by Dax Varley
He twisted around to see. “Those will be part of the studies.”
“I love these books,” I said, pinching off another taste of my muffin.
“You’ve read them?” He leaned close enough that I could smell the tang of apple on his breath. My stomach fluttered faster than Elise’s eyelashes.
“My father has an extensive library,” I answered, trying to stay focused. “And since I’ve traveled so little, books have always been my escape.”
“No better holiday,” he agreed.
I beg to differ.
Elise nudged between us and picked up a small book the color of red clay. The title, imprinted in gold, read: The Thousand and One Nights: Persian Tales. Her face brightened. “I’ve heard of this one.” She ran her hand across the cover. “The stories are quite exotic.”
“And adventurous,” he added.
“Adventure,” she purred.
“Yet hardly teaching material,” I pointed out.
His face blushed an adorable pink. “No, that one is part of my own collection.”
I couldn’t think of one man in Sleepy Hollow who’d own a collection of exotic, adventurous tales. None that they could display on an open shelf anyway.
Other books on his desk included The Iliad, Candide, and Don Quixote. Impressive. Our new schoolmaster was indeed well read.
But then another book caught my eye. This one tattered from use. Clippings of paper bookmarked many of the pages, and the binding was broken and loose. When I reached for it, he fumbled, racing to pick it up first. Too late. It was already in my hand.
He dropped back like I’d done something hurtful.
I held the book carefully for fear it might fall apart. The cover contained a vile sketch of horned beings dancing among flickering tongues of fire as slithering snakes coiled around their naked bodies. The title, stamped in small print read: New England Witchcraft. I instinctively touched Simon’s talisman, still hidden inside my bodice.
Ichabod squirmed and I knew this was not a book I was meant to see. “That one too is personal.”
Ah, have I uncovered an evil secret behind those beautiful eyes?
“You’ve spent a good deal of time with this book,” I said, handing it to him. “Do you believe in the black arts?”
He opened a drawer and quickly slipped the book inside. “Yes. Very much.”
My eyes were drawn to the pocket of his waistcoat, and the notebook he’d concealed. I was now more eager than ever to know what things he’d written inside.
Again Elise stepped between us. “Then you’ll love Sleepy Hollow. It’s always been a place of specters and spirits and the supernatural.”
“Really?” he said, his confidence returning.
Before she could open her mouth again, I quickly nudged her foot. “Ichabod, I’m sure you’ll hear all kinds of wild tales. The people here are quite superstitious.”
He set the apple down and dusted his hands. “All based on intriguing lore, I’m sure.”
Don’t be too sure.
I sensed more damaging words bubbling from Elise, so I quickly hooked my arm though hers. “I fear we’ve taken up too much of your time. We should let you get back to work.”
His eyes settled on mine and held. “Not at all. It’s been a pleasant distraction.” I swear, his enticing gaze could melt bronze.
“Enjoy the treats.” I still held Elise close, urging her toward the door.
“Wait,” she said, slipping her arm free. Once again, she batted those lashes as she addressed him. “My family would like you to dine with us this evening. You can meet my two brothers. They’ll be students of yours when the school reopens.”
“I’d love to,” he answered, his voice soft. “And you can tell me more about the legends of Sleepy Hollow.”
She trembled with glee. “Come at six. We’re the farm closest to Van Ripper’s.”
“I’m looking forward to it. And thank you again. It was a pleasure meeting you both.”
Though he’d addressed the pair of us, his eyes locked with mine. My God, you’re amazing. It took every ounce of strength I had to walk out that door.
* * *
“And we thought he’d be an old toad,” Elise said as we rode away from the school. She leaned back and took one of the muffins I’d set aside.
“Wait…” – I reached for it – “Aren’t those for our trip to the river?”
She giggled like a giddy child. “Kat, really. After seeing Ichabod? Do you really want to spoil that image by staring at those boys on the dock?”
I answered by grabbing the other muffin.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, gazing dreamily at the azure sky. “His every feature was perfection. Hair, eyes, mouth, and…” She placed her hand to her heart. “…that charming smile.”
Captivating is the word I’d use.
