated with his own rifle, pretending to trip. The gun, instead of aiming at his head, fell harmlessly to one side. “There!” he said triumphantly. “That is what would happen—at least ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I’ll wager.”
A nameless dread slithered like a tapeworm through my gut. “What are you saying, Cousin?”
He flung himself on the ground beside me. “I never saw his body—did you?”
“No. But my mother told me it was too—”
“Too horrible to look at; I know,” Jacob replied. “But my father carried the casket at the funeral and he said it was awful light to be the body of a full-grown man.”
“Perhaps people shrink when they die,” I offered.
Jacob shook his head, his corn silk–blond hair catching the rays of the late-morning sun. “Something else happened, Slade. Look at what became of Hugh Turner.”
I shuddered. Hugh Turner had gone stark mad a few nights later, running through the streets naked, babbling incoherently about witches and goblins. He now lived with his daughter and her family, who tended to him as though he was a simple child. He could occasionally be seen on the village green, flailing his arms and muttering to himself.
“Do you believe my father is still alive?” I asked.
Jacob frowned. “I do not believe he perished in a hunting accident.”
At that moment swarms of gnats descended upon us and we heaved ourselves to our feet.
“We must be on our way,” said Jacob. Waving away the cloud of insects, he slung his rucksack over his shoulder. “The day is not growing any younger.”
I spat a gnat from my mouth, grabbed my own pack, and looked up at the sky. He was right—the sun, having reached its zenith, was descending.
“Come along, Dragen!” Jacob called.
The dog bounded up the bank and shook his coat mightily, spraying us with water. He grinned up at us, evidently much pleased with himself.
We returned to our path, crossing the stream, whereupon we entered a birch grove. As we emerged from the woods into a wild field of winter wheat, we heard growling behind us. We turned to see Dragen baring his teeth, ears flattened behind his head.
“What is it, boy?” Jacob said, but the dog continued to growl. Saliva dripped from his jaws, and his eyes narrowed with fear.
I followed the dog’s gaze. He seemed to be peering at a copse of scrub oaks, on the other side of a patch of blackberry bushes.
“What is he frightened of?” I asked my cousin.
“We must be near it,” Jacob replied cryptically. “Have we really come that far?”
“Near what?” I said.
He hesitated before answering. “The Vly.”
Fear dried my throat, turning my tongue to parchment.
“Perhaps we should turn around and go back,” I suggested.
“Don’t be foolish,” Jacob replied, straightening his shoulders. “What is there to be afraid of?”
I wanted to shout that there was plenty to be afraid of, but pride stopped my tongue. This was my first hunting trip, and I wasn’t eager to be branded a coward before I had a chance to shoot my first grouse.
“Very well,” I said, affecting a nonchalance I did not feel. “Lead on.”
Jacob bent down to break off a thin stalk of wheat, sticking it in the side of his mouth. I had seen him do this before when he was trying to work up his courage.
“Let’s go, then,” he said, striding forward confidently, but I noticed he cocked his rifle. “Come along, Dragen,” he called. The dog obeyed reluctantly, slinking a few yards behind, still growling.
I tightened my grip on my own rifle. I had lovingly cleaned the barrel that morning with linseed oil and could feel it mixing with the sweat on my hands as I clambered after my cousin, lifting my knees high to clear the spiky stalks of winter wheat.
As we crossed the field, the sky darkened and a fierce wind swept over the meadow, rippling through the wheat. The stalks flattened as though a great hand were swatting them to the ground. The change in weather seemed to come out of nowhere—one minute the sky was clear and bright as a sparrow’s eye, and in the next it was gray as the steel of our rifle barrels.
Jacob stopped in his tracks as Dragen’s growls changed to whimpers.
“We should turn back,” I said, the words bursting forth in spite of my desire to appear brave.
I saw my cousin’s shoulders stiffen. And then I felt it.
I grew up in these hills. I was accustomed to sudden changes of weather, floods, and rock slides, as well as dangerous wild animals, from black bears and wild cats to coyotes. But this was different. The air itself was oppressive. I felt a sodden, sullen weight pressing upon my shoulders, pushing me toward the ground. A bleak, dense cloud threatened to envelop my consciousness; I was overwhelmed by a leaden feeling of hopelessness.
