(Originally posted 10/27/04 and lost in the attack. reposted from alternate archives - Kelryck)

(HSC) The True Legend of Sleepy Hollow
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In the year 1817, Washington Irving was given credit for writing The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, a short story regularly read during the Halloween season. It is a little known fact that Mr. Irving did not originate the legend, but rather adapted it to the early American culture from an old Nordic folktale dating back many centuries. What follows is indeed the true Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

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Trolls are famously known for many things; foremost among these are courage, size, and (of course) appetite. When faced with a charging knight of Albion, a troll will commonly snap the enemy’s lance, pummel him into the ground, and eat his horse… all without breaking a sweat. Trolls are tremendously proud of this image that they portray to both countrymen and foreign enemy. When one of their kin does not live up to the high standards of trolldom, they are informally shunned from the society of the rock people.

Ockabod Krump was one such troll. He possessed neither courage, size, nor appetite… the latter two resulting from a lack of the former. Ockabod was a coward. He had a nervous disposition and he flinched at danger as much as any creature of stone could flinch. His stomach was always in knots, and he could rarely gulp down more than a few mushrooms at a time without becoming violently ill. Ockabod, therefore, was small when compared to others of his race. He was not short, in fact he was as tall as any of his cousins, but he was the thinnest troll in all of Midgard. Where his brothers could be described as living mountains, Ockabod was more of a tall stalagmite.

Ockabod Krump endured years of disgust from his fellow race. The troll community would never officially ostracize one of their own, but Ockabod rightly felt that the time had come for him to leave his family and settle in some remote corner of Midgard where he would be less of a humiliation to his kin. Why he chose to settle in the region of West Svealand no one will ever know, for it was home of the Blodfelags, an extremely racist clan of Norsemen who tolerated little of any non-human, particularly trolls.

Ockabod made his home in a course cave-like shelter near the town of Sleepy Hollow, a peaceful quiet community on the border of snowy Raumarik. The residents were predictably harsh and abusive toward the troll, calling him all sorts of names and threatening his life, but nobody ever went so far as to carry out their threats. Perhaps the reason Ockabod chose Sleepy Hollow as his new home was because he sensed in these people the same type of nervous tension that resided in his own heart. Perhaps it intrigued him that these humans who lived in such a calm, idyllic setting could harbor such a hidden, vivid fear. He sensed the mood the moment he first stepped foot in the Hollow, for he had been attuned to that same dread his entire life.

The only person in Sleepy Hollow who would associate with Ockabod was an old merchant crone named Ygveg. She barely tolerated the troll, but would at least trade him supplies for the baskets of mushrooms he would bring from his well-groomed patch. Ockabod never attempted friendship, but over time the two developed a begrudging relationship.

One mid-autumn day during Ockabod’s first fall season in Sleepy Hollow, he had gone into town late for some supplies before the sun set. To his surprise the few streets and lanes were empty and Ygveg’s cottage was closed and shuttered. Ockabod made a few nervous taps on the woman’s door, almost tearing it off its hinges. Ygveg did not answer, and Ockabod started growing more panicked than usual. A sound on the road caused him to yank his head around, and he saw a cart of two villagers approaching rapidly. As the cart passed, the driver noticed Ockabod standing there and suddenly pulled hard on the reigns bringing the cart to a halt. Ockabod recognized the man as one of the crueler citizens of the town. His companion nervously nudged him with his elbow and said “Let’s go Borm, it is late!”

“Pipe down, we have time,” Borm told the passenger. Then he turned his dark gaze on Ockabod “What are you doing out?” he demanded.

Ockabod hesitated in fear and then stuttered, “Uuuh, uurmm… I needs supplies of Ygveg.”

“Don’t you know what tonight is?” asked the man in disbelief.

“N..no I dun’t.”

“It is All Hallows Eve, you dim troll. This is the night that He rides the roads of Svealand!”

“Who is He?” replied Ockabod, feeling the pit of his stomach start to drop the very long distance to his feet.

The driver had a twinkle in his eye and he climbed down from the cart, moving ominously toward Ockabod. “Come on Borm!” yelled the other passenger wildly. Borm ignored him as he slowly advanced on the towering troll.

“He… is the Headless Norseman,” Borm whispered in harsh, forbidden tones. “He rides down from Raumarik every Hallows Eve mounted on a deadly glacier mauler, a gigantic bear of pure white. No one knows how the Headless Norseman lost his head, but by some evil magics he remains alive through the years, and in place of his head floats a pumpkin carved into the hideous shape of a human face!”