She sighed so heavily loose crumbs huffed onto her skirt. “I really must thank your father for bringing us such a delicious schoolmaster.”
I laughed. “I’m sure delicious was not a requirement.” Though it was a benefit.
Her head was so far in the clouds, I don’t think she even heard me. “I have to get home and pick out a dress for dinner.”
A spike of jealously stung me. It was my father who’d hired Ichabod. Why weren’t we the first to invite him?
“But I’m sick of all my plain old frocks.” She swept the crumbs from her dress as she pouted. Then she whipped toward me. “Kat, you have a beautiful wardrobe. May I please borrow one of yours?” She leaned close, her hands in prayer position. “Pleeeeease?”
That spike of jealousy became a spear. But then I wondered, why should I even care? My sights were on the open Atlantic and wherever Marten steers us.
“You don’t have to beg,” I told her.
Her face lit once again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.”
While I didn’t want to dump ash on her glowing passion, I couldn’t help but be curious. “How’d you feel about that book?”
She turned back to me, eyebrows knit. “Which book?”
“That book of witchcraft. He’d read it cover to cover…many times. Like he has an obsession.”
She waved it away. “Interest, not obsession.”
“He grew strangely uncomfortable when the subject came up.”
Elise’s smile returned. “Then tonight, I’ll make sure it doesn’t come up. There will only be laughter and enjoyment.”
In a village threatened by a murdering ghost, I hoped that would be so.
* * *
It was in church on Sunday when I saw Ichabod again. The pews were filled and he sat just on the edge of the second row, hymnal and Bible both resting on his lap.
Well, Ichabod, you haven’t burst into flames. Maybe I’d misjudged your interest in witchcraft.
I searched about for Garritt, but he was not there. I thought surely he’d find refuge in the church. His father sat among the elders, and though his brown suit was pressed and proper, his face had more wrinkles than an old hound. I vowed no matter what, I’d visit the de Graff home this afternoon and speak with Garritt myself. I ached to know how he was doing.
Reverend Bushnell preached a lengthy sermon, but I barely noticed. My eyes were on Ichabod. When he rose to sing, his fingers traced along the words in the hymnal. And with each hymn his voice grew louder. Either he was trying to fit in or out sing Mrs. Twiggs, who, in spite of the hymnal, always got the words wrong.
When the last prayer was finally delivered, I searched for Elise. I had to know more about his visit at dinner. The only word I’d gotten from her was a note she’d sent by way of her younger brother, Dirk. It simply said: Delicious.
I had just reached her when Henny Van Wart interceded.
“Come, come, come, come, come,” Henny insisted, herding us to a corner near the front. Elise and I pushed in next to Sally Groot and Gertie Marris, who cradled her infant son.
Henny fidgeted like a fly caught in goose grease. “I
have such news of our newest resident I thought I might burst. Had I perished halfway through the sermon, I would have found a way to resurrect myself so you good ladies would not be kept from this vital information.”
“Henny…” I started.
“Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh,” she blustered. “It turns out our schoolmaster left his native Connecticut just in the nick of time. Had we not offered him a position here, Heaven knows where he’d be. Probably tarred and feathered, still dashing away from an angry mob.”
Gertie’s jaw dropped. “Why?”
Henny barely took a breath before continuing. “He hails from Hartford, you see – a city that circulates several newspapers and periodicals. Using an assumed name, he published a lewd serial in one of the publications.” She lowered her voice. “Tales of debauchery.”
Sally and Gertie gasped. I, on the other hand, was more intrigued than alarmed.
Their amazement only enlivened Henny. “Each week it featured horrific topics that glorified all manner of vulgar behavior. When the upstanding citizens of Hartford learned that it was he, they literally chased him out of town with cudgels and pitchforks. I dare say he ran all the way here.”
I tried to visualize a gathering of city folk with pitchforks. Absurd.
Elise bubbled with anxiety. “What types of things did he publish?”
“Dreadful things,” Henny answered, placing a hand to her heart. “Tales of smugglers, gamblers, prostitution…”
“And don’t forget my favorite,” came a soft voice behind us. I turned to see Ichabod leaning against the pulpit, his eyes bright with amusement. “A particularly engrossing piece that involved men dressed in women’s apparel. Quite shocking.”
