SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow)

SEVERED

A Tale of Sleepy Hollow

By Dax Varley

1790…Then

The Horseman…he
is real. He came for me.

I sat, gazing out my chamber window. A ground mist had collected,
hovering over the glen. Then I heard him, distant at first, approaching within
the fog. His race with the night thundered a rhythm. My heart drummed to each
beat.

Within moments, I
saw him – a headless outline of black within a gray cloud. As though sensing my
eyes upon him, he slowed his phantom steed, circling once. The horse reared, pawing
the haze. The Horseman quickly drew his sword and sliced the air.

I dropped down
below the windowsill, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Had I doomed myself by
daring to peek? I quivered, hugging my knees.

He is not real.
He is not real.

Moments passed.
Then slowly, I inched to the edge of the sill. Hiding in the shadows, I moved
the curtain just a whisper.

The Horseman was
still there, but now he’d turned…toward my window. My heart hammered and my
blood ran as cold as the Hudson River.

He knows I’m watching.

His hand reached
out – beckoning…inviting …bewitching me. A gray breath of evil played upon my
neck, and my name shimmered within the mist.

Katrina.

I struggled
against the force that summoned me, tightening every muscle, every nerve,
refusing to move an inch. My body quaked, but I kept my mind as sharp as The
Horseman’s blade.
I will not come. I will not.

Still he remained.
No wind. No stars. Just the ivory fog. And that hand…

Katrina.

When I thought I
couldn’t hold back a second more, he spurred his massive steed. And like a
midnight blast, he flew, charging across the countryside.

I collapsed,
trembling, heaving. Finding strength, I crawled upon my bed. I dared not move.
I dared not sleep. I lay within my quilt, knotted in fear.

The Horseman …he
is real. He came for me. And I knew not when he’d return.

1793…Now

It’s a simple game, really. A game
that I call “Someday.” I close my eyes, spin a globe, and then draw it to a
stop with my finger. When I open my eyes, there it is – the place I’ll visit
“someday.” My diaries were filled with someday destinations. Vienna. Cairo.
Burma. Someday I would visit every one.

“Katrina,” Father
snapped, pointing to the inkblot I’d dripped on a billing slip. “Pay attention.
I can’t have sevens resembling twos.”

Oh rot.
We’d
been working the ledgers for over an hour, and the numbers were bleeding
together before my bleary eyes. Our three hundred acres had produced a
particularly abundant harvest, and Father insisted on registering every grain.
I picked up the blotter and rolled it over the fat droplet, then glanced at the
remaining notes and vouchers.
Sigh.
I’d rather jab this quill in my eye
than continue tabulating. But as always, I pressed on. Being the only child of
the wealthiest man in Sleepy Hollow meant that “someday” I was to inherit this
farm – keep his empire intact. But that was the “someday” Father had planned.

Some ten minutes
later the door to Father’s study opened. Hans Van Ripper, an old farmer, came
in, nervously tapping his hat to his leg. His face was dark and shadowed, and
he heaved like he’d limped all the way here.

Father rose from
his chair. “What it is, Hans?”

Van Ripper cut his
eyes to me, then back. “Better tell you in private.”

“Go on, Katrina,”
Father said, making shooing motions with his hands.

“Father, I’m
eighteen. Certainly old enough to hear –”

“Go!” he ordered.

“Fine.” At least I
was getting a break from the ledgers. But there was something behind Van
Ripper’s tense expression that told me this was news I needed to hear. I rose,
passed between the two of them, then quietly closed the door. I made a few
thumping noises to sound like I’d retreated, then as lightly as possible,
placed my ear to the door.

There was a
strained silence in the room. Perhaps they were making sure I’d gone. Then Van
Ripper uttered, “The Horseman has killed again.”

A thousand
pinpricks needled my skin. I pressed my palms to the door for support.
The
Horseman’s back.

“Good God,” Father
boomed. “Who has he claimed?”

“The
schoolmaster,” Hans answered, “Nikolass Devenpeck. Found the body myself.”

The air thinned. I
struggled for breath.
Nikolass?
True, he was always clumsy, dry, and
poorly dressed, but he was a fine teacher who’d only settled here last winter.
Before then the children had been educated at home, as I had.
Why him?

There was some
foot shuffling, then Father asked, “And you’re sure it was The Horseman?”

Van Rippers
gravelly voice lowered. “His headless body was layin’ in a circle of scorched
grass. Same as the others.”

The others.
Old
Brower and Cornelius Putnam – two villagers beheaded. But that was three years
ago.
Then.

“I’m waging the
schoolteacher tried to outrun The Horseman on foot,” Van Ripper wheezed. “His
old dapple, Gunpowder, was found grazing near the school.”

“And his head?”
Father asked.

