The Headless Horseman

Sometime ago, up the mountain between Toas and Mora, there lived a family of sheepherders.

They were a typical family of the time, three generations and a dozen children all living on the ranch, taking turns at the various chores from tending sheep to tilling the field and felling trees.

Juan Jose, called Pepito, was the youngest. Pepito would often end up tending the sheep, because it was usually the simplest task and he was fairly efficient with the bolo and rope if needed.

One evening, they were pressing the sheep back down the hill towards their enclosure, when Pepito heard a faint bleating.

“Espera,” he called to his older brother, “One’s lost,”

“Well, go check for it. We’ll finish the herd and come back to help.”

“Bueno,” and with that Pepito ran back up the hill. He paused at the crest and listened carefully,

“bahhh-hah,” he could just make out the cry, and he carefully walked towards the noise until he came to an outcropping of rock some twenty feet around its base and up to ten feet tall.

The bleating was muffled, so he was certain the sheep had managed to get in the rocks. He walked around the pile, but could see no entrance.

“Must be up top,” he mumbled, and slowly climbed a shorter section of the pile. As he scrambled the top of the rocks he suddenly understood how the sheep had gotten stuck in the first place: the ledge gave way and he felt himself falling before blacking out.

He woke up sometime later, well after dark, with a splitting headache, and wooly sheep pressing close to him.

“Oye,” he said to the sheep, “I’m here,”

“Bah!”

Came the response.

He glanced up to where he’d fallen through. In the moonlight, he could see it wasn’t too far down. “Not too bad, oveja,” he said as he looked around the space, it was a small cave maybe 20 feet deep and 10 feet wide. He squinted to the far end, “looks like we’ll be able to get…out.” He trailed off as his eyes adjusted.

On the far wall, he could just make out a figure leaning against it: a headless skeleton in Spanish armor, one hand resting on a sword which still gleamed even that far back in the cave.

Pepito shuddered. There were rumors of conquistadors in the mountains, who sometimes buried their gold and died with it.

“Perhaps there’s oro, here,” He said to the sheep, “eh oveja? Or maybe we could take the sword as souvenir?”

As he shuffled to look more closely at the skeleton, he froze. In the gloom ahead, a pair of red eyes began to glow where the head should be.

Pepito didn’t wait to see what the eyes would do, but took up the sheep and practically flew out of the cave.

“Home home home,” he chanted in panic. As he ran down the slope dodging trees, he became aware of another sound:

Tuk-a-tuk tuk-a-tuk tuk-a-tuk

It was getting louder, and louder

Tuk-a-tuk tuk-a-tuk TUK-A-TUK

He glanced over his shoulder and practically fainted: it was massive horse with a headless rider barreling towards him with the glimmering sword held high.

“YOUR HEAD!!!!”

A horrid, shrieking voice filled the air as the sword came fast at Pepito’s neck. Pepito dodged to the side and ran headlong down the mountain as the rider approached him again,

“YOUR HEAAAAD!!!!”

Again he dodged, the sheep bleating in protest at the jarring ride. He could see the river ahead and the first glint of sunrise as he approached the old bridge. He ran harder even as the horrid hooves were treading behind him getting closer and louder, closer and louder:

Tuk-a-tuk Tuk-a-tuk Tuk-a-tuk

He didn’t dare look behind

Tuk-a-tuk Tuk-a-TUK TUK-A-TUK

He was almost to the bridge

TUK-A-TUK TUK-A-TUK TUK-A-TUK

He could feel the horseman’s blade rise for a killing blow.

“YOUR HEAAA-“

Pepito tripped onto the bridge and tumbled headlong to the middle of the wooden blanks. The air grew deathly silent. Slowly, Pepito turned to look behind him. The path behind him was deserted as the sun started to light the tress, and a chorus of birds began to sing.