Henny gasped, her face turning one shade darker than a turnip. “I dare say!”
“It provided me extra money while studying at the university. You should consider publishing, Mrs. Van Wart. I’m sure you could produce a riveting weekly scandal sheet.”
I gulped back my laughter, and could see Elise suppressing a grin as well.
“I would do nothing of the sort,” Henny pledged. “I am not one to indulge in such tasteless behavior.” She hitched her head high, nose in the air. “Come, ladies.” She turned and stormed away. Sally and Gertie lingered a moment, then awkwardly followed.
Elise and I erupted into fits of giggles.
“Sorry,” I sputtered, covering my mouth with my hand. “It’s just that no one ever stands up to Henny.”
“Was any of that true?” Elise asked, her eyes anxious and starry.
“Yes,” he answered, a little more timid. “I published a lot of stories back home.”
I raised a brow in question. “Tales of debauchery?”
His playful smile melted my heart. “That would depend on how you define the word. But no, nothing like Mrs. Van Wart suggested.” He leaned close. “And none of my heroes would be caught dead in a corset.”
That conjured an intriguing image. “So…no pitchforks?”
He looked down at the seat of his breeches. “Hmmm… No holes. No pitchforks.”
I held up a finger. “For all we know, you could just be a fast runner.”
He lifted his foot and looked at the sole of his shoe. “Nope.”
“But what kinds of stories did you publish?” Elise asked, fawning.
This, he answered with a fair amount of pride. “Tales of courage, love, adventure – rogues and risk-takers, rubes and royalty. My mind is overrun with fantasy.”
Elise swooned over his every word. “Much like those Persian tales?”
“My stories are quite different. Perhaps I could share one with you the next time I visit your farm.”
She clutched her hands together, beaming. “I’d love that. We could have you back before week’s end.”
“Perfect.” He then turned to me, his eyes dancing beneath his dark lashes. “There’s one particular story of mine that might interest you, Katrina. I could bring it this evening.”
“This evening?”
“Yes.” He pointed toward Father, grumbling with the Councilmen in their usual corner. “Baltus has invited me to dinner.”
I worked to keep my composure. “That’s wonderful. I look forward to it.” Here was my chance to learn if he was a rogue or risk-taker.
Elise’s jaw tightened. “How lucky you are” –she gritted her teeth – “to be the first to enjoy his work.”
If her teeth ground any tighter, they’d shatter from her mouth. And if that wasn’t enough, she daggered me with her glare as well.
Before I could reply, Marten approached, head lowered. This time he wore appropriate attire. “Katrina, I must speak with you.” He spoke quietly, but I detected a sense of urgency in his tone.
Please don’t tell me our plans are off.
“Privately,” he added.
Elise suddenly relaxed – delighted, I’m sure, that I was leaving her to a full helping of Ichabod.
“Excuse us,” I said.
Marten led me behind the pulpit.
Once out of sight, I gripped his arm. “What’s happened? Has the purchase fallen through?”
“Shhh.” He shook his head. “No. Not that.”
I exhaled relief.
“It’s Garritt,” he said. “I’ve been to his house twice this week. He won’t see me.”
Marten and Garritt were the closest of friends. I could see Garritt turning anyone away but him.
“Has he indicated why?” I didn’t mention The Horseman, though I’m sure Brom had informed him of Garritt’s encounter.
“No, but I think he’s panicked.”
What I saw at the meeting that night was more than panic. It was pure madness. “Have you spoken with his father?”
“He says Garritt’s extremely ill. Doctor Goodwine is calling it hysteria. Daily bloodlettings haven’t helped, and they’ve tried all manner of vinegars and draughts.” He looked at me as though I’d have a solution.
There was one unspoken question between us. “Has he told them of The Horseman?”
Marten shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not? After what happened to Mr. Devenpeck, surely they’d be looking for a way to help him, not cure him.”
Marten moved in close, his voice low. “Katrina, do you believe him? That he truly saw The Horseman?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Why would there even be a doubt?”
“It’s possible that he ate something disagreeable and Devenpeck’s death triggered a hallucination.”
“He ate something disagreeable? