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Ghost-dance

A folk tale of Stirland


Graf Martin, the Stirland Elector credited with the defeat of Mannfred von Carstein at Hel Fenn, is a popular figure in Imperial folklore, but tends to be portrayed in wildly different ways. Some tales show him to be a great hero, whereas others depict a vain, tyrannical coward. This particular story comes from the north-east of Stirland, the region that suffered the most during Martin's invasion of Ostermark. Hardly surprising then if Martin is depicted unflatteringly (if only initially), though the story is almost certainly devoid of any historical truth. Accounts of Martin's death vary almost as much of those of his life, but it is generally agreed that he died in Ostermark, probably during the last stand of the Stirland troops at the Hohleburg.

The form of this tale is typical, but it serves to provide a fascinating glimpse into the customs of the region, specifically their acceptance of the inevitability of death: something we can all learn from. - JWG


In the days after the war in Ostermark had ended, a rider came to the village of Siegfriedhof out of the north. This man clung to his weary horse like a child to its mother, and when the animal at length collapsed in front of the Sundered Buckler inn, it took four strong men to remove him from the exhausted animal and carry him inside. He was dirty, his clothes were ragged, and he kicked and raved at those who tried to help him, as though he were possessed by some demon.

Now, it so happened that - once the man had fallen into a deep sleep, and his long hair was pushed away from his face - some of the people present recognised him. They drew out coins that bore the likeness of the Elector, and all crowded around to see for themselves. "Surely," they whispered to each other, "this ragged man is none other than the Graf Martin himself! How has he come to be here, alone and in such a state as this? And what are we to do with him now that he is here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" said Kinsfelt, the miller, "Sigmar has delivered to us the cause of all our woe. Did we not lose all of the young men of our village to fight in his war? None are come back yet, and maybe none ever will. What of all the grain his quartermasters took? What of the taxes, raised and re-raised until we feared they would demand our very blood in payment? Sigmar has judged him. Let us hang him at once from the Rhyasblood Tree!"

Many agreed with him, for there was no one in the village who had not seen a son, or a brother, or a sweetheart, go off to the war in Ostermark. But others shuddered at the very idea, and for them spoke the priest, Father Burckhardt: "We cannot do such a thing! This man comes to us as a guest - indeed, as a very beggar at the door. To take his death upon ourselves would be a dreadful crime, for the gods declare the laws of hospitality and charity to be inviolate."

"What would you have us do, Father?" demanded Kinsfelt, "give him food, and rest, and shelter, while our sons lie rotting in a foreign land?"

"It is our duty to care for him until he is well enough to leave," said Burckhardt with quiet forcefulness, "for the sake of Shaylla's mercy and Sigmar's love. After all, who can say when we ourselves may come to be at the mercy of others?"

Indeed, there were none who could argue with what the priest had said, angry though they were. And so the graf was well cared for, with every provision made. Three days passed, but still he slept and still his fever raged.

On the fourth day, he awoke. Not leaving his bed, he called for food and drink, and ate all that was brought to him with ravenous hunger but scant gratitude. To Jan, the innkeeper, and his wife it seemed that the graf knew not where he was, nor how he had come to be there. It was as though he believed himself at home in his great castle near Wurtbad, and that the war in Ostermark had never been.

Now, it so happened that it was the night of the Ghost-dance[1], a very old tradition in that part of Stirland. On that night, the people gather together in the town square around a great fire, and some of them wear masks made to resemble the faces of loved ones dead that year past. These avatars of the dead dance all night with the living, and drink strong beer and eat spiced sausages, and sing raucous songs to the music of the flute and the accordion. At the coming of dawn, the masks are cast into the dying embers of the fire, and in this way the people are able to bid farewell to their loved ones, and find peace in their memory.

But this year the dead were so very many that it seemed there would be no peace, only bitterness. The making of the masks had taken many days, and so numerous were they that more than half of the villagers would be required to take on the role of surrogate for the dead. The bonfire was built larger than ever before, and casks of the strongest apple brandy set out beside the barrels of beer.

Jan the innkeeper was a good and honest man. Though he had lost his beloved son to the war, he went up to the room where Martin lay still abed, and invited the graf to join the dance. But the graf only sneered, and demanded more food. Jan could do nothing but shake his head, and go out to join the assembled revellers.

As night fell, the bonfire was lit and the surrogates of the dead appeared. This year, the masks had been fashioned with even greater care than usual, and many present gasped to see their loved one so clearly depicted. But the masks were daubed with goat's blood, and the music when it started up was harsh and discordant. The dead danced like men speared through the guts, and those who danced with them wept and beat themselves with their fists.

For long hours the dance continued in this manner. Then, as midnight came the musicians fell silent, and the dancers halted. A new figure had appeared - a tall man dressed in the very finest of clothing. He too wore a mask, though more lifelike a mask had never been seen. The stranger wore the likeness of Graf Martin himself[2].

He flung his arms wide, gesturing out to the staring villagers. Then he threw himself to his knees, hands raised imploringly. For long minutes he held this position, before suddenly leaping to his feet. The musicians started up a new tune, wild and frenetic, and the stranger began to dance.

Such a dance it was! No one could resist joining it, and soon even the very eldest felt the years melt away from them and matched the energy of the children. Round and round the fire they danced, faster and faster, the music rising louder and louder. At the point of climax, the stranger tore the masks from those nearest to him, and cast them into the fire. The other maskers followed suit, casting away the images of the dead, surrendering them to the fire. When all the masks were gone, and the dancing ended, the stranger bowed very low to the villagers. And then cast himself into the fire.

At once, there came a great cry of shock and anguish from the people. Some started forward to pull the stranger from the flames - but he burned away to nothing like a scrap of cloth. The fire roared up, massive, shifting in colour from blood red to pestilent green to smoke black to pure white: then going out entirely.

Jan left the square at once and raced up to the graf's room. Martin was dead. There was a look of peace on his face, and the touch of his skin was as cold as ice. Jan rushed out of the inn, into the square, and cried out to the people that Graf Martin was dead indeed. And Father Burckhardt said, "Surely, this is a sign that the graf has atoned for his crimes, and that the gods themselves have forgiven him! Can we do less? The war is over, and the time for remonstrance and despair is passed!"

The people knew the priest spoke truly, and they laughed or wept or clutched their loved ones to them. And the next day they worked and ate and slept, and lived, and no more cursed the graf nor the war. Where the bonfire had been, they built a shrine which stands to this day[3]. The names of the dead are inscribed upon it, and the first of the names is 'Martin Volker.'





[1]In certain villages along the border with Sylvania, it is the custom on Geheimnisnacht to leave small wooden flutes upon the doorsteps. For it is said that, although the dead have little aptitude for music, they nonetheless love to dance

[2]A masked stranger appearing at a gathering is a common element in folklore. Similar stories include the tale of the doomed Moussillon Ball, and the much older story of Prince Prospero. The stranger is usually a bringer of divine retribution, but in the tale of the ghost-dance he instead helps the people to overcome their grief.

[3]The shrine at Siegfriedhof was washed away by a terrible flooding of the River Stir in 2354. A statue of Sigmar marks the place in the present day.