text: . When I was a child, I knew of a strange old tale connected with my town, where, during the War, there had been a quartermaster’s office. As I was told it, there was a courier whose job it was to ride a set of heavy leather bound ledgers from the town to the front lines thirty or so kilometres away. The ledger contained information concerning rations, ammunition, horses and various other supplies as well as casualty lists from the front. Although the fellow had some formal title, everyone simply referred to him as the Ledgerman. Every Monday morning, regular as clockwork, the Ledgerman would retrieve the books from the quartermaster, carefully place them in his saddlebags, and ride off to the front. The road was easy enough to travel, and it was all through a quiet track of farmland. The men at the checkpoints knew him well, and did not bother to stop him and ask for papers. Having arrived at the front-lines, he would hand over the books to whomever the commander was (the holder of the position changed quite regularly) and waited for the logs to be updated. He would then strap the books back onto his horse, and return to town, usually by six o’clock in the evening. As the months rolled on, the Ledgerman grew to enjoy his job increasingly, as he was paid well and there was hardly any chance of danger. Although he would never admit it, quietly, he had began to hope that the war wouldn’t conclude as soon as the newspapers continually claimed it would. As the autumn months arrived, a final offensive pushed the front lines several miles further along the frontier than before, and as the quartermaster explained, the Ledgerman would have to travel a longer route to run the books to the advanced lines. The forest he would have to cross had not been travelled by anyone since the offensive, and there would be no checkpoints or guards. It had been a sight of heavy foresting, but when the War rolled through, it had taken the woodsmen and foresters with it, so the trees had been left to grow unhindered. He set off that morning as he usually did except somewhat more contented that he would be paid a little extra for the additional hours it would take to make the journey. Having passed the old earthworks, he approached the forest beyond where lay the vanguard. The trees were quite sparse and broken trunks and stumps studded the whole place. There had been a heavy barrage of artillery, and it was clear that much of it had been destroyed. As he passed through, he noted that a set of baleful chevaux de frise had been made, which ran off into the increasingly dense wood. As he travailed further, he saw a large number of dead horses lying on either side of the path. His own horse was perturbed by the sight, and started into the wood after a moment. With some difficulty, he navigated it back to the road, but only after noticing an increasing number of bodies. After what seemed longer than it was, he emerged, greeted by the shattered remnants of outbuildings belonging to what must have been a grand estate. Amongst them were some tents and entrenchments garrisoned by a small number of haggard-looking men. Having dismounted, the Ledgerman was approached by a young officer who introduced himself as the new commander. He took the logs without a second glance at their keeper, but the Ledgerman, who did not usually award himself such liberties, felt obligated to make a hurried inquiry about the dead horses in the forest. The young officer explained that the advance had been broken by a disorganised cavalry charge, which was eventually driven back with much effort. He said that the Ledgerman need not worry about any stragglers, as the barrage made survival within the forest highly improbable. Nevertheless, he asked the rider if he would rather stay the night at camp, as dusk would be falling shortly. The Ledgerman did not find the prospect of staying amongst the dishevelled soldiers appealing in the least, and so nervously waited for the commander to fill in all of the necessary information. The officer had only finished writing up all of the casualty lists as the sun set behind the distant treeline. The Ledgerman, who had thrown the books into the saddlebags in a fashion unbefitting his conscientious self, had departed as quickly as he could, wishing to avoid the sight of the horses on the road. He quickened his pace as he entered the forest, and as he continued, he seemed to hear a whinny or cry from somewhere off in the distance. As the trunks became less sparse, he detected upon the ground ahead of him, an unmistakable pair of hoof marks trodden into the muddy path. They were facing in the direction he was going, and he felt certain that he had not noticed any such marks on the way there and that they surely couldn’t be from his own horse. The night was not very dark, as the moon was full, but this did more to unnerve than comfort him. His sight was good enough to make out the shape of the road very clearly ahead of him and the nearby trees, but not good enough to see beyond the dark edges of the encroaching woodland. The Ledgerman’s progress was impeded by the nervousness of his horse, which would start and stop suddenly, bray, and then anxiously continue. Every now and again, he would turn and look whence he had come to make sure there was nobody following him. This went on for a few hours, by which time the Ledgerman had put himself, though not by much degree, at ease. *It’s simply my fancy*, he thought to himself, *Like the commander said, there could not have been any survivors*. Such thoughts occupied his mind for some time, and he hoped that the wood would soon clear. However, as he turned a tight bend, he froze. In the centre of the road a short distance off was, or what had once been, a horse. It truly was a horrifying spectacle. Its emaciated body was contorted in a terrible manner, its hide hanging off, revealing the rotting and torn muscle beneath. Its tangled mane was made out in two knots, where shaking hands had clutched at it in terror before they had been torn free. The cyclopean head turned up on a heavy neck, revealing a socket and one forlorn and yellow eye. A pair of bony nostrils blew a heavy gust of steam as it looked upon the Ledgerman. Whether the cry issued was from his horse or the creature, the poor fellow could not discern. Either way, his mount bolted into the wood, and soon after, he was knocked off by a stray bough. As he scrambled to his feet he dared not look behind him lest he see the beast chasing after him. Soon he had crossed the bloodied chevaux de frise, and he dearly hoped his horse hadn’t killed itself upon them. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction his mount had flown, and within a span of twenty minutes, he had cleared the treeline. Exhausted, he collapsed in an overgrown barley field. He spent a sleepless night in a shallow ditch attempting and failing to put the terrible image out of his mind. In the morning, he wandered a mile or so before he found his horse grazing by a copse. He led it, for he was still trembling too much to try to mount it, back to town, where he handed in the ledgers as well as a notice of resignation and some false explanation. The Ledgerman left my town on the frontier after his experience and nobody has heard any more from him. The forest was cut down after the War following some very odd government accounts. Many years later there were found a great number of horse skeletons.