SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (9 page)

“Not unless I want
to ride the plow mule. Besides,” – he nodded back toward Gunpowder – “he’s
shown me parts of the valley I never knew existed. Nor could ever find again.”

“You don’t have to
worry about getting lost around here,” I said. “As long as you can hear the
river, you’ll find your way back.”

His eyes softened
as they met mine. “That’s assuring.”

Those eyes.

I quickly turned
my attention to his supplies. “Let me help you with some of these.” I lifted
the two texts from his grip, then I saw that one was a volume of Aesop’s Fables.
No!
Panicked, I quickly opened his coat and shoved it under his arm out
of sight.

He blanched,
folding to the side as he wrangled the remaining items so they wouldn’t fall.
He managed to grip the fables with his armpit.

“Sorry” I said,
reaching to steady him.

He flinched at my
touch.

My face burned
ruby hot. “You must think I’m a lunatic.”
Or worse!
“Honestly, I didn’t
mean to be so brash.” I slowly reached out and took a couple of the hornbooks
from his grasp.

He slipped Aesop
out from under his arm. “No, please, don’t apologize. It’s just that” – his
cheeks reddened slightly as he gave me a shy smile – “I’m...quite ticklish.”

“Oh.”
Why do I
find that so endearing?
I covered my mouth, holding back a giggle.

He rolled his
eyes. “I know. Go ahead and laugh.”

“I wouldn’t.” But
I wanted to.

He held up the
book, turning it front to back. “So tell me, why are we so eager to censor
Aesop?”

“Because if Father
sees it he’ll skin your hide and bury you in Smedt’s root cellar.”

His face opened in
a jest of shock. “Then to save my hide, I should explain its purpose.”

“They are
stories,” I reminded him.

“But they’ll be
used for critical thinking. I’ll read a short tale, then have the students try
to determine the moral. It stimulates the mind.”

I shrugged a little,
conceding. “That sounds reasonable.”

“And,” he added,
“I think the children will be inspired to know that Aesop himself had been a
slave.”

I exaggerated a
sigh. “Ichabod, you are one brave man.”

Our eyes held for
a moment, then a smile lit his face. “Why don’t we test that with the
children.” He gently took the texts and hornbooks back from me and shifted them
to his arm. “So, where is our schoolhouse?”

“This way.”

I led him into the
kitchen where I’d placed the plate of dumplings and jug of cider into a hamper.
I’d brought out some quilts too. Since the children had no benches or desks, I
felt these would ease the discomfort of sitting on the gritty dirt. We carried
everything to the spreading maple where Ichabod would teach.

The soil
underneath it had been loosened and patted, making sure each child had a proper
writing surface. No doubt a deed Simon had seen to. I’d barely spread the
quilts when the children came marching up from the slave quarters.

There were eleven
instead of seven – all led by Leta, a strong-willed child of about twelve.
After getting them seated she turned to Ichabod. “I invited some others. I
didn’t think you’d mind. And I sharpened some extra sticks.” She held them
bundled in her fists.

“Excellent,”
Ichabod said. “How many did you sharpen?”

I’m sure this was
a question to test her mathematical abilities, but Leta looked up at him like
he was the village idiot. “One for each of them.”

“Clever girl,” he
praised.

He then brought
out a ledger, quill, and a small pot of ink. “I’ll start by taking down your
names.” He looked first at Leta.

“My name’s Leta
and I already know how to spell it.”

He turned the
ledger toward her and offered her the quill. “Would you like to write it in for
me? I could help you.”

A moment of panic
crossed her pretty face. Then just as quickly she regained her composure. “I
don’t want to get ink on my fingers.”

“Very well,” he
said. “Would you spell it for me?”

In this she took
great pleasure. “L-E-T-A.”

“Thank you,” he
said, suppressing a smile.

Each child in turn
stated their name, except for Elijah, a boy of about six. He had the energy of
a wild hare. He sprang up from his spot and raced in a circle, giggling and
taunting us with, “You can’t catch me.”

As he went for his
third turn, Leta reached up and snatched him by the suspenders. He sprang back
onto his bottom with a whop. “Sit down, Elijah!” She kept his suspender straps
clutched in her hand so he couldn’t make for another escape.

“I think it would
be safer for all of us,” Ichabod said, plucking the boy’s stick from his hand,
“if young Elijah here used his finger as his writing tool.”

I gave each child
a dumpling and a cup of cider while Ichabod informed them as to what they could
expect from these sessions. They seemed eager for both the food and the knowledge.

