SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (7 page)

Now I was
definitely intrigued. “And what sort of stories do you tell them?”

His mouth curled
into a gentle smile. “Ah, I contribute very little. It’s the students who do
most of the telling.”

Brom harrumphed as
he chomped his meat. “I think a lashing would be quicker and less painful than
sitting through a lot of bumbling nursery tales.”

Ichabod didn’t
even flinch. He had far more patience than me.

“You would be
surprised at the stories they’ve shared,” he said.

Father’s brow
dipped. “A lot of poppycock, I’d wager.”

“I’ve heard some
intriguing accounts. Ancient sailors. Savage Indians. Lost gold.” His eyebrows
arched as though he’d suddenly remembered, “And of course there’s a wild yarn
about a headless ghost.”

A thick silence
sat heavy in the room. Did Father really think Ichabod could live here for more
than a day without hearing of our notorious Horseman?

Ichabod took of
sip of wine and continued. “They are fierce believers in the supernatural. The
girls are quite superstitious and won’t go near the school’s root cellar. They
claim the ghost of a Mr. Smedt dwells there, and if they draw close, he’ll
burst
through the doors and
grab
their ankles.”

I couldn’t help
but giggle. “Maybe that’s just their excuse to avoid that smelly place.”

Brom, clearly not
amused, actually nodded agreement. “It’s a wonder one of the children hasn’t
fallen in and broken a leg. It should be filled in.”

“No,” Ichabod said
quickly. “I have other plans for it.” His expression favored a child who might
have a toy taken from him.

Father paused, his
fork halfway between him and his plate. “What sort of plans?” He was no doubt
worried that Ichabod might ask for a generous donation to carry them out.

Ichabod kept his
eyes on his meal. “I intend to lay a sturdy floor. I’ll store water and candles
and turn it into a suitable shelter against the spring storms.”

Father gave a relieved
nod. “Sounds sensible.”

“I agree,” Brom
said, wiping his mouth with his napkin (and thankfully not on his sleeve). “If
you’re determined to restore the thing, I suggest using a good cedar for the
planking. It’ll resist rot, and the sharp odor will offset that dampened clay
smell.” His knee brushed mine as he said it. I don’t think it was a conscious
gesture, but it relayed to me that he was only being cordial to win my
approval.

Ichabod raised his
glass. “I will.”

Brom’s knee pushed
closer when he added, “But that’s a lot of work for one person. I could lend
you one of the slaves.”

“Splendid idea,”
Father agreed. Of course he’d think it splendid. He’d rather lend a slave than
part with some of his money.

Ichabod froze. His
breath quickened. “No, thank you, Baltus. That’s very generous, but I enjoy a
bit of hard labor.”

Curious. Was he
uncomfortable with the offer, or did he feel he was imposing?

“But you can’t cut
the timber alone,” Brom persisted. His knee pressed closer, and though he
seemed oblivious, I tapped it away.

“Simon!” he called
toward the kitchen.

Simon approached,
awaiting instruction.

Brom promptly
provided them. “This Saturday have Isaiah carry some timber to the schoolhouse
to help Mr. Crane split and shave wood for planking.”

Ichabod blushed as
he turned from one to the other, not sure how to handle this awkward encounter.
“No, really, that won’t be necessary.”

Brom’s knee found
mine again. “I insist.”

Oh, Brom, if
you really want to impress me, you’d pick up an ax and volunteer yourself.

“Yes, sir,” Simon
said, bringing the wine decanter to refill our glasses.

Ichabod’s eyes
flickered, something formulating behind them. He then directed those lovely
green eyes at Simon. “I have a wonderful idea. Why don’t we work out an
exchange?”

The room went
completely mute. We all stopped dead still.

Father gripped the
table. “Now you’re bargaining with slaves!”

Ichabod’s eyes
never strayed from Simon’s. “You send someone to help me with the woodcutting,
and I’ll come by on Wednesday afternoons to teach the children.”

Father slammed
down his fork. “What children?”

Ichabod faced him
like it was only a trivial matter. “The slave children, of course.”

Father’s face
pinched so tight I thought it might pop. “Teach the slaves? Whatever for?”

“To educate them,
of course.”

“To what purpose?
They can already read scripture.”

