I whipped Daredevil mercilessly, clattering over the corduroy road and through the swamp. Brom lay outside the tavern, sprawled on the ground, drunk in broad daylight and weeping against a friend’s shoulder. I hurried on, my anger intensifying. I reached Wolfert’s Roost and found Baltus at work behind the barn, beating out the harvest with his thresher.
“You’ve let a snake into your home,” I hissed.
Baltus wet a rag in the horse trough and pressed it to his neck. “He’s no farmer, but he’s a good man.”
“You’ve approved the match, then?”
“Katrina knows her own mind. I don’t bridle her.”
“He’s after her money. Your money. He told me himself. Ichabod will kill you someday. Push you from your hayloft and break your neck, to get his hands on your farm.”
“And you wouldn’t?”
I was honestly surprised. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Join me inside. I have something for you.”
I followed him into the house. I noted with contempt that Greet sat on the veranda, at her spinning wheel, like a fairy tale maiden magically turning straw into old age. I thanked God I’d been spared that fate.
“Please. Sit.” Baltus bent over a small chest and fumbled inside it. “How fares your quarry?”
“I have no quarry.”
“Not yet, but you’ve great plans, I know. Brom tries to impress Katrina with some future empire of stone. He offers to make her his quarry empress. But quarries need seed money, don’t they? I know your schemes. You push Brom on my daughter to finance your stone-works. You’ll be the one to push me from my hayloft someday, if anyone. I know your mind. I always did.”
He joined me at the table, extended a fist into a shaft of sunlight, and opened it. In his hand lay the string of blood-wampum he’d given me, that night in the wagon.
I sighed. “You kept it?”
“Wore it ’round my neck through the whole war. From Valley Forge to Yorktown. I used to kiss it afore every battle. I used to think you’d come around, be sitting on my porch when I came home, waiting for me like you said you would.”
“You know what happened.”
“And it changed you, Aggie. Other people can’t see it, but I know you better than most. You’re a rotten apple.” He slapped the wampum string onto the table between us. “You take that now. I don’t want it in my house.” I scowled at him but obeyed. He raised a finger. “I think Ichabod’ll be a fine husband. I went to war so my daughter wouldn’t have to marry a farmer, wouldn’t have to live under some fat lord like a serf of the old days. She’s finer than that. Too good for your roughneck boy. Especially if he’s got any of you in him.”
“But Ichabod’s ridiculous! He hasn’t a penny. Not even a roof of his own!”
“I have plenty of roof. I’ll keep the rain off her. It’s love she needs.”
“How can she love that scarecrow? He’s ugly as the devil’s backside. His head’s too flat and his ears are too big, his clothes don’t fit and he’s… he’s too…”
“Skinny?” Baltus stood, shaking his head. “Too skinny, too fat, too tall, too short. I take back what I said. You haven’t changed a bit. It’s best you leave now.”
I stood. “Not until you forbid the match.”
“Why should I?”
“For me.” I held out the wampum string. “If you kept this, I must mean something to you.”
“You did once. Not anymore. I love my Greet. But even if I was a bachelor, you’re too ugly for me, Mrs. Van Brunt.” He pointed at my heart. “In here, where it counts.”
I fled the Roost, full of hate. If I’d stayed an instant longer I would have burned the place to the ground. The hay barn. The fields. The old taxi-wagon. I imagined Greet shrieking with pain, Baltus crumbling to ash.
They followed me to the yard. I mounted Daredevil and raised a fist, prepared to hurl the wampum at their feet, but something stayed my hand. I put it in my pocket, kicked the horse, and galloped away, cursing to myself.
Brom drank all that evening. His Indian girl sat with him, until I chased her off my property with a broomstick. I went outside, knelt beneath an angry overcast sky, and dug, clawing the earth with my fingers. I hit stone almost immediately. I found a pick and attacked the stone until the point bent sideways. I screamed my frustration, my anger, and my hurt.
How could I be so powerful, yet so helpless, both at once?
