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The
Legend of the Ghost Rider
by Washington
Irving
To a homeless man, as indeed most carnival men are, there is a momentary
feeling of something like independence and territorial consequence, when,
after a weary day’s travel, he kicks off his boots, throws off his
leathered jacket, and stretches himself before an inn fire. How John Blaze
came to this small fire upon his burning quest for a fire as much more
deadly as the bear is to the possum, is the tale I myself heard by an
inn’s fireside and share with you now.
All men, but most especially the wanderers, have their demons. John Blaze
had met his demon, had felt him burn within him and knew his faceless
countenance as if it were his own. Of late the demon had escaped young
master Blaze, but peradventure word was had of a ghostly rider in the
upstate New York burgh of Tarry Town. The descriptions, even discounting
the inevitable hyperbole of the small town gossip, bore uncanny similarities
to the demon Blaze pursued. The news of this baneful rogue, so burthened
the mind of Blaze that he set at once north along Hendrick Hudson’s
river, though he had never before distanced further than Greymalkin Lane
in the West of Chester.
As John Blaze came unto the portion of the town called Sleepy Hollow,
few were those without a tale to tell of the spectral rider. They were
to a man much given to the marvellous. Some claimed he was a goblin hurling
pumpkins as bombs aflame at riders in the night. This hellfire mounted
spectre was called by some DareDevil but by most simply the Ghost Rider.
This plurality suggested DareDevil was the name not of the spectre, but
his demonic conveyance. A great chopper made of flame bore the faceless
rider faster than fifteen score horses’ power. It issued forth as
a knight errant so doused in forbidden lore as to be able to soar past
all men, beast or bike. The ghoul was seen only by dark, most oft on the
road by the graveyard.
The last ray of sunshine departed – the bats began to flit by in
the twilight – and Blaze went out to meet his demon. The road grew
dimmer and dimmer to view; and nothing appeared stirring in it. Then he
heard the roar of the hellfire bike. A mad cackle like Macbeth’s
crones, followed soon after. Any lesser man’s knees would smite
together and these sounds would precipitate his retreat. What John Blaze
thought then I can not tell, for I do not know, but it is no mere guess
that he was chilled to the quick.
The moon had poured her downward light upon the rich forrest and soon
the Ghost Rider rode into view like some ancient knight errant. His leggings
and jacket both leatheren and rusty black. The jacket was bedecked with
a perplexity of stupendous brass buttons. But atop the jacket was no head,
rather the fires of hell and a grinning gleaming skull. No eyes shewn
in the sockets, no tongue shewn in the craw, but some manner of metempsychosis
animated the the skull and body both.
The bike wheeled its broad front disc to a sudden stop, just inches from
bold John Blaze. The heat of the fiery cycle stuck in the nose and throat
like cotton. Brave master Blaze began to wish he was confronted by some
mean goblin or like easily conquered adversary.
“Zarathos” Blaze invoked the demon’s name.
The fiery skull reared back and let loose laughter purchased by the torment
of weak mortals foolish enough to believe they might elude the spirit
of vengeance. The Ghost Rider pointed his gloved hand at Blaze and poured
forth soul searing hell fire. Blaze did not falter, he knew his sins and
was fain to endure them. If this appalling act of vengeance could claim
him he would not endeavor to avoid it. The blast of hellfire approached
him, an insuperable wall of flame. But being no fool, he raised up his
own weapon, a mere earthly shotgun of rusted iron and worm eaten wood.
The flames poured into the barrel of his fire lock, and were swallowed
up in it. To tell the precise truth the hellfire had bewitched the weapon.
Blaze recoiled from the blast but triggered his gun and found it shot
forth that verysame hell fire. The demon rider could not endure the soul
searing flames he had doled out upon countless mortals. He wheeled his
demon bike away and Blaze gave chace. It is meet I should mention that
Blaze himself was a rider of no small skill. But borne on his earthly
mount Blaze could scarce hope to overtake the demon. The Ghost Rider disappeared
into the night.
And so the story ends but not for Blaze who would continue his quest for
the demon all of his days.
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