by Dax Varley
Due to the late hour, the meeting was not well attended. The church, serving as our town hall, was only half-filled. Magistrate Harding, along with the other Councilmen – Father, Notary de Graff, Hans Van Ripper, Reverend Bushnell and Caspar Jansen (Elise’s father) were present. The topic of news was the arrival of the new schoolmaster, expected within the next few days. Since Father was the one who hired him, he presided, standing over the seated members.
“His name is Ichabod Crane,” he announced. “And he’ll be coming to us from Connecticut. His references are reputable and his credentials impressive.”
Ichabod? What a ridiculous name. No doubt he’ll be old and dumpy with a bald pate shiny as a polished kettle.
Father placed a hand on Van Ripper’s shoulder. “Of course he’ll be lodging at the Van Ripper farm, just as Nikolass had. But being the hospitable community that we are, I expect Mr. Crane will be a dinner guest for many of us over time. Keep in mind, we are extremely lucky to have him take over the position of schoolmaster.”
But is it lucky for Mr. Crane?
“So as not to jinx our good fortune,” he went on, “I propose that we keep the circumstances of his predecessor’s death to ourselves.”
That sparked some mumbling among the gathering. The Notary’s head snapped to Father. “You’d have us lie to him?”
Garritt slumped, his face winced in pain.
The Magistrate rose, his mouth puckered in a scowl. I’d never seen the man when he didn’t look like someone had cheated him at cards. “We’re not asking anyone to condemn their soul. But in the interest of the Hollow, maybe we can avoid a direct answer to that question should Mr. Crane ask.”
“Besides,” Father said, “I addressed it in my letter to him. I admit I wasn’t truthful, stating that Mr. Devenpeck had died of natural causes. But do you think he would’ve agreed to come otherwise?”
How would you explain that in a letter?
Dear Mr. Crane, we are gratified with your decision to accept our offer of employment as schoolmaster of Sleepy Hollow. We’re confident that you’ll find our community both amiable and enriching, with the exception of our headless ghost who unfortunately took a disliking to our former teacher and sliced off his head. Sincerely, etc.
But there was one thing I didn’t understand, and I risked voicing it. “Won’t having him to dinner be putting him in danger? That would be after nightfall.”
Half of the Council bristled, while Father bore a hole through me with his glare.
Hans Van Ripper’s face twisted into a grimace – a look he never wore well. “I’m providin’ his shelter, but I can’t be responsible for all his meals.”
Father held up a hand to calm him. When he spoke, he addressed the assembly, not me. “It’s been discussed. The Council sees no reason that The Horseman would be a threat to Mr. Crane.”
This brought a stilled hush over the room.
The Notary lowered his quill. “Though I doubt the secret of Devenpeck’s death will stay secret for long.”
No doubt at all. Henny Van Wart would probably break out in hives trying to hold it in.
Father tapped his knuckles on the table. “It is the education of our children at stake here.” He threw another glare at me. “We’ll carry on in our usual manner.”
Usual, in this case, meaning I stay quiet. Seeing as how I was lucky to be out of the house, I pledged to keep my mouth shut.
As he continued with more tidbits about welcoming Mr. Crane, I noticed Garritt glance back toward the church doors. Curious, I looked too. Brom stood there like a sentry guarding a palace. He must have just slipped in. I turned back toward the altar, aware of how safe I felt inside the church. I held on to that security, knowing that once the meeting was over I’d be in my father’s carriage, exposed to the mysticism of the night and all the perils of darkness. There would be no window separating me from the beckoning Horseman.
After further town business, Reverend Bushnell led us in prayer. We adjourned to a draw of coffee and pie. Garritt still sat, staring at the floor. I picked up a cup of coffee, intending to take it to him. As I crossed the room, Brom slinked over and plucked the cup from its saucer.
“Will you stop doing that?” I scolded. “I’m not serving you.”
He cocked a brow. “You will.”
I was two breaths away from knocking that scalding coffee all over him.
“The Harvest party is nearing,” he said with a confident smile. “The perfect time and place to announce our engagement.”