The next afternoon, I visited Cornelia’s parlor, attempting to convince her little clique to send Ichabod away for good. The others vetoed that idea. The schoolmaster had become part of the community. He was the son of William Crane! I wanted to seize the hatchet from the mantel and dismember them all.
“I hear he’s won Van Tassel’s permission to propose.” Cornelia looked at me as she said it, pursing her lips and blowing on her teacup. “Don’t be bitter, dear.”
I stormed from Beekman Manor. I would enter it only once more, weeks later, through the window, after throwing a brick.
September 2nd, 1850
I have come to my pantry, Dylan. The storm is terrible for my nerves. Revisiting this whole affair has made me sullen and acid-hearted. Some memories should not be disinterred, their tombs never opened. I’ve been too cruel to the girl I keep down here, in her hanging cage. Should my anger get the better of me, I might kill her tonight, and I have plans for her still. Let us be done with this humiliating account. I still hope I might learn something from it. Let me tell you how your grandmother triumphed, despite all obstacles, both mortal… and supernatural.
Baltus threw a quilting frolic at the end of October. I knew the party might be my only chance. Ichabod intended to propose to Katrina. If her acceptance became public, any chance of stopping the marriage would evaporate. My only recourse would be to kill the young lovers, rather than see them at the altar.
Do not tell Mr. Irving that our Roost was not the true location of this now-famous party, Dylan. I might have told him that this immortal event occurred at Wolfert’s Roost—when he and I were negotiating its purchase price. I would hate for him to discover my deception and be disappointed.
The true venue was the Van Tassel Tavern and the Couenhoven Inn—now run by Egbert’s brother Edward, a patriot and war veteran. I scowled at the scene, thinking it an excessive waste of money. Who did Baltus think he was? Bribing his neighbors with food and ale, with musicians and party favors? He’d brought in his war companions to fill the inn with their revelry and body odors. Martling had come, and Paulding, and even Reverend Smith. Ichabod bent over the heavily laden tables, soiling the linens with his drool. I pulled a shawl around me. The night air was cold and biting my bones. Brom passed me an ale. It tasted like piss and I spit it into the bushes. The food was ashes in my mouth.
I sat on a barrel with my arms crossed and watched the fools dance. Eleanor had strung lanterns in front of the tavern, marking off a grassy area for the frolic. Ichabod was first to follow the fiddler. He elicited amused shouts and clapping. I thought his herking and jerking better suited to an epileptic ward.
I accosted Katrina near the banquet tables, where she stood plating Ichabod’s fourth pork pie, and dragged her into shadow. “Your mother has not done her duty by you. Don’t you know how weak that schoolteacher is? You’re tying yourself to a cripple.”
“That’s no concern of yours.”
“My son is heartbroken.”
Katrina bit her finger. “Tell him how sorry I am? I do care for Brom.”
“Then repent of your foolishness. People are laughing. Look at him!”
Ichabod danced with Greet Van Tassel now. She fought to keep up, and to keep her stockings from slipping down.
“I like to look at Ichabod,” Katrina said. “He is… unexpected.”
“You are a fool. You are a coquette, a tease, and likely a slut as well.”
Her jaw dropped. She tore from me, looking for her father. I had no wish to be turned out, so I changed my tactics.
“I
apologize, my dear. I am too protective of Brom. You are a good girl. Everyone knows that. But you are young. I’ve seen how life works out. Or doesn’t. The quilting will begin soon. The men will retire to brag over brandy. Share a cider with me before the evening is out? Let me toast your health and wish you a happy future.”
She kissed my cheek. “Brom is a fine man, and a fine man is proof of a fine mother. I would be honored to toast with you.” She joined Ichabod on the dance floor. The throng elbowed each other and whispered good-naturedly, pointing at the couple. Word had spread of the impending engagement.
I stormed into the inn to brew my love potion.
