Now we have heard tell of Moultine Monck and his deeds, the fall of young Mary, and the musicians’ tragedy.  And there is a final story here to tell.  So let us begin:

Leshy

Part three (part one, part two)

 

      “If able, I would bear it, I do not deny my effort—but the god of Love has conquered me…”

-Orpheus

 

     Quite literally an exact week beyond the consumption of our musical revolutionaries, a young trapper called Stogan Woolverton, that so merry a humble huntsman, sought to marry the fair Yuelle Everhart, the gentrous daughter of a local landowner, Pealcut Everhart—seriously, that was his name.

     Of course, no contemptuous lesser dare endure their child’s positional descent.  Thus, the cavalier Pealcut refused good Stogan his daughter’s hand.

     But the two were ever amid so perilous a mighty whim—love.  The huntsman and his devoted match shared a bond which twisted between what admissible affairs had lately preoccupied their futures, charging their detached marital abandonment.  Since Lord Everhart would have none of this conspicuous charade, he forbade his daughter from indulging her heart’s delight.

     Reclusion overwhelmed the poor Stogan and he would hear not his love’s pleas to meet so as to dissuade his unacceptable attraction.  This was until a midnight visit from the Reverend Edicet.  The daring Reverend offered to wed the two lovers in three night’s time amid the ruins of St. Gibb’s chapel, lest they lose their affectional rarity forever.

     Bewildering euphoria consumed the pair amid lovely contemplation for three long days.  They met on the third night at the chapel with Reverend Edicet and Stogan’s trusty comrade, Nevil, to witness.  Young Yuelle donned her handmade gown while the three men exchanged haunted theories of their necessarily distant venue.

     It was then that Stogan Woolverton happened to spot an abandoned fiddle—the lost device of our third late soldier, unfortunately released amid the swampous flood which carried him away—and began to jest a lighthearted sinfonia.  He stopped when Yuelle appeared from behind a chapel wall, dumbfounded amid his bride’s perfection.  He could hardly speak, let alone produce something of an equivalent grandeur on the violin.

     They rushed to an embrace and encouraged the wedding’s conclusion.  But the quivering Reverend had begun considering how foolish a venture braving the chapel was.  His woe was met with the rousing herald of drum and flute.  Soon enough, the floor of the wood quickened and with its haste crawled the muddy scraps of men.  The Reverend was plucked from among the trespassers first and swallowed into the marsh.

     Stogan and Nevil were seasoned combatants and stout with courage, but never a horde of damned had they encountered.  They resisted the mud with ferocity and hurried Yuelle to high ground.

     But ere they could reach a hill, Berkeley Monck collected the young bride from their clutches and whisked her back into the fog.

     “No!”  And with that, Stogan dove directly into the stream of the dead and fought his way back to the chapel.  Nevil charged closely behind.

     It would appear their valiant efforts afforded a moment of asylum as all about the men retreated.  Even Yuelle stood alone within the chapel walls in utter disbelief.  But her fear had not diminished and the laughter and chimes of young Mary Githblid resonated about the wood in a discouraging revulsion.

     Yuelle turned to Stogan to catch his frightful stare as he clambered upon a felled stone.  Her eyes widened in disbelief as the long fingers of the Leshy folded around her waist.

     “Yuelle!”

     “Stogan!”

     But it was for not and she wept as the Leshy lifted her to his horrific expression.  The creature’s face opened wide and Yuelle thrashed for release, but the Leshy consumed the poor girl with a hideous gulp.

     The Leshy turned to amble back to the swamp and Stogan endeavored a charge, but Nevil seized his arm.  “You will do nothing for Yuelle to die here tonight.  Let us collect our stead and return in might.”

     This hardly assured the enraged hunter, but he conceded to return another time.  There was never a more grimly moonlit walk among friends as Stogan and Nevil’s return to town.

     The fault of Yuelle’s demise it would appear belonged to many: Pealcut’s dismissal of Stogan’s love, encouraging a secret wedding, the Revernd Edicet’s unmanageable terror, Stogan and Nevil’s willing to expose Yuelle to so treacherous a place, and many decades of fearful townsfolk too shaken to test the Leshy.

     And so, to expire the fiendish demon, a mighty hunt was held to flesh out the beast.  The party was over fifty strong and most were filled with dread—a necessary misdeed on so paramount an eve.  There were torches and rifles, crossbows and pitchforks.

     But the torches and machines of men frightened the Leshy not and soon into the night ten men were quickly lost, engulfed by the succubic mire.  Those enchanted to follow Berkeley Monck encountered the Leshy first and were quickly gobbled up to the jestful laughter of Mary Githblid.

     The dozen men with Stogan, and Nevil was among them, ventured to locate the Leshy’s lair.  And soon enough, they did.  With casks of oil and torches ready, the burning of the cave would soon commence.  But the Leshy shed his consumed victim’s spirits like a snake sheds skin, and the voice of Yuelle called to her lover from within the cavern.

     “Men, stop!  Yuelle?”

     Nevil placed a hand on Stogan’s shoulder.  “Brother, it is not your bride.”

     “Be off of me!” He cried, and charged into the cave.

     Down Stogan ventured, into the deep of the mire.

     “Yuelle, where are you.”

     “I am here.”

     Having dispatched the group’s others, the mudland horde, spirituous wonderers, and the Leshy’s grotesque figure hastened to the cave.  The sludge arose with asunder and swiftly drowned Nevil’s men.  He’d no choice but to brave the cavern now himself.

     Nevil found Stogan deep within the cave amid a spectral embrace with the spirit of his lover.  Her kiss pulled from Stogan what life was in him and the stout trapper soon fell to the ground.  He was lost.

     It would be well to say Nevil feared not his newfound predicament, but no man could courageously endure so ghastly a night dispelling all traces of fright.

     The Leshy’s sludge poured into the cave with the foulest of odors and Nevil flailed a futile brawl against his mud-ridden adversaries until there was no fight left within him.  The swamp moved upon the boy and pulled him down.  Nevil caught the hellish gaze of the Leshy and cursed the demon as he plummeted to his doom.  The brave lad’s combative scowl twisted into horror as his wide, disbelieving stare vanished beneath the mire.

     I hope you guys’ve enjoyed these shorts about the Leshy!  Have a wonderful Halloween and be safe!

-Matt

Copyright © 2016 Matthew Bell. All Rights Reserved.

Title quote by Opeth.