The man was hopeless.
I patted his chest. “That sounds wonderful, Brom. I hope you and your delusions live happily ever after.”
He simply snickered.
Paying no further attention to him, I crossed over to where Garritt sat. He looked to be holding back tears. I settled beside him. “Garritt, what’s wrong?”
“Katrina…” he whispered. I waited for him to continue, but he only held my gaze.
“Please, tell me. Is there anything I can do? Is there anything you need?”
“Katrina,” he repeated. This time I thought he might pour out his soul. But his demeanor went from anxious to cautious as he looked over my head at someone standing behind me.
“Yes,” Brom boomed. “Need anything? A coffee perhaps?” He held up the cup he’d just snatched from me.
Garritt turned back, arms folded. “I need nothing from you.”
“Ah, come on,” Brom egged. “Have some pie.”
I turned to Brom, firing my anger. “Would you stop?”
My words rolled off him like water on a stone wall. “I’m only trying to help.”
“You can help by leaving.”
Garritt closed his eyes and placed his hands over his ears. What in the world was causing this torment?
“Garritt,” I tried again. “Please. I do want to help you.”
He tossed a look at Brom, then me. Then he rocked forward and glared like a madman. Chills scuttled down my spine. “I saw him.”
Brom set aside his coffee and knelt eye-level to him. “Saw who?”
Garritt didn’t hesitate. “The Horseman.”
Dear God. “You saw him?”
Brom merely shook his head. How could he have so little compassion?
“Yes,” Garritt answered. “Last night. I’d been penning some contracts for Father. I stepped outside for a moment…” His face pinched. “The Horseman was there, waiting. He charged me.” Garritt’s hands quaked as perspiration beaded his brow. “God, it was like nothing I’d ever seen. His horse snorted smoke and its hooves fired white sparks like flint on steel.” He paused for composure, yet his body still shook. “But unlike the legend, he didn’t carry a sword.” Here, he gave Brom a stern, beleaguered look. “It was a scythe. And he meant to have my head.”
Brom still showed no shock or sympathy. “Obviously you escaped unharmed.”
“Unharmed?” I blurted. “Can’t you see he’s tormented?
Garritt rubbed his face so hard I thought he might peel away skin.
“What did you do?” I asked, reminding myself to breathe.
He shifted his eyes toward me. “I barely made it inside. The Horseman lingered, circling our house twice. Then approached the window next to my bed.” Tears now fell. “He ran his scythe against the glass, scoring a blackened slash within the pane.” He clamped his fists to his ears. “I can’t stop hearing that noise.”
I imagined the teeth-gnashing shriek echoing through his head. I leaned closer. “Why did you not report this?”
He brushed the wetness from his cheeks. “For fear that no one would believe me.”
“After Nikolass’ death? Don’t be absurd. You must say something.”
He winced, then rubbed his brow. “Please, Katrina, I’d rather not speak of it.”
“But you should,” I urged, clutching his sleeve. “Do it now while everyone is gathered.”
Brom plucked my hand from Garritt’s coat. “Relax. It was probably just a bad
dream. ”
Garritt whipped him a fiery look. “It was no dream!” I dodged the spittle from his rage.
Brom rose, nodding. “Fine. If you’re convinced, so am I.” He picked up his coffee and took a sip. “I say we devise a clever plan to destroy this headless brute once and for all.”
I stood and met his eye. “Are you insane?” A redundant question. “He should report it to the Council.”
He puffed his chest, choosing to ignore me. “Come, Garritt. We’ll conspire at the tavern. Surely there is some tangible manner of defeating a ghost. We’ll simply put our heads together on this.” A curl of a smile played on his lips.
Garritt pushed up from the pew and straightened his waistcoat. He sniffled back his remaining tears. “No. I promised Father I’d accompany him tonight, but hereafter I’m staying in.”
“Garritt –” I started.
“And I’ll not report it.” He brushed past me and hurried to where his father stood.
Brom scoffed, shaking his head. “The boy’s gone stark raving mad.”