They shared the
hornbooks, running their fingers along the carved alphabets. Ichabod explained
the difference between upper and lowercase letters. Then, starting with the
letter A, they practiced writing in the dirt. Some of the children were more
skilled, so I took the slower ones aside, helping them to catch up. I found
that I enjoyed teaching. I never thought I’d have the patience for it.

Their sharpened
sticks served for more than writing. Ichabod used them as counting tools to
teach addition and subtraction.

He also formed
shapes with them – a square, rectangle, triangle – and had the students look
around and name objects and structures that held those geometric shapes. I was
mesmerized by his calm voice and patient gestures.

The lessons ended
with him sharing the Aesop Fable of
The Fox and the Grapes
. To bring
more life to the story, he stood, holding up a dumpling, while small Elijah
jumped and jounced, trying unsuccessfully to seize it. Though Ichabod asked
them to determine a moral, they tried concocting ways in which the fox could
obtain the grapes instead. They had that weary fox pulling carts, riding
horses, and waiting for lightning to strike.

As the discussion
continued, Elijah still exerted great energy trying to grasp that dumpling. Then,
with a frustrated grunt, he drew back his foot and kicked Ichabod hard in the
shin. As a manner of reflex, Ichabod bent over and clutched his knee. Elijah
plucked the dumpling from his hand, stuffed the entire thing in his mouth, then
plopped down on the ground, arms crossed. The children and I bellowed with
laughter.

Ichabod sat down,
rubbing his shin. He leaned toward me and whispered, “That one will grow up to
emancipate them all.”

After bringing
about order, he told them, “I’ll leave two of the hornbooks with you. When
there is time, practice your letters and numbers, and I’ll check your progress
next week.”

“If you still have
yore head,” Leta mumbled under her breath.

“Leta!” I scolded.
“Do not speak out of turn.”

But Ichabod held
up his hand, indicating he’d allow it. He kept his attention on her. “I’ve
heard the tale of your famous horseman. Tell me, why do you think he might take
my
head.”

She rolled her
eyes as if the answer were simple. “Because he whacked off the first
schoolmaster’s. It’s like arithmetic. He’s doing his own subtraction.”

“So you believe
there is a horseman?” he asked.

“Of course there
is,” she said. “I’ve seen him.”

I felt a hitch in
my chest. “Leta, if this is some game…”

“It’s no game,
Miss Katrina. I saw him the other night.”

I worked to keep
my breathing normal. “When?”

“When I went out
to the outhouse to do my business. Coming out I saw him up there.” She pointed
to a hill near our house.

I turned to look.
The trees upon it instantly rustled as though they knew that I watched.

“He was holding
that sickle of his, and his horse pawed the ground like it was fired up, ready
to chase somebody down.”

Ichabod arched a
skeptical brow. “Why didn’t you run?”

Again she gave him
that “are you thick?”
expression. “I did! You think I just stood there
like a fool?”

“He didn’t come
after you?” I asked.

“No, ma’am. He was
more interested in what was going on in there.” She pointed to the house.

Ichabod rubbed his
chin. “What night was this?”

I knew the answer
before she said it.

“Sunday.”

It was The
Horseman I’d sensed.

“You’re very calm
about this,” Ichabod said. “Weren’t you frightened?”

“Scared to death!
But I have this.” She reached under her collar and produced a talisman hanging
from a string. It was the same type of charm that Simon had made for me. The
one that was now protecting Garritt.

Ichabod lifted the
talisman into his hand and stroked it lightly with his thumb. His expression
clouded as he studied it.

Leta tugged it
back like his touch might wear away its power.

He sat back and
sighed. “Forgive me, Leta, but I’ve never been one to believe in ghosts.”

Yet you believe
in the black arts.

She shrugged.
“You’ll believe it when yore head is rolling away from yore body.”

This earned some
giggles from the other children, who’d been listening with wide eyes.

My mind churned.
If
it was Garritt he sought, then why had The Horseman come here?
I held back
my anxiety as best I could. The children had enough burdens without me adding
further distress.

“Well…” Ichabod
rose. “If I’m still in possession of my head next Wednesday, I’ll see you all
then. Class is dismissed.”

Rather than
hurrying off, Leta took charge, seeing to it that the children shook out the
quilts and folded them neatly. The cups were emptied and placed in the hamper.
She ordered each child to say thank you, then led the way, marching them back
to their quarters.

I crossed my arms
against the chill as we walked back to the house. I could not let go of my
fear.

Ichabod watched me
from the corner of his eye. “You believe in this horseman too.”

I turned quickly,
gazing up at him. “I’m so sorry. Someone should’ve told you before you made the
decision to come here.”

