The Hanged Man

We march through a sulphuric peatland, its stench a sting in our nostrils. The fields extend as far as the eye can see, the dull landscape lit at intervals by phantom will ‘o the wisps — ghost-lights ever-burning in the marshy day-darkness.

Against this nightmarish waste, a single blackened oak rears to the sky. From its lower bough, a man hangs by the neck, swinging gently in the breeze. But he is not dead, for as we pass by, he turns his eyes upon us — ghost-lights themselves, pinpricks of phantom fire in the pale canvas of his flesh. His voice as he addresses us is a distant whisper.

“Long ago, this land was a lush forest. But a terrible blight came and boiled the trees to nothing. They said that I was responsible, and strung me here to suffer. Please… If you have any mercy within you, cut me down and end my suffering.”