I shoved him hard, spilling the coffee down the front of his vest. “You’re the only madman here.”
I turned quickly, planning to plead with Garritt again, but Brom clutched my arm, holding me back. “He needs a drink more than he needs you.”
I jerked free. “He needs someone he can trust.”
When I turned back, Garritt and his father had gathered their things. I stood trembling as they pushed through the church doors and into the night.
Yes, Father, we’ll all carry on in our usual manner.
* * *
I didn’t see Garritt in the days that followed. He kept good to his word of staying in. No one else had seen him either. His father made excuses, and rumors of his drinking grew worse.
Poor Garritt. The boy who used to chase me across the fields and leap out our hayloft window was now a dark shell. The Horseman had seen to that. His mark upon Garritt’s window must serve as a constant reminder. I felt I should say something, but didn’t want to betray his trust.
Then word came that Ichabod Crane had arrived. Two days afterward, Father suggested that Elise and I go to the schoolhouse to welcome him. We were to put on our brightest smiles, be cordial, and act as though nothing were amiss. I happily obliged. It’s hard not to smile when you’re finally given a reprieve.
Placing a basket of apples, plums, and blackberry muffins into the buggy, we rode lazily to the school.
“Hmmm…” Elise said, stretching her chin up toward the delft-blue sky. “I bet he’s a warty toothless old toad with bulging eyes and a croaking voice.”
I gave her a sidelong glance. “With a name like Ichabod, would you expect anything less?”
Her face soured. After some thought she added, “Though I do expect he’ll be better dressed than Mr. Devenpeck.”
How could he not? “Well, he is from Connecticut. And Father says he’s a scholar.”
“That would mean no drooping wig, faded gabardine or shoe buckles.”
I shook my head. “Oh, believe me, if he’s as ancient as he sounds, there will be shoe buckles.”
Elise sputtered a giggle.
My thoughts went to poor Nikolass, who’d always seemed so innocent and quiet. “But it’s sad when you think about it. Mr. Devenpeck was pleasant and kind. And aside from his dreadful clothing, he was a fairly nice looking man.”
“Ah!” She pointed a finger at my face. “You did have eyes for him.”
“No.” I twisted her finger, shoving it away. “Ugh. The man was well into his thirties.”
“And so were his breeches,” she added.
“Elise! You’re shameless.” Our eyes met, and we both broke into a fit of laughter.
Thankfully, God didn’t smite us for speaking ill of the dead, and we soon arrived at our destination.
“Remember,” Elise said, her voice low, “we’re going to give him this fruit basket, make some nice remarks about the weather, politely warn him about Henny, then excuse ourselves and go.”
It sounded like a fair plan. But before stepping down I said, “Wait.” I removed a napkin and set aside two of the blackberry muffins. “Afterward we’ll ride down to the river. We can sit for a while and watch the boats.” I planned to hold on to my freedom as long as I could.
She tilted her head toward me. “The boats or those brawny young dock workers unloading cargo?”
I quirked a brow. “Can you think of a better pastime?”
She snatched up the basket. “Come on, let’s hurry.”
We breezed into the open schoolhouse and…empty. There were indications that someone had been rearranging desks, patching holes, and stacking firewood. A cozy contrast to the original state of the quarters.
The school had once been the home of Bartholomeus Smedt, a troll of a man with no kith or kin. He shied away from society, preferring the life of a hermit. I heard many a wild story about old Bartholomeus while growing up. When he died two years ago, the Council took over his property. Inside the weathered one-room house they found only a straw pallet, some crockery, and an iron stove. But it was what they found in his earthen root cellar that proved most interesting. It served as a repository for all manner of weapons. He’d stockpiled a vast number of muskets and pistols, and a considerable amount of gunpowder. It was determined that he had not been a soldier, but a scavenger of war – stealing weapons from the dead. The munitions were cleared away, and when Mr. Devenpeck arrived, he quickly learned to keep the cellar doors locked as it proved a favorite hideout for truant children.
