Between Yule and Twelfth Night, whilst the dead still walk among the living as they usually do during these thinly veiled times; beware the deep of the night. Be sure to leave the final sheaf of wheat in the field and do not remove the feast from the table to allow the ancestral spirits to come and collect their portion, else, the household of Hellequin will collect their share of souls.
The Legend of the Wild Hunt of the Hellequin
Before the land of Salm was called the Salm, there was a prince named Hellequin. From the time he learned to walk, he loved to chase. He chased his siblings, his nurse, the footman and the valet. At Mass, instead of lowering his head in prayer, he chased the altar boys and other members of the congregation. The King never corrected the spoiled prince and no one dared to say anything. Soon the prince’s love of the chase had become an obsession.
The prince grew into a handsome young man with dark flowing hair and amber eyes that glinted with mischief. One day at Mass, a rabbit wandered onto the altar and Prince Hellequin could not contain himself. He jumped after the rabbit, chasing it around the altar, knocking over the chalice and ciborium, spilling their consecrated contents. The priest raised his eyes to heaven and asked God for help.
God heard the priest.
Suddenly the floor of the altar crumbled below Prince Hellequin. He grabbed for the linens in a desperate attempt to keep from falling. A cloud of smoke roared from the abyss as three hounds leaped onto the altar, their tails afire, their yellow fangs dripping with blood.
They grabbed the prince and ripped his limbs, spewing blood on the tabernacle and the horrified priest who backed into the corner as the floor crashed before him.
The prince stood. His severed limbs hanging by the threads of his tattered, blood-soaked cloak. His amber eyes glowed as if on fire while light shone through gaping holes in his body. A horrifying smile spread across his face. He pointed toward the congregation and immediately the hellhounds jumped toward the crowd. As quickly as their shredded victims fell, they rose and joined the pack of wild dogs, attacking other members of the household.
The price then turned toward his father who watched helplessly, frozen by the horror of the spectacle before him. The king came to his senses and shouted at his son to stop the carnage, but instead of minding his father, the prince attacked him. Within moments, the king’s eyes glowed and he turned on his wife. Soon the entire household of Hellequin had joined the hunt.
They rushed toward the stable, mounted the royal horses, and charged into the countryside, so fast that the horses’ feet left the ground. The whirl of hooves, blowing horns of doom, and screams of the damned filled the air and with furious winds, lightning, thunder, and a terrifying whirl, the specter disappeared into the clouds.
Pity the traveler who dares to wander by himself as he may hear the sound of whispering leaves. The whispering may be the wind, but assuredly, it is the Hellequin, roaming the skies, scanning the countryside with his band of demons. As fire flashes from the eyes of the prince, his black hellhounds, and the hooves of black horses, the wild souls of the damned sweep down and grab their prey that have no choice but join in the hunt.
The Wild Hunt of the Hellequin.