I had heard whispered stories about the Vly all my life, but it was not until I stood there with my cousin that I felt the full impact of that dark and gloomy place. It was as if all the will had been drained from my body, leaving behind a hollow, empty vessel. I could barely summon the strength to speak, let alone take a step forward. I had never believed a place itself could be truly evil until now. But young as I was, there was no doubt in my mind: the Vly exuded a palpable, supernatural malevolence.
I pulled at the sleeve of Jacob’s linen shirt. “Now,” I whispered through parched lips. “We should go now.”
My cousin turned to face me. I took a step back, stunned by the change in his demeanor. His once-bright blue eyes were cloudy and tormented, the muscles of his face contracted as if in pain. His rifle hung useless at his side; with the other hand he clawed at the air, as if trying to grasp at phantom shapes floating before his eyes. Seeing him like that shocked me into action. Perhaps being younger, I was less vulnerable to the effects of that dreadful place. I summoned the willpower to shake free of the terrible darkness threatening to overwhelm me.
Gathering what presence of mind I could, I grasped Jacob by the wrist and dragged him from the field, back along the path. We retraced our steps, stumbling over exposed roots and rocks as we lurched back along the trail. The wind sliced through the trees, whipping at our feet as if trying to trip us; raindrops hurtled at our faces, stinging our exposed skin like tiny daggers. Still we pressed onward. I tightened my grip on Jacob’s wrist, pulling him along behind me. Something told me if I let go of him I might never see my cousin again.
When we had gone a hundred yards or so, Jacob suddenly stopped short, jerking me backward.
“What is it?” I said, terror fluttering in my breast.
“Dragen!” Jacob looked around frantically, his face wild with panic. “Where is he?”
“Is he not behind us?” I asked, but my sinking heart knew the answer.
My cousin wrested his hand from my grip and stumbled back along the trail. I took off after him. Tackling him around the knees, I brought him down hard on the uneven ground, branches and twigs tearing at our clothing.
“Leave me! I must go back!” he cried. Throwing me off, he scrambled along on his hands and knees in the direction of the clearing. I fell hard against the trunk of an oak, the breath knocked from my body.
“No!” I gasped. “Jacob, no—don’t go back!”
“I have to find Dragen!” he yelled. Sobbing, he stumbled back along the path. Sucking air into my burning lungs, I pulled myself to my feet and wobbled after him.
What we heard made us both stop short in our tracks. Long, low, and mournful, it was the unmistakable sound of a hound howling. It seemed to come from the edge of the open field, and it turned my legs to jelly. I looked at my cousin—he stood rigid and unmoving as the trees around us.
It had no sooner died out than it began again—a long, doleful wail ascending the scale until the surrounding hills seemed to ring with the sound. And then a second, even more terrifying noise—the frenzied yelping of a dog in mortal danger.
“Dragen!” Jacob rasped, his voice ragged. He lurched back along the path until he reached the clearing from whence we had come. I followed a few steps behind, pumping my legs to keep up with his long strides.
When we emerged from the woods we saw the dark form of a great hulking creature lurking at the far end of the open field. Standing in the shadows cast by surrounding trees, the animal had its head down—it seemed to be gnawing on something on the ground. Jacob stepped forward, and I followed behind, trembling. He raised his rifle and took aim. At that moment the creature raised its great head from the motionless form beneath it and turned its gaze upon us.
It was a gigantic hound—the biggest I had ever seen. It was nearly the size of a small horse, excessively lean and hungry looking. The beast took a step forward, out of the shadows. Its coat was gray as dusk, the gaunt eyes glinting yellow in the dim light cast by the feeble sun, hidden by the moody clouds that swept across the sky.
Jacob aimed his rifle and pulled the trigger. The shot echoed across the field, sending a shock up my spine. It was followed by a great flutter of wings, as birds from nearby trees took to the sky. The hound stood its ground for a moment, then, grasping its crumpled, lifeless prey in its fearsome jaws, bounded into the forest. Jacob started across the field in pursuit.
Summoning the last of my strength, I lunged at him. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I clung to him with all my might.