Ichabod calmly
laid down his fork. “But can they read well? Can they write? And what about
arithmetic?”

Father leaned
back, nostrils flaring.

I sat on edge,
waiting. How long would this exchange go on before Father finally ordered him
out of the house? Or worse, ran him straight back to Connecticut?

It was Brom who
spoke up. “It’s harvest. There’s no time for this idiocy.”

But was it idiocy?
I could see the merit in what Ichabod proposed.

“I’d only be
keeping them for a short time,” Ichabod persisted. “Two hours at the most.”

“It’s a splendid
idea,” I blurted. Then all eyes were on me. I kept mine trained on Ichabod.
“And I’d be happy to assist.”

Brom withdrew his
leg from mine.

Father seethed
with anger. “There will be nothing to assist. This is lunacy.”

Ichabod stood his
ground. “Baltus, we are coming upon new times. Emancipation laws have already
been passed in Connecticut.”

“This is not
Connecticut!”

I winced. Father
would toss him out at any moment.

Ichabod met Father
eye to eye. I’d never seen anyone with so much conviction. “Believe me, Baltus,
this is to your advantage.” Our shy schoolmaster had transformed into a revolutionary.

They glared in a
heated match.

Brom wore a slight
smirk, but he nearly dropped his utensils when Father said, “All right, Crane.
Since it is far easier to agree than to find a new teacher, we’ll test it.”

I silently sighed
relief.

“But,” he
continued, pointing his knife, “should I smell even a hint of trouble brewing,
the Council will deal with you.”

Ichabod didn’t
seem to give a hoot about the Council. He quickly turned to Simon. “How many
children are there?”

Simon glanced
nervously at Father, then answered. “Seven that are of schoolin’ age.”

“Then it’s
settled,” Ichabod said. “We’ll meet this Wednesday. Sharpen seven short sticks
for writing instruments and gather them in a spot with loose soil.”

Simon tried to
keep a blank face, but I could see a tinge of pleasure peeking though. “Yes,
sir.”

“And Baltus,”
Ichabod said, facing Father again. “Are you in possession of a globe? I’m
afraid mine is too large and bulky.”

Father nearly
choked on his meat. “I dare say you’ve run out of favors with me.”

I quickly
interceded. “I have a globe. Though it is covered with markings.”

He lifted an
eyebrow. “Markings?”

“Yes. I’ve routed
passages to the places I intend to visit someday.”
Very soon.

“A lot of
poppycock,” Father rumbled. “Katrina’s always been a dreamer.”

Brom pressed his
knee hard against mine. “It’s a waste of a perfectly good globe, if you ask
me.”
No one asked you.
“Katrina will one day inherit this farm. Her
duties here won’t allow for much travel.”

I knocked his knee
away hard. “Which is all the more reason to travel now.”

“Enough of this,”
Father said. He pointed his fork at Ichabod. “Just remember, Crane, spend your
time on logic. No filling the slaves’ heads with ridiculous stories or ideas of
emancipation.”

Ichabod reverted
back to the shy teacher he was before. “I shall use the time efficiently.”

Clever,
Ichabod. You’re both a rogue
and
a risk-taker.

Father waved Simon
away, leaving us with a moment of strained silence.

“Speaking of
stories,” I said to soften the edge in the room, “You promised tonight you’d
share one of your published pieces.” I wanted so badly to know what sort of
tales were spun in that marvelous head.

He patted his
breast pocket. “And I never go back on my promises.”

Brom’s knee found
mine again. Enough. I stepped on his foot. He blanched and cut his eyes to me.

Father wavered his
hand as though conducting us. “Then eat up so that we may adjourn to the parlor
for brandy.”

* *
*

Father settled into his easy chair
and took up his pipe. I chose to sit near the corner, far from Brom and his
possessive knee.

Ichabod walked to
the fireplace, took out that curious little journal and removed a piece of
folded newsprint. From my view I could make out some advertisements – a
dentist, paper hangings, and several lotteries – but I was far more interested
in the printing on the other side.

Amid the crackling
of the fire and the ticking of our mantel clock, he read:

Of Fate and
Fortune.