The sudden sound of rocks banging together startled both men, until they realized it was Ockabod’s knees. Ockabod clamped his legs together and muttered “Wha.. what does he do then?”

“What does he do? He lops off the heads of cursed citizens of this village! Last year old Krogen was found down by the river without his noggin. The year before it was a pair of young lovers. The Headless Norseman has been plaguing Sleepy Hollow for over two decades, and – ”

“Get out of here, you no-good Blodfelag!” came a cry from the Ygveg’s cabin. The little old woman stood there brandishing a torch in the fading light. “There’s no need of you spreading panic on this woman’s doorstep!” She gave a menacing look at Borm, who stepped back with a grim smile.

“I’m leaving, hag. I just wanted to say goodbye to the foul troll, here. We won’t be seeing him around these parts no more. You see, the Headless Norseman is a Blodfelag, and he hates trolls more than any of us ever did.” He let out a raucous laugh and jumped back on the cart next to his relieved companion. Borm cracked the reigns and his sweating pony bolted off down the road.

“Oooo,” sighed Ygveg, “Why did you pick such a night to come into the Hollow?”

“I.. I needs supplies,” Ockabod whimpered, barely able to speak. “Does th’ man speak true?”

Ygveg paused a moment, debating with herself, then finally muttered “Yes, he speaks true. Now…” she broke off and shambled into her hut, shortly returning with an armful of supplies. “Here you go… no, no need for payment tonight. And take this with you.” Ygveg handed Ockabod her large torch. “I for one am hoping to see you again.” She looked down at the ground, almost ashamed to have spoken. “Now go,” she told him and hurried back into her cottage, slamming and locking the dilapidated door.

Ockabod stood alone on the road for a full minute in shock, then broke from his horror-filled reverie and ran on long legs in the direction of his home… toward Raumarik. Night had fallen fully by this time and Ockabod ran wildly with the torch held out far in front of him to see any pits or rocks in the road.

He was close now, close to his humble cave and safety. Ockabod smiled for the first time in years. He would live.

And then he saw it. Lifting above the horizon on the road ahead was the dark outline of a man against the moonlight, sitting on some tremendous shaggy boulder… a glacier mauler. Ockabod stopped, petrified by fear, and both the armload of supplies and the torch fell crashing to the ground. The dark figure also stopped, the only motion coming from the heaving breath of the mounted bear and a dim red flicker where the man’s eyes should be. A moment passed, a brief eternity, where Ockabod realized that he never once lived up to his mother’s vision of the troll he should become. He felt true sadness, a melancholy far deeper than any shallow nervousness or superficial discomfort he had known his whole life.

But now the sadness was replaced by raw, bone-freezing terror, for the Headless Norseman started to move. The huge mauler rolled down the road toward Ockabod like an avalanche. The Norseman reached behind his back and pulled out a large, brutal cleaver. Icy blue flame played along its black surface, licking off the dried blood of countless victims. As the Norseman drew close, only mere strides from Ockabod, the troll’s keen eyesight could pick out every detail in the carved pumpkin face. Rays of heat emanated from the wicked grin and burning eyes. The demon pulled back his muscular, undead arm for the final strike.

In that very instant something snapped inside of Ockabod. An irresistible trait was unlocked deep within, and one of the most ancient, ancestral qualities of the Troll Fathers sprung to the surface of his being.

Hunger.

Ockabod’s mighty rock fist pounded the nose of the bear and his left hand caught the Norseman’s arm in mid swing, pulling the devil from his mount. The helpless Norseman hung there in midair, dangling from Ockabod’s uplifted fist. The pumpkin face twisted into a confused kind of naivety and looked up at the troll wondering what he would do now. Ockabod swiped off the hovering head and stuffed it into his mouth, gulping down the pumpkin in three bites. He belched a mighty belch and sent a few tendrils of smoke into the crisp autumn air. The body of the Norseman turned to frost in Ockabod’s hands and the archaic robes fell to the ground along with the dormant cleaver. The glacier mauler looked up at the troll in a panic, and scrambled off back to its home in Raumarik as fast as its legs could move.

From that day onward, Ockabod was a changed troll. Not only that, but Sleepy Hollow was a changed town. They were free of terror for the first time in decades. Ockabod became a hero and was, though somewhat grudgingly, accepted into the peaceful community as a fellow citizen. Sleepy Hollow had shrugged off its fear forever, all thanks to the troll who finally listened to his stomach. And as for Ockabod, he would never be called skinny again.