“N-o-o-o-o!” he bellowed, clawing at me in an attempt to loosen my hold. But terror tightened my grip. My arms felt made of iron, and I hugged him close, as though I wanted to squeeze the life from his body. I could feel my cousin’s resolve weaken as his attempts to free himself grew feebler, until he collapsed onto the ground, weeping.
“Dragen!” he cried, digging his fingers into the dirt dampened by his tears. “My poor Dragen!”
“We must go,” I hissed. “We must leave now!”
He turned his face to me. All the life had drained away from it. His vacant eyes gazed at me without really seeing, and his arms hung loosely at his sides. His body had no more life in it than a stuffed scarecrow impaled on a stake in the middle of a farm field.
“Come on,” I said, taking his hand in mine. He submitted, docile as a child, and I pulled him back along the path as the wind whistled in our ears. The howling of the great hound resumed in the distance. The sound cut through our bodies like a knife thrust, and I felt my cousin stiffen as a sob grabbed at his throat.
“Dragen,” he whimpered. “My poor, poor Dragen!”
Somehow we managed to stumble home, retracing our path to our little settlement of modest farmhouses. I saw Jacob enter his house before heading off toward my own. Pale and trembling, he had spoken hardly a word the entire way back, and I feared for his state of mind.
That night at dinner my mother noticed I was not myself.
“How did you fare on your hunting trip, Slade?” she asked, her sharp eyes fixed upon me as I stared at the untouched food in my bowl.
“Fine,” I replied, stirring the stew listlessly with my spoon. My mother had made waterzooi, my favorite dish—a rich Flanders stew with carrots, leeks, potatoes, herbs, butter, and cream. But I had no appetite, which caused her to regard me suspiciously, for a twelve-year-old boy is always hungry.
“Did you shoot anything?” my brother, Maarten, inquired, swinging his legs back and forth under his chair. He was only seven and took after my mother, with hair as blond as summer wheat, and blue eyes the color of a cloudless day. I was darker, like my father, and carried an English first name, whereas Maarten had been named after my mother’s father.
“We found no grouse,” I replied, anxious to have the conversation at an end. I was haunted by poor Dragen’s death, and confused by what my cousin had told me. I had no wish to share the information with my mother, who I feared had lied to me about my father’s fate.
I excused myself soon afterward and went up to bed, on the pretext that I was unwell. I could feel my mother’s eyes on me as I ascended the ladder to the loft bed I shared with my brother.
My sleep that night was restless and unquiet, haunted by the ungodly howls of the horrible creature. Its yellow eyes lingered in my mind’s eye as I awoke the next morning, glad for the sunlight streaming through my bedroom window.
I knew there was one person I could turn to in such a situation. My great-uncle, Frans van de Bogart, lived in a cramped, smoky farmhouse on the other side of Krumville. He still wore wooden shoes and could speak Dutch. It was said that no one knew more about local lore than Uncle Frans, and I had always felt a kinship with the old gentleman. After finishing my chores, I set out to visit him, hugging the farm fields along the side of the woods. The day was fair, with wispy clouds high in a deep blue sky, the sun warm upon my back as I hugged the low stone wall between properties. A chipmunk followed me for a while, chattering and flicking his tail boldly. I tossed the little fellow a bit of biscuit from my pack, which he grabbed up and scampered away with.
My uncle was seated in front of his cabin, mending a pair of old breeches. As I walked up the long dirt path to his door, a stick snapped beneath my feet, causing him to raise his aged head and peer in my direction.
“Who goes there?”
“It is I, Uncle—Slade Fletcher.”
He frowned at me. “What brings you out here today? Have you no duties to perform for your mother?”
“I have finished my chores. I came to ask your advice.”
“Did you indeed?” he remarked. “In my experience, advice may be freely given but is seldom heeded.”
As he spoke, he continued to sew without interrupting the smooth rhythm of his work. His gnarled hand dipped in sure, swift movements as he sewed the patch on the material with tidy, even stitches. His dexterity was impressive, since he was completely blind.
“Well, boy,” he said. “Don’t just stand there—give your uncle a kiss!”
I climbed onto the rickety front porch, the boards creaking underfoot, and bent obediently to plant my face in his thick, oily whiskers. He smelled of saddle polish and tobacco, his beard stiff and prickly as the bristles of a broom.