“Several of us
scoured the nearby field, but it weren’t nowhere to be found.”

Their words
wavered in and out as I leaned heavier on the door. For three years there had
been no word. No sightings. No deaths. And now…?

More foot-shuffling.
Father pacing. “I thought this nightmare was behind us.”

“Will it ever be?”
Van Ripper asked. “You know as well as I that Sleepy Hollow is a haunted
place.”

Bile clogged my
throat. I couldn’t shake the chilling image of Nikolass – a heap of blood and
limbs, sprawled upon a circle of blackened ground.

Father briefly
stopped his pacing. “Do you know if anyone’s disturbed The Horseman’s grave?”

“Who would dare?”
Van Ripper snapped.

Not a soul.

In life, The
Horseman had been a Hessian mercenary whose head was severed by a cannonball.
His body lies in the far reaches of the church cemetery, the only marker a
crude headstone that reads:

Hessian Swine

Dismantled 1778

The grave is
hidden among a mass of creeping vines and cockleburs. No villager would risk
going near it.

There was a thick
silence on the other side of the door, then Van Ripper spoke again. “Baltus,
you know The Horseman does not rise of his own accord.”

I had always heard
this – rumors that someone controlled the hessian, conjuring him to enact their
own revenge. But the schoolmaster?
Nikolass, what had you done?

Father’s footfall
was heavy as he crossed the room. “There will be panic among the villagers. Go
and assemble the Council. I shall be there shortly.”

I spun, meaning to
hurry off. But I only made it a few feet when I realized –
Blast! –
the
hem of my dress was stuck between the door and the jamb. I tugged hard, but it
was wedged tight.

The knob turned. I
pressed myself to the wall, hoping the door would hide me when Van Ripper
opened it. Once he’d passed, I could slip down the hall undetected. But it was
Father who emerged, slinging it open. It swung back, slamming into me.
Oomph!

He peeked around,
his face ruddy with anger. “Katrina, get back in here and finish the numbers.
I’ll be back later this afternoon.”

I tugged my
creased skirt from the door hinge as Van Ripper pushed past me.

“Father –” I
started.

“And don’t you
dare leave this house.” He lifted his coat from the peg. “Do you understand
me?”

“Yes.” Though I
doubted my hands would stop trembling long enough for me to write. All his
sevens would definitely resemble twos. “But, Father…has The Horseman returned?”

He shrugged his
coat on, not bothering to meet my eye. “You were listening. What do you think?”

I handed him his
scarf. “What will we do?”

He pitched it
around his neck and sighed. “Pray.”

Pray?
Absolutely. I prayed that my “someday” would soon be at hand.

* *
*

A bright September sun shone down
upon the funeral, sweeping shadows across the crypts, stone crosses, and
weeping angels. The air smelled of maple and spices. And the birds sang as the
village mourned.

We gathered near
the newly dug grave while the Reverend stirred us with passages of rebirth and
heavenly treasure. And while my mind should have been on the proceedings, I
couldn’t help glaring across the far field of gravestones to the spot where The
Horseman lay. These past three nights I waited…wondered…listened – falling asleep
to the sound of my heart beating in my ears.
Will this be the night he comes
back for me?

My close friend,
Elise, nudged me out of my daze. “Stop staring,” she murmured. “You’ll only
provoke him.”

“Don’t worry,” I
told her. “He doesn’t rise during the day.”

“But he may sense
your eyes upon him. God only knows which one of us is next.”

God only knows.

Once the last
prayer was uttered, we trudged back to the church for the feast waiting inside.
Elise and I dallied behind Father as we moved toward the church.

“Has your father
given any indication as to why The Horseman chose Nikolass?” she whispered as
we tread the dirt path.

“Father keeps
Council business to himself. What about yours? Anything?”

“The same. He
stomps about, grumbling under his breath.”

The Council is a
committee of grumblers. “I still can’t imagine what offense Nikolass
committed.”

She suppressed a
smile. “Besides wearing shoe buckles?”

I slapped my hand
to my mouth to cover a snorting laugh. Then I gave her a sidelong glance “So
rude.”

“Really, Kat, no
one wears shoe buckles anymore.”

“That’s hardly
grounds for execution.”

As we rounded to
the front of the church, I spotted Brom, our overseer, standing near the doors.
He was handsomely dressed in black, except for the ridiculous fox skin cap on
his head.

Father stopped
abruptly and gripped Brom’s arm. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Brom shrugged like
the answer was obvious. “I’ve come to pay my respects. Isn’t that what funerals
are for?”

Father’s forehead
crimpled. “I left you in charge.”

“Don’t worry,
Baltus. Fearful slaves work quick and hard. Now that The Horseman has risen,
they won’t chance being out after dark. And anyway, I intend to make my stay
short.”

Father placed his
hand on Brom’s shoulder. “See that you do.”

