A shrouded figure rode through the thieves’ bazaar, the drooping tassels of his grey covering the same dark shade of his charcoal steed. His shadow moved through the lamplight, passing over the buyers and sellers; though he had not turned his veiled face upon anyone, everyone on whom his shadow rested felt a cold dread and shivered. Few would lift their gazes up to the stranger, but the whole noisome crowd grew silent as they followed the sound of the horse’s hooves.
Ah! it is coming now, the steady clop-clop growing louder—it is here!—and the horse moves past, and the middleman, as his heart begins to beat again, dares to look after the passing specter. He watches the rider go down the line of booths, past one, past another, until he stops, three stations away, before the paling face of ol’ Harry.
And now, the rider’s head turns under its veil, the shifting folds of the long, grey shroud spilling over the horse’s saddle as the figure drops from the steed onto the dusty earth. Ol’ Harry’s mouth seems to move, though no one hears what he says. An arm rises under the grey cloak, and the impression of a finger extends, pointing down at some one piece of bric-a-brac lying on Ol’ Harry’s table.
It takes Ol’ Harry a moment before he can react and let his eyes fall from the frightening figure to the mess of wares he’d been hawking all night. It seems to his eye that some jagged piece of metal, a broken bit of a sword, still sharp on its edge, was desired. He swallowed, and reached for the glass bobble next to it.
A hissing noise came from the figure as the hand clutched the figurine.
“No…?” said Ol’ Harry, nodding. “I know.” He picked up the piece of broken sword and stared at the veiled countenance. “I wasn’t sure,” he moved the piece of metal around, watching the shifting head under its cowl turn and shift and follow his hand.
The whole bazar waited with baited breath as the two stared each other down. Ol’ Harry seemed to be speaking. Finally, he set the bric-a-brac back down again and crossed his arms and frowned.
The shrouded figure let forth a frustrated hiss and turned and leapt back onto his grey horse. The animal reared, letting out a shrieking neigh before flying away like an arrow into the night. For a while, Ol’ Harry just stood there, his arms folded, frowning after the specter. A boy, who found work here and there in the thieves’ bazar, came up to the table, the first of that frightened underworld to move now that their visitor had gone.
A short concourse was had, and the child, like the dreadful visitor, sped away into the darkness upon Ol’ Harry’s final commission. The two had done it well; no one even saw the little hand quickly grabbing that chunk of metal from the table. Into the night, the child ran. The end was coming soon.
Tale Told 