“That’s a good boy,” he said with a satisfied sigh. “Come—what do you say we have some tea and beschuit in honor of your visit?”
“Thank you,” I said eagerly. The long walk had caused my appetite to return, and I loved the crisp round Dutch breads, especially with honey or fresh-churned butter. I followed him into the dark interior of the cabin, the whitewashed walls streaked with soot from the single fireplace in the far corner of the main room. His heavy wooden shoes clattered across the floorboards as he poured water from an earthenware pitcher into the black iron kettle.
He hung the kettle over the hearth and threw another log on the fire, coaxing the flames higher with a leather bellows, then wiped his hands on his already stained trousers. Anyone meeting him for the first time would be astonished to hear that Uncle Frans was blind—he moved about more nimbly than many sighted men.
“What is your mother busying herself with these days?” he asked, settling his bulky frame into a sturdy oak-and-cane-backed “retiring chair.” His family had brought it over from the Netherlands; the back was set at an angle so the sitter could recline comfortably.
“She’s doing the spring cleaning,” I said, sitting across from him on a low stool.
“She never could abide stillness,” he remarked, stroking his beard and staring into the fire. It was hard to believe those clear blue eyes saw nothing, so keen was his expression. “I hope you are taking care of her, young Slade.”
“Yes, sir, and the neighbors are always stopping by to see that she wants for nothing.”
“That’s as it should be. We folks out here need to look after each other.” He grunted as he leaned over to toss on another log. “So, boy, what brings you over field and furrow to see your old uncle?” he said, wiping the ash from his hands. “What is it you wish to hide from your mother?”
I felt my cheeks burn from emotion as well as the blazing fire.
“I wish to hide nothing, sir—rather, I fear it is she who is dissembling.”
“Is she, now?” he said, turning that pale gaze upon me. “About what, pray tell?”
I hesitated. As I sat before my uncle’s cheerful crackling fire, the terrors of the previous day seemed the foolish fancy of an impressionable boy. But as I looked into those clear, kind blue eyes, the words came tumbling out. I omitted nothing—the sudden storm, the feeling of doom and despair that had seized my soul, and the tragic demise of poor Dragen in the jaws of the hideous hound.
When I had finished, my uncle sat back in his chair and regarded the fire—or rather, listened to it, as he could not see it. The logs popped and hissed, and the smell of green pine sap filled the room.
“There is an old verse I grew up hearing,” he said, pouring a steaming cup of tea into a cracked earthenware mug.
“The Vly, the Vly is dark inside,
Where strange and fearsome things may hide
Heed my warning, hear the cry—
Don’t go nigh the Vly, the Vly.”
“But why?” I said. “What is in the Vly that is so terrible?”
He handed me the steaming mug. “Is it not rather I who should be asking you?”
I shivered in spite of the heat cast off by the blazing fire. My uncle laid a hand upon my shoulder.
“I believe I can tell you what you saw,” he said softly.
“Wh-what?” I said, wanting and yet not wanting to know.
“The creature that devoured your cousin’s dog—”
“What was it, Uncle?” I cried. “What on earth could be so fearsome and terrible?”
“It was Walpurga’s Wind Hound.”
“Who is Walpurga, and what is a—a Wind Hound?”
“Walpurga is the queen of the Wild Hunt.”
“The Wild Hunt?”
“The last day of April is the spring equivalent of Midsummer’s Eve—the very center of springtime. On that night the spirits of the dead return to the earth once more to engage in a mad dash on horseback across the sky. It is a wild hunt of phantasms and specters, terrifying to behold. They are led by the goddess Walpurga and her Wind Hound. That is why we celebrate Walpurgisnacht with bonfires—to celebrate the coming of spring, but also to keep away the spirits.”
“What has this to do with my father?”
“Any mortal who chances upon the Wild Hunt may feel the irresistible urge to join the hunt. Or, if they refuse, they may be kidnapped and taken to the land of the dead. In either case they may not be able to rejoin the living.”
My uncle turned his sightless eyes to the fire. The flames licked and danced in the grate, casting long, twisting shadows on the wall behind, like the writhing forms of doomed souls.