“Came to pay your
respects?” I asked after Father had gone inside. “You might’ve tried wearing a
decent hat.”

His cocked brow
disappeared under his cap. “I’m proud of this one. I trapped and skinned this
fox myself.”

“I know. You’ve
told me a thousand times.”

He leaned close.
“But you love it.”

I pushed his face
away.

He turned his
attention to Elise. “Surely you’d like to hear my heroic tale.”

“Which version?”
she snipped. Whisking her handkerchief, she shooed him back.

He tipped the ugly
cap as we walked around him.

We stepped through
the double doors of our small church and weaved through the people and pews to
the very front. Several tables were arranged next to the pulpit, each set with
ample amounts of roast duckling, ham, puddings and pies.

“It all looks so
delicious,” Elise said.

“Especially
these.” I pointed to a large batch of strawberry fritters, then scooped a
generous portion onto my plate.

Elise swatted my
hand. “Pig.”

I pinched off the
edge of one and popped it in my mouth. “These are dark times. I’m allowed.”

She raised a brow.
“When were you never?”

I’d barely
finished filling my plate when Brom swept over and took it from me. The man had
the prowess of a cat and the intelligence of a baboon.

“Wait,” I said.
“That’s not yours.”

He flashed his devil-may-care
grin. “Of course it is. See? The other wives are serving their husbands.”

What an idiot. “Oh
dear. You must’ve forgotten. I’m not your wife.”

He plucked up a
fritter and bit in. “Then consider it practice.”

He will
not
steal my fritters.
I snatched the plate back, nearly spilling my precious
hoard.

“Why do you taunt
me like this?”

“Me? It’s you
who’s doing the taunting.” He nodded toward Father, who was across the room,
talking with the Council. “Baltus says we merely have to set a date.”

“Hmmm… He hasn’t
told me. But let me know which day you decide so I can be occupied elsewhere.”

Elise stepped
between us. “Come, Kat, before he starts naming your children.”

We searched the
packed church for a place to sit, but the assembly had overtaken the best
seats. Unless we climbed to the belfry or impaled ourselves on the pipe organ,
Elise and I were forced to settle next to the village busybody, Henny Van Wart.
If there was no news to spread, Henny invented her own. I once heard that the
minister sneezed during prayer, and because of Henny, the entire Hollow knew
about it before he uttered “Amen.”

“So tragic,” Henny
said, holding her platter in one hand and a drumstick in the other. “And no
family to speak of.”

I nodded as I
nibbled, not wanting to spur her into one of her outrageous tales. But a nod is
conversation enough for Henny. She continued.

“I hear his wife
and daughter were taken by Indians some ten or so years ago. No telling what
unspeakable acts befell them.”

More nodding on my
part.

“Poor Mr.
Devenpeck found himself so distraught, he turned to drink to cure his grief,
and well, you know how that goes.”

Not firsthand, but
I didn’t let on.

“He suffered a
tumultuous tumble from society, and after some five years or so, picked himself
up and started over.”

As Henny’s tongue
wagged out her story, she waved the drumstick around like a choirmaster’s
baton. Twice I dodged it to avoid getting poked in the eye.

“So,” she sighed,
“The man finally got his life back in order, only to have The Horseman make
short work of it.”

Elise looked down
at her meat pie like it was Nikolass’s severed head. “I just don’t understand,
of all the villagers, why him?”

Though it’s a
question that had endlessly plagued me, I nudged Elise with my knee.
Don’t
encourage her.

“Oh, I suspect it
was some form of sacrilege on the part of Mr. Devenpeck,” Henny clucked.

“Sacrilege?” Elise
and I spouted together.

Oh, Henny, what
have you cooked up now?

She drew so close
I could smell the meaty seasonings on her breath. “It seems he used pages of
old copybooks to patch the schoolhouse windows, and when there were none to
spare, he used pages from a hymnal.”

“I hardly find
that sacrilegious,” I said. “Why would a hymnal be of more value than repairs
to the school?”

Henny craned back like
I’d committed a sacrilege of my own. “Because they contain praises to God!”

I tilted my head,
considering it. “So you’re saying God summoned The Horseman to rise up against
the teacher because He was offended by Nikolass’s actions to protect the children
from all manner of weather and bugs?” Absurd.

“Of course God
didn’t summon The Horseman, but he obviously ignored Nikolass’s prayers while
the Hessian…” Here she paused, and using the drumstick, made an imaginary slash
across her bulky neck.

I lifted my chin.
“Well, I think he was an honorable man and an innocent victim.” If indeed
Nikolass Devenpeck had been plagued by years of grief and drink, he certainly
didn’t need to be remembered as Godless too. “And,” I added, “he didn’t need a
hymnal. As I recall, he had all the psalms memorized.”