Pushing aside a stack of books on the desk, I set the basket down. I pointed to a coat, draped over the back of a chair. “Where do you suppose he is?”
Elise shrugged. “Maybe he just stepped out.”
“Stepped out where?”
We walked around the schoolyard to the old birch near the brook. Then I saw him, ambling toward us. My heart danced like never before. This young man was eons from the warty old toad we’d imagined. He couldn’t have been more than three years older than us. And with his waistcoat unfastened and white cambric shirt rolled at the cuffs, he hardly seemed the teacher sort. Though he did carry what looked like a small journal and a lead pencil in his hand.
As we grew closer, his mouth curved into an endearing smile. “Good afternoon,” he called to us.
“Good afternoon,” we returned.
Up close proved even better. His dark hair fell in wisps, framing his angelic face. His smiling lips accentuated the dimple on his cheek. And his eyes – Those eyes! – as green as our meadow, shimmering with morning dew.
Elise practically stumbled, pushing in front of me. “You must be Ichabod Crane. I’m Elise Jansen. We, uh, looked for you inside, but you weren’t there, so we came here, so here you are, and here we are and...” She rushed and bungled every word. I might’ve come to her rescue if I hadn’t been so absorbed in him myself.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. It’s just that” – he pointed back toward the brook– “there’s a comfortable patch of clover near the water. It’s an excellent spot to relax and think.” He tucked the small book and pencil into his pocket, and turned those fabulous eyes to me. “And you must be…”
I blinked away my awe. “Katrina…Van Tassel.”
His face suddenly came alive. “A relation to Baltus Van Tassel?”
“Yes. He’s my father.”
“I have to say, I’m extremely grateful to him.”
“We’re grateful as well,” Elise blurted. Her cheeks blushed when she realized she’d said that out loud. But then, I’d be grateful too if I weren’t planning an escape on Marten’s ship.
She quickly regained her composure and slowed her words. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
His eyes sparkled like the glimmer on the brook. “Likewise. Come, let’s go inside.”
The trees were alive with birdsong as he accompanied us back to the school. Or maybe that was my heart singing. It took tremendous willpowe
r to keep from staring, while questions pored through my mind. What’s it like in Connecticut? Why’d you trade it for the dullness of Sleepy Hollow? What were you writing in that notebook? And how did such an adorable creature as yourself end up with a name like Ichabod? Ugh. There’s not even a suitable nickname for that.
I was hoping Elise would blurt out some of these for me, but she kept her remarks to the weather. That was safe territory for her.
Once inside the school, Ichabod spotted the basket we’d left on his desk. He plucked up one of the ruby apples and cocked a brow. “An apple for the teacher?”
“Fresh from our orchard,” Elise bragged. Her flaxen lashes batted like moth wings. I nudged her foot with mine. She kept a tight smile as she nudged back.
Ichabod polished the apple on his rolled sleeve, then brought it to his mouth. “Goodness, if everyone here is this generous, I’ll have no regrets leaving home.” Juicy bits sputtered as he crunched down.
Elise giggled like a five-year-old. But his remark brought back that niggling question. “Why did you leave?” I asked, bluntly. I hadn’t meant to be so forward, but honestly, why would anyone as young as he want to live here?
Elise, still keeping that tight smile, lightly nudged me with her elbow. “Kat, maybe we should let him get settled before we start hurling personal questions.”
He waved it off. “I don’t mind. The truth is Hartford was closing in on me. I was needing a little peace and quiet. I’ve found there’s plenty of that. I think I’ll thrive well here.”
Unless The Horseman takes a fancy to you.
He sat down on the corner of his desk and held the basket out. “Would you like to share?”
Elise politely declined. I, on the other hand, took one of the blackberry muffins. I nicked off a tiny bite as I glanced about the schoolroom. He certainly appeared earnest. The rows of desks were uniformly lined, a copybook atop each one. On his own desk were the stacks of books I’d earlier pushed aside. I stepped by him and drew two of them toward me. Gulliver’s Travels and Robinson Crusoe.