“Perhaps I should not be repeating these tales,” he said. “But I fear you will return to the Vly, curious boy that you are. You have too much of your father in you. I knew when my niece Catharina married a Fletcher she was in for a hard time of it. But she loved him, and I should like to think he loved her.”
“He did—he does!” I cried, hot tears springing to my eyes.
“I believe you’re right,” said Uncle Frans. “But if he witnessed the Wild Hunt, I shudder to think what has become of him.”
“And the Wind Hound?” I asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
My uncle returned his gaze to the fire. “Walpurga’s Wind Hound is ravenous, and must be fed.”
“It feeds—”
“On the living flesh of beasts—or men.”
I nearly fainted from the thought that if the Hound had not gotten to poor Dragen first, Jacob or I could have been its victim.
“Surely these are merely superstitions!” I cried.
My uncle turned his sightless eyes toward me. “I would that they were.” A great sigh escaped his sturdy body. “I have never spoken of this to you, but I was your age when I lost the use of my eyes.”
I wanted to reply, but my mouth would not obey me. All I could do was stare at him dumbly.
“It was just this time of year. I remember the bonfires blazing in the village that night—the one and only time I ventured into the Vly.”
“Wh-what happened?” I said. My voice sounded very small and far away.
He shook his head. “I saw such things as mortal men should never see—nor would ever want to. Demons astride great black horses, hideous to behold, with glowing eyes—women, too, bare-breasted, their hair flowing out behind them. At the fore of the hunt was Walpurga herself, astride a great white mare with a flaming mane.”
“And the Hound? Did you see Walpurga’s Wind Hound?”
“Aye,” he said. “It was the last thing on this earth I ever did see. When its yellow eyes met mine, I fell into a dead faint, and when I awoke, I was as you see me—completely blind. And now you must ask me no more,” he said, rising suddenly from his chair. “I was lucky to escape Hugh Turner’s fate. Had I not been struck blind, I think I should have gone mad.”
“Just one more question, I beg you!” I pleaded.
“One more, and then we must talk of this no further.”
“My father—was he—was his body recovered?”
Uncle Frans shook his head. “I should not tell you this, young Slade.”
“Please—please!”
My uncle took a deep breath and let out a shuddering sigh.
“The coffin we buried in the churchyard that night was empty.”
His words shot terror into my heart, like the blast of a rifle. But with the terror came hope—perhaps my father was still alive! My head swam, and I found it difficult to swallow. At last I recovered myself and sprang to my feet.
“Thank you, Uncle—and now I must go.”
The sun was already low in the sky when I took my leave of Uncle Frans. As we stood on his tiny porch, he laid his strong, knotted hands upon my shoulders.
“Promise me one thing, young Slade,” he implored, but even as he spoke the words I knew I would not. “Tell me you will return no more to the Vly.”
I planted my feet firmly and inhaled the scent of pine smoke curling up from his chimney. “I cannot,” said I.
“Then God help you,” said he, and planted a kiss upon my forehead.
I turned to look back when I was halfway down the long drive to his house. He was still standing on the porch, gazing after me, as if he could see into eternity itself.
I had no wish to tread the woods alone with darkness descending, so I took the longer route leading through the village. Across the fields, I could see the great bonfire blazing in the town square, the sparks shooting like a thousand glowing eyes into the night sky. People had gathered to eat and drink and celebrate Walpurgisnacht Eve; shouts of laughter and singing floated across the fields.
Drawn by the dancing flames, I approached the circle of people around the fire. Suddenly I felt a hand grasp my shoulder. I spun around and found myself face to face with Hugh Turner. He wore an old-fashioned cloth cap at a rakish angle, his fair hair protruding from it, stiff as straw. His eyes were the eyes of a madman. He stared at me for a moment before intoning in a singsong voice:
“The Vly, the Vly is dark inside,
Where strange and fearsome things may hide
Heed my warning, hear the cry—
Don’t go nigh the Vly, the Vly.”