Some ten miles
from the city of Easton lay a scant few acres and a modest farm. The farm stood
in isolation, with only the oxen and hens for company. On occasion the rumble
of a nearby battle could be heard, for the revolution was at its peak and the
upheaval vast. But the small farm was so detached, it seemed one of Earth’s
hidden secrets that nothing could penetrate.

The farmer
himself, one Philip C. Hartley, was a stout and stubborn gentleman who refused
to stay separated from the comings and goings of the city. He not only rode in to
sell his plump squash and leafy cabbage, but to also partake in the pleasures
of gambling. Hartley’s run of luck never ceased, and though he spent a good
deal of his winnings on tobacco and rum, he was known throughout Easton as
Fortunate Phil.

But his good
fortune was not due to any measure on his part. For at home he kept a wife by
the name of Rebecca. She was ten years younger and ten times more tolerant than
her selfish, demanding husband. Rebecca was lovely and fair, but it was her
gift of strong intuition that pleased old Philip most. With his prodding, she
would advise him on the best days to plant, hunt, and gamble. And she was never
wrong.

While he
rewarded her with an occasional new dress or hair combs, Rebecca was not
allowed away from the farm. And with no children to keep her company, she spent
her days forlorn and lonely – a prisoner in her own home.

After some five
years, Rebecca became ill. Her ivory pallor turned gray, and her face soon
resembled that of a death mask. Hartley broke his own rule and brought a doctor
out to attend her. No tonics eased her. No pill revived her. And so she was
left to linger.

Hartley grew
agitated and weary. Though his sorrow seemed genuine, it was not the loss of
his wife that grieved him, but the loss of the excessive lifestyle that she had
afforded him. He was helpless to provide for himself.

Then the
fateful day came. Rebecca gazed out the window with dark-rimmed eyes. She
requested the grave be dug under her favorite elm, then laying out her pink
dress, told him that was what she wished to wear.

He fell into
tears. His wife, a mere ghost of what she once was, had given him her last
requests. What more could he do for this woman who had been faithful to him all
this time?

So Hartley took
up a shovel and dug. It took the better part of the morning, but soon he had a
deep clean hole, worthy of a six-foot coffin. He thrust his shovel into the
waiting mound of dirt, wiped his brow, and turned. At that very moment, a stray
bullet from the war connected with his head, killing him instantly and knocking
him into the gaping hole that he had so vigorously dug for himself.

Rebecca,
suddenly taken with a bout of vitality, removed the shovel from the mound and
carefully filled in the grave. An hour later, bathed, perfumed and wearing her
pink dress, she rode away from the farm forever.

A thoughtful
silence followed. I’d never felt so connected to a tale. I was about to
compliment the author when Father grumbled, “That ending certainly had an
unexpected twist.”

Ichabod’s lips
crooked into a smile. “It’s what we call
irony
.”

Brom sat stiff,
gripping the arm of his chair. “And what made you choose that particular story
to read?”

Ichabod took a
seat near the hearth. He glanced first at Brom, then me, then back to Brom.
“Irony.”

The shallow look
on Brom’s face spoke for his mentality. But then, his perception of things are
about as narrow as the fireplace poker.

The next two hours
were spent on less personal topics such as the weather, farm reports, and the
rise of the Federalist Party. I spent that time observing Ichabod, his speech,
his mannerisms, and how knowledgeable he was on all subjects. He seemed oddly
out of place in Sleepy Hollow. What could possibly have happened in Connecticut
that sent him here?

When he rose to leave,
Father walked him to the door. “By the way, Crane, you may have heard, each
year I open my home for a harvest celebration. It will be on the twenty-eighth.
You’ll join us, of course.” It echoed more as a command than an invitation.

A broad smile lit
his face. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Brom and I saw him
onto the piazza. Gunpowder had managed to loosen his reins and wander some
yards away. Ichabod threw up his hands and chuckled. “I swear, if that horse
were a woman I’d marry her.”

Brom leaned
against the railing, arms crossed. “Then spend most of your time trying to tame
her.”

“Or keep up with
her,” Ichabod countered.

Their words
flickered in and out as I felt a sudden stirring in the air. An odd chill.
Though the night was calm, a slight draft brushed my neck, prickling my skin. I
held my breath and gazed into the gloaming.
He’s out there…waiting.