I retired to the second-floor room that had been my father’s barber shop. A small cot and dressing table filled it now. I lit a candle on the windowsill and emptied my pockets onto the floor, then arranged my vial of spring water and my herbs, and consulted the grimoire. A love potion must be fresh. It does not last long. While in effect, the victim must be touched by the lips of the intended mate. It would be easy to convince Brom to kiss Katrina’s hand one last time. I would slip my potion into her cider and work my hex.
Oh, to have my monster again! To whisper Ichabod’s name to a grinning skull and sever his foul face from the rest of him!
“Headless Horseman,” someone said.
I’d forgotten the spying-pipe in the back wall. I pulled the wooden plug and listened as I worked. The men below were telling ghost stories around the fireplace. They whispered of the Headless Horseman. Brom made light of the spook. Old Brouwer rose to tell his Horseman tale, claiming to have met the galloping Hessian one night last autumn, to have ridden alongside him, and to have been cast aside when the goblin reached the foot of the Church Bridge, at which point it “turned into a skeleton and bounded over the treetops.”
I scowled at this. I’d heard many variations on the Horseman tale over the years, and this one always bothered me. Why would the tellers claim that the monster could not cross the Church Bridge? The coincidence was too great to be ignored. Had my horseman truly been prowling the haunted woods? Then why had he not returned to me? Why did he chase these old patriots?
“Once you make the bridge,” all proclaimed, “his power ends.”
I dismissed my puzzlement and finished my potion. It sparkled emerald green in its flask. I’d begun my incantations when the candle blew out, even though the window was closed. Could a draft have come up the spy-pipe? I could not read the grimoire, so I re-lit the candle. It blew out again, as if someone invisible had puffed the flame away. I stood in the dark, all my senses alert, both physical and magical. Yes. I felt something. A firefly darted through the blackness.
“Who is here? Show yourself, spirit.”
The little light gathered shadow about it, creating a body.
“You always did like a ghost story,” it whispered.
I fell to my knees. “Papa?”
My dear papa stood near the cot, one leg passing completely through it, ignoring its existence. He looked young to me, of course. He’d died at thirty-five, four years younger than I was on this day.
“I’ve waited for you,” he said. “Why have you never come?”
“To the old shop? Why would I have?”
He looked sad. “To seek me, perhaps?”
“You’ve not come to me either.”
“I have come, many times, but you’ve never seen. I belong here. Are you never sentimental for our shop?”
“No.”
“Do you see your brother?”
“He has his own farm now.”
“Do you lay flowers on my grave?”
“That would be pointless.”
“Have you attempted to conjure your mother?”
“No. What would be the point? What do you want, Papa?”
“Only to watch over you, my love. I have followed you always, since the night I swung in the hanging tree. Just a firefly in your wake, unnoticed and unloved. I’ve seen… everything.”
“Why did you never appear to me?”
“I was ashamed of you.”
I steeled myself and stood. “Think what you like. I’m no child.”
“What are you, then? What have you become?”
“Go back to hell. There’s work to be done.” I held the grimoire to the moonlight and completed my love potion. He blocked my exit from the room. “Out of my way,” I said, “or I shall walk through you.”
“How many dead trail in your wake? How many souls have you murdered? Including your own?”
“I’ve lost count. As many as I found necessary.”
“You’ve grown cold. Cold and without love.”
“I love!”
“You love a dead thing, but no living person. Not even Brom. Not truly. You hate your neighbors. You hate this world. You hate yourself. I know.”
“You know nothing. I am the same Agathe I ever was.”
“No. You may have forgotten, but I have not. Drink that potion yourself, and you will know love. You will see, if only for a while.”
“And why should I follow your prescription? You were a terrible physician.”
“That is true. It is easy to apply a leech and to bleed all problems away. It is difficult to know when to remove a leech, for they latch on and become part of us. Take your leeches off now, Agathe. Drink your potion, or I fear you will become Old Willow, spinning endlessly until your death. And perhaps beyond.”
“I do not spin.”
“You are a spider, my child. You’ve a spider’s cunning and a spider’s thirst. Someday you will weave a web and catch yourself.” His figure dimmed.