I tore his hand from my shoulder and stumbled down the road, away from the village. When I stopped at my cousin’s house to see how he was faring, my aunt met me at the door to say he was in bed with a fever. I evaded her questions about what had transpired the previous day and set off for my own house. I kissed my mother good-night and went straight up to bed after dinner.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling until my brother’s breathing deepened and became more regular. Around me, the house slept; I alone lay awake in the darkness. There is something in the night, something sly and mysterious and inviting. Even as a child lying in bed, gazing out at the bright summer moon, I felt its beckoning. It spoke to a force within me that was not about life, but something darker. Perhaps it was the allure of death and oblivion, but it called to me nonetheless, heating my blood and sending my head spinning.
Now I lay gazing at that very same moon, grinning full and high in the sky, and I felt that it challenged me—no, dared me—to venture forth with only its cold white light as company. I threw off my covers, slid into my boots, and was out the door before my brother could turn over in his sleep. The sound of his thick breathing followed me as I crept to the kitchen, still and silent as the stars. The crockery, canisters, and bins of flour were alive with moonbeams cascading wantonly through the French lace curtains, throwing their reflected light into every corner of the room. I stopped, struck by the beauty of the moment, and by the knowledge that here, now, I was safe. Once I opened the door and ventured outside, I left the security of my family home behind.
I sucked in a lungful of air, put my trembling hand upon the door latch, and pushed. The door gave, and I stepped over the threshold and into the waiting night. I tiptoed across the small back yard and through the gate. The moonlight settled over the landscape like a cold white hand. Ahead of me the road lay, a ribbon of white stones and packed dirt awash in its pale light. I headed to the corral, whistling softly for my roan pony, Atticus.
I was answered by a gentle neighing and the clop of hooves trotting across the dusty paddock. Soon his head was on my shoulder, prodding gently as he sniffed for sugar lumps hidden in my jacket. I fished around in my pocket and found two, which I held out on my palm. His velvety muzzle tickled my outstretched hand as his lips closed over the sugar. He nickered with pleasure as he munched the cubes, nodding and tossing his head.
“Atticus,” I murmured, “come along.”
I had known Atticus from the day of his birth; it was my arm that pulled him, slimy, stunned, and sweating, from his mother’s body when she was too weak to stand after hours of labor. It was I who washed and dried him and put his mouth to her teat, watching as he found the strength to suck it, pulling life into his spindly body. I was there when he was weaned, when he stretched and kicked up his legs with the other colts in the pasture, and I put the first saddle on him when he was two years old.
Mine was the only body he had borne upon his back, and I knew the feel of my legs around his ribs as well as I knew the touch of my own mother’s hand. He had never thrown me, and I had never raised a hand to him. He knew neither whip nor lash, only the gentle pressure of my legs against his sides; the merest touch of my heels would send him into a full canter.
He sensed my excitement, as horses do, prancing and pawing the ground as I laid the saddle upon his back. When I sprang lightly into the saddle, he took off at a brisk trot, and soon we were cantering down the dirt road in the direction of the Vly. My fear had been replaced by determination to find out what had become of my father—even if I perished in the process.
The night was windless and calm, the pregnant moon overhead lighting my way. The creak of saddle leather blended with the even, rhythmic thud of Atticus’s hooves upon the soft dirt as we ventured deeper into the forest. We stopped at a streambed so he could drink, and I heard the furtive rustling of nighttime creatures in the woods. The liquid woot-woot-wootoo of a barred owl high in the branches above us cut through the stillness of the night.
We continued, the terrain descending as a low-lying mist rose from the ground. As I approached the clearing where we had seen the great hound, I felt the same oppressive dread and nameless terror I had experienced before. This time I resisted, urging Atticus forward with a gentle press of my knees—but he balked and stood still, shivering, his ears pricked sharply forward. I had never known him to disobey a command before. I pressed harder, still with no response. I did something I had never done—I dug my heels deeply into his flanks. Startled, he leapt forward into the clearing.
A great gust of wind tore the hat from my head, and as I reached out to grab it, the sky itself seemed to open up. I was enveloped by an unearthly light, fierce and glowing, pouring from the heavens themselves. I was too astonished to be afraid, and as I gazed upward, a great roar shook the air. I heard the thundering of a thousand hooves, the battle cries of a legion of warriors, and the terrified screams of their unfortunate prey.