He lifted a
shoulder. “I’m not sure that would’ve swayed my decision.”

“Don’t you get it?
There is a Horseman. He murdered Nikolass Devenpeck.”

“But where’s the
proof?”

“The Council has
proof. And Nikolass was not the first. Apparently The Horseman follows a
pattern.”

He still looked
doubtful. “That doesn’t prove these murders were carried out by a ghost.”

“Ichabod, he
is
real. I know. I’ve seen him myself.” I realized I was practically shouting. I
lowered my voice when adding, “And not just me. He’s marked a dear friend,
leaving him tortured and driven to madness.”

Our eyes held and
a thousand questions crossed his face.

“I know it sounds
insane,” I said.

“No, it doesn’t.”
He gently clasped my arm. “You’re trembling. Let’s get you inside.”

When we reached
the backdoor, the smell of baked fish greeted us. Simon was busy in the
kitchen, tension framing his eyes. “I hope all went well with the children.”

“Extremely well,”
Ichabod assured him. “They are all bright and receptive.”

I set the hamper
on the sideboard and removed my shawl. “I can attest to that.”

Simon’s shoulders
relaxed as he continued paring potatoes.

I began removing
the cups and placing them into the tub for washing. I kept my eyes down, trying
to steady my grip.
If Garritt is marked, why was The Horseman here?
Another
chill rippled through me.

Ichabod gazed at
me, his face a mask of concern. “Katrina, I must be getting back. I promised
Van Ripper I’d help – ”

“Yes,” I blurted
before he could say more. “I’d feel better if you’re inside before dark.”

Simon paused and
said, “Thank you kindly, Mr. Crane. I’ll be sure Isaiah’s there on Saturday with
timber and tools.”

“Perfect.” Ichabod
shifted his books from one arm to another.

I managed a weak
smile. “I’ll see you out.”

We stepped onto
the piazza, the veil of evening unfolding before us. Gunpowder, still hitched
and waiting, greeted us with a rolling snort.

I followed Ichabod
to the hitching rail. He took a moment to place his books in the saddlebag, and
then turned. “Katrina...”

“Please,
please
be careful.” My eyes cut to the hill and back.

Ichabod glanced
over his shoulder. “Don’t worry.”

“How can I not?”

He took my hand in
both of his. “There is no mistaking your fear. Trust me, I do believe you.” He
stroked my fingers as though they were treasured porcelain. I placed my other
hand on his and we stood there, speaking through touch. The night air grew
colder, yet the feel of him warmed me.

“I will be
careful,” he promised, bringing my hand upward and kissing my fingertips. “And
if Gunpowder remembers he’s a horse, I shall be back at Van Ripper’s in a
flash.”

I reached over and
stroked the beast’s neck. “He’s in your hands,” I murmured into his flickering
ear.

Ichabod loosened
the reins from the hitching rail. The frisky horse seemed eager to go, making
Ichabod’s mounting a clumsy task. Once in the saddle, he looked down at me with
those haunting green eyes. “Take care, Katrina. I shall see you soon.”

Then he was off. I
watched until he was no longer in sight.

I stood there for
a bit, gazing down at my fingertips, still tingling from the brush of his lips.
But I finally snapped out of my daze by realizing I was dawdling out in the
biting cold without a cloak or shawl. I turned to go inside and…
Dear God
!
My breath caught and my knees buckled. The Horseman was there, on the hill,
sitting tall upon his steed.

His silhouette
loomed larger and more malevolent than when I last saw him – like he bore all
the hatred of Hell. His scythe rested on his shoulder, the blade touching the
sky like a silver crescent moon.

My blood drained
as I stood frozen to the spot. Then, like a slap…
Ichabod!

It could be no
coincidence that The Horseman has appeared twice during his visits. It was
suddenly clear. Ichabod had become the target.

I must warn
him.

Hitching my
skirts, I flew around the house racing toward our stables. My heart thundered
against my chest as my unsteady legs carried me.

Ichabod.

Fortune was on my
side. One of the stable doors stood open and a lamp flickered within. I ran all
the faster, hurrying for my horse.

As I hastened
through the door, an arm reached out and grabbed me. I immediately flailed and
screamed.

“Whoa, Katrina.”
It was Brom, struggling to steady me.

“Let go,” I cried,
fighting to break his grasp.

“Calm down there,
little filly.”

I had no time for
his childishness. “The Horseman is out there.”

He gripped me even
tighter. “What are you talking about?”

“The Horseman!
He’s here.” I frantically squirmed within his hold.

He loosened his
grip but still held on. “Nonsense.”