“Don’t leave.”
“You may have work to do, but my work is completed.”
“What work?”
He kissed his fingertips. “At last I have been a good father.”
And with those words, my papa’s spirit slipped from my grasp forever.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Ten”
My visitation in the barber shop plunged me into an even blacker mood than before. I would not be lectured and insulted. Not even by my dead papa. What did he know of my longings? He’d not heard the prophecy. He’d never felt the joy of wielding magic, of taking what you desired, of defeating helplessness and meting out cruelty to your enemies. I watched my neighbors gobble pie and guzzle coffee. Who could love the foul pestilence of humanity? They were barnyard animals, and animals only understand power and dominance. They would feel my saddle on their backs someday.
I donned a benevolent and loving mask and approached Katrina, reminding her of our date to share a cider. I went to the tavern and fetched two cups. In shadow, I took out my potion and pulled the stopper.
Spin, or you shall not eat, I thought, quoting Old Willow. Spin or you shall have no quarry, spin or you shall have no victory. Spin your web, spider, or endure Cornelia’s scorn.
My hand tipped over Katrina’s cup, and I poured.
I went outside, two ciders in hand, searching for the girl. I found her on the dance floor, turning gracefully in lantern light, her face aglow, smiling at her partner, the equally transported schoolmaster. My heart faltered, and brought me to the brink of ruin. When Katrina approached, I handed her my own cup.
And drank the potion myself.
I felt nothing. Perhaps I had mixed the ingredients incompetently, distracted by the specter of Papa. I laughed to myself. I had proven my point. I had not changed. I was still the humiliated girl weeping at the foot of the Church Bridge. No potion would change who I was. Someone pressed a plate of pumpkin pie into my hand. I wrinkled my nose at it, but sat on a bench and took a bite.
It was delicious. I had never tasted such food. I wolfed it down. I drank coffee and found it exotic and warming. I felt warmth course through every vein, warmth enough to dispel the ice water that had filled my heart. I found myself smiling, my toes keeping time with the fiddle. Ichabod saw, and pulled me to my feet. We danced, and I was good. The crowd clapped along and we w
hirled with abandon. A great smile attached itself to my face. I threw my head back and laughed. At close he bent to kiss my hand but I snatched it away, lest his kiss enchant my heart. I had no desire to love any man. I was fully occupied with loving life.
Everything had changed. I sang some silly old song with the spinsters. I sat with the women and admired their quilts. I snuck a brandy behind the tavern. I became drunk, not with spirits, but with… spirit.
I decided I wanted to walk. I snatched myself a doughnut and strolled up the road, still humming to myself. The sweet slow fiddle faded behind.
Papa had been right. I had forgotten. To walk on the road was to walk in peace, with only the sound of my own steps and the rustling of the trees. The wind slipped the Overback, bringing the aroma of apple orchards and lemon orchards and peach orchards. I studied the moonlit clouds and counted stars. I paused at the site of my childhood home. I knelt and touched a fragment of burned foundations, all that remained. I lay in the weeds and rolled down the hill, just for a moment, remembering the slope of our floor and the distress of little Hans. When I stood, I was wet, but it reminded me of sloshing in my slough, of the water-skippers and bullfrogs.
Is this what love is? I thought. Is it love to grin at the road ahead and nibble a doughnut from your pocket?
The idea seemed fantastic and yet so simple.
I reached the hanging tree and touched my fingers to the rough bark. There were no nooses anymore. This was not the hanging tree now, was it? Lovers had carved their initials here.
I. C. + K. Van T.
My initials were nowhere to be found. My Horseman and I would never have that, would we? A scythe carves no endearments. I traced the letters with my finger and wept. I wished Katrina and the schoolmaster all happiness. I truly did.
The sound of a horse affrighted me. I turned and raised a hand to block out the moon. The rider loomed above, a monstrous figure in black. It carried a carved pumpkin, unlit, on the pommel of its saddle.
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 50