The sound, eerie as it was, scarcely prepared me for the sight that greeted my astounded eyes. Pouring from the cavernous rift in the sky, a spectral host on horseback galloped in mad pursuit of its fleeing quarry—a swarm of ghostly bison, deer, and elk. Accompanied by dogs of all sizes and descriptions, some of the hunters were misshapen gnomes with gnarled, demonic faces. Others were fierce-looking, well-formed men and women—some fully clothed, while others rode half-naked astride their charging steeds. Many of the women were bare-breasted, their wild hair flowing out behind them. These Amazons had the same fierce gaze as their male counterparts, clutching spears in their muscular bare arms. In front of the mass of riders was a tall, magnificent woman with long hair of burnished gold, at her side the same gaunt hound I had seen days earlier. I realized that it must be Walpurga herself, leading the chase.
I watched transfixed as they charged down from the heavens. My fear was replaced by a burning urge to join the multitude in their crazed dash across the sky. Atticus seemed to sense my eagerness, prancing impatiently beneath me. My gaze fell upon a rider mounted upon a tall chestnut mare, and I realized with a shock that it was my father! My heart fluttered and danced with joy in my chest—my father was alive! I urged Atticus forward to meet him, but my father’s gaze met mine, and he shook his head, a great sadness in his eyes. I hesitated, confused—was I not to be with him, to speak with him once again?
I wrapped my legs around my horse’s sides and squeezed. He sprang forward with a mighty leap, and we sailed, horse and rider, into the midst of the thundering herd of hunters. My ears rang with battle cries, my eyes were pierced with unearthly light, and my breast was flooded with such emotion it left me breathless. I seemed to experience every passion I had ever felt in my life, multiplied tenfold, a rush of feelings so intense it felt as if I must be going mad. Love, rage, jealousy, envy, terror, joy, and sorrow vied for mastery—but as these fell away, I felt the thrill of the hunt, the primal lust for blood. I heard the sound of my own voice shouting, as if very far away, joining the great commotion all around. I tightened my grip on the reins and urged my horse forward—until I caught up with my father. Riding next to him, I stretched out my hand. He hesitated, then reached his hand toward mine.
At that moment a great demon mounted on a black stallion came galloping toward us, a long spear held aloft in his misshapen hand. The stallion tossed his great head, frothing and straining at the bit. Just behind them I saw Walpurga’s Wind Hound, teeth bared, charging toward us.
My father shrank back and tried to let go my hand, but I clutched his all the tighter. The demon rider closed in on us, his face a hideous mask of rage. His eyes were blazing red coals of fury, his skin green as tree moss. He raised his spear overhead, and my father pulled back from my grasp. Though my arm felt as if it was about to be wrenched from the socket, I would not let go, and held on to him with all my strength.
“No-o-o-o-o!” I cried, and closed my eyes.
Blackness descended upon me like a blanket.
When I awoke, the clearing was still and quiet except for the chirping of birds in the meadow. I lifted my head from the damp ground and opened my eyes.
I saw nothing but darkness, and realized I was now entirely blind.
“Atticus,” I whispered. “Where are you?”
I heard the familiar soft whinny, and felt his muzzle nudge my shoulder. Another touch greeted me as well—that of a human hand.
“Hello, Slade.”
Tears dampened my eyes as I grasped my father’s hand in my own.
A good horse always knows the way home. My father insisted that I ride while he walked alongside Atticus. I relented, heaving my weary body onto the horse’s broad back for the long walk back. On the return trip, my father recounted to me that fateful night he joined the hunt, drawn in just as I had been, enthralled by their powerful allure. He was astonished to hear he had been gone for a year; the time for him had passed as if it were a single day. We wondered if any explanation of the night’s fantastical events would satisfy my mother. My father explained that he had tried vainly to warn me away from joining the Wild Hunt—but being a foolish and headstrong boy, I was beyond heeding the warnings of my elders.
I had succeeded in saving him, at the cost of my eyesight. Though it is a price I was willing to pay, I consider it my duty to warn others of the dark and dangerous things in this world. He who would venture into their midst should be forewarned.
The Vly, the Vly is dark inside,
Where strange and fearsome things may hide
Heed my warning, hear the cry—
Don’t go nigh the Vly, the Vly.