“I just saw him on
the hill. He’s after Ichabod. I must warn him.”

“Settle down. You
only imagined it.”

“Brom, we’re
wasting time. Release me.” Why was he always so impossible?

He still held on.
“Katrina, take a breath.”

“Let me go!” I
sank my teeth into his hand. He whipped back, startled.

“I have to warn
Ichabod.” Trembling, I slipped the bit into Dewdrop’s mouth and tightened the
bridle.
No time for a saddle.
I stepped onto the stall’s railings, then
flung myself onto her back.

Brom gripped the
bridle strap, stopping me once again. “And if the Horseman
is
out there,
what’s to keep him from taking your head?”

“He’s not after
me.”

He glared, eyes
tight. “Be reasonable.”

I snapped his hand
with the reins. “Let go.”

He flinched again,
surprised, but kept a firm hold. He studied my face, then letting out an
exasperated sigh. “I’ll go instead.”

Now I was the one
stunned. “W-what?”

“I’ll go for you.”
He put his hands on my waist and hoisted me down.

“But…”

Brom strode out to
his waiting horse. I followed, skeptical.

“Why would you
offer to do this?” I asked.

He snorted a
laugh. “Because Baltus would not forgive me if I let you ride away.”

Naturally, it’s
all a joke to him.
“And what will you say to Ichabod?”

He mounted
Daredevil and took the reins. “Nothing. I’m not that stupid.”

“He has to be
warned.”

“I’ll follow at a
distance, making sure he gets to Van Ripper’s in one piece.”

“Brom, please be
careful.”

He gazed down at
the bite mark on his hand. “It seems I’m much safer out there.”

With that he
spurred Daredevil and sped away.

* *
*

My thoughts whirled as I sat at
dinner, my teacup trembling in my hand. With every blink, the profile of The
Horseman appeared – haunting me.
Ichabod. Brom.
How could I have been so
selfish to let Brom go in my place?

Father paused from
his meal, genuine concern on his face. “What’s wrong? You look pale.” He
touched my cheek, feeling the icy numbness.

I wanted so badly
to tell him what had happened, but he was already keeping me prisoner. If he
knew about this, I wouldn’t even be allowed onto the piazza. “It’s nothing.”

“Well, you did
spend the afternoon with those children, and they carry all manner of disease.
I hope it isn’t the grippe.”

I wish it were
that simple
“It’s just that…I was thinking about Mr. Devenpeck. Have any
measures been taken to rid us of The Horseman? Any talk of him rising again?”

“That’s not your
concern. The Council is taking care of matters.”

“It’s everyone’s
concern. What actions have they taken?”

The crow’s feet on
his eyes creased deeper. “Leave it.”

I can’t
.
“What about Old Brower and Cornelius Putnam? What business did The Horseman
have with them?”

He gnashed his
food like it might escape his mouth. “Leave matters to the men.”

“Father, I’m set
to inherit this house. Should I leave matters to the men when that day comes?”

“By then you’ll
have a husband.”

My patience was
wearing as thin as his. “Are you so sure? What’s protecting
you
from The
Horseman?”

His chewing
slowed. He gulped down his meat, then said, “You’re familiar with the André
tree?”

That was not what
I’d expected to hear. “Yes.” The André tree stood just outside Sleepy Hollow.
Its gnarled and twisted limbs gave it a vile unearthly look. Many have said
it’d sprouted from Hell, and that its roots served as ropes, binding sinners
who do not obey the Devil.

But the tree is
also a landmark – connected to the tragic story of Major John André, a British
sympathizer who assisted Benedict Arnold during the Revolution. It was under
that tree that the Major was arrested as a spy.

“What of it?” I
urged.

He picked through
his peas, stabbing three with his fork. “It was concluded that Brower and
Putnam were somehow involved in Andre’s capture. The Hessian rose to punish
them.”

I considered it
for a moment. “That makes no sense. André was taken some three years after the
Hessian’s head was blown off.”

“Yes, but it’s
believed that a Tory lived in our midst and conjured The Horseman to enact the
revenge.”

Were that true,
there were other matters to consider. “Then what of Nikolass? Why would the
Hessian come for him?’

Father gave a shrug
as he sliced into his beef. “Perhaps he’d been a British sympathizer during the
war. We knew so little of him.”

Something as dire
as that would not have escaped Henny Van Wart. “Who could possibly be the
conjuror?”

He cut his eyes to
me then went back to sawing his meat. “If we knew that, he would already be
swinging from a noose, now wouldn’t he?”

“So there is no
solution? No defense?” I asked.

Father sighed. “At
present, our only defense is prayer.”