The Preparation at the Crossroads
Midnight. The witching hour. At a lonely crossroads in County Sligo, the air grows impossibly cold, dropping twenty degrees in a second. Mist swirls and thickens, coagulating into the shape of a magnificent black stallion. Pawing the ground, literal sparks fly from its hooves, burning sulphurous holes in the turf.
Beside it stands a man. An imposing figure, he is dressed in a flowing black cape and thigh-high boots of polished leather. But where his neck should end in a face, there is only a smooth, severed stump of raw flesh.
The Dullahan holds his head in his right arm, tucked against his side like a precious helmet.
Lifting the head for inspection, he examines it closely. The skin is the color and texture of moldy cheese, speckled with the decay of centuries. A hideous grin splits the face from ear to ear, exposing rotting teeth. Small, black eyes dart about, possessing an unnerving, frantic intelligence.
Taking a cloth of spun spider silk from his pocket, the Dullahan begins to polish the head. Rubbing the forehead, the sunken cheeks, the bald pate—under the friction, the head begins to glow. It emits a phosphorescent, sickly green light. This is his lantern. This is how he sees across the dark moors.
The Coiste Bodhar
He whistles, a sharp sound that makes nearby leaves wither and detach from the trees. From the shadows rolls a carriage. This is the Coiste Bodhar, the Death Coach. A vehicle of nightmare, it is made of dried human skin stretched over a framework of thigh bones. Wheel spokes are femurs, and the lanterns are skulls with candles burning inside.
The smell of the coach is the smell of an opened crypt. Mounting his horse, which is hitched to the coach by traces made of human hair, the Dullahan holds his head high in the air. Glowing eyes scan the horizon. Possessing a terrifying clarity, they can see for miles, piercing through stone walls, hills, and forests to find the dying.
"Ride," the head whispers. Its voice is the sound of a coffin lid slamming shut.
The Ride
They thunder down country lanes. The horse moves with terrifying speed, yet its hooves make no sound on the tarmac. The only noise is the creaking of the bone-carriage and the whistling of the wind.
Approaching a locked estate gate, iron, heavy, and barred, the Dullahan does not slow down. As the coach rushes toward it, the iron screams. Bolts snap. The gate flies open as if struck by a battering ram, bowing to the authority of death. Nothing can bar the way of the Dullahan when he is on a mission.
Passing a late-night traveler walking home from the pub, the Dullahan senses the man looking up at the wind of their passage.
He pulls back on the reins. He does not like to be watched. Reaching into the deep pocket of his coat, he pulls out a basin of blood and flings it at the traveler. A mark of doom. The traveler falls back, covered in sticky red fluid, blinded and terrified. He will carry the stain of the Dullahan for the rest of his short life.
The Stop
Outside a stone cottage, the coach skids to a halt. Horses rear up silently.
Dismounting, the Dullahan walks to the door. He does not knock. Lifting his head, the dead eyes stare through the wood of the door. He can see inside perfectly.
In the bedroom, an old woman lies in her bed, surrounded by her grieving family. She is struggling for breath.
The Dullahan speaks a name. "Mary," the head intones.
That is all. To speak the name is to sever the soul's anchor to the body. Inside the cottage, the woman exhales her last breath. The candle by her bedside flickers and dies. The Dullahan does not enter. He is not the Reaper who collects, he is the Herald who unlocks the door.
The Return
His duty is discharged.
Remounting his stallion, the head grins wider, satisfied with a job well done. Phosphorescence begins to dim as the first hint of morning greys the eastern sky.
Turning the coach back toward the crossroads, he knows he must be gone before the sun rises. Gold is his weakness. Even a single gold coin thrown on the road could stop him in his tracks, frightening him away. But tonight, the road is clear of gold.
He fades into the dawn mist, a nightmare of bone and shadow dissolving into dew. He has ridden. He has spoken. And he will wait in the darkness of the Otherworld until the next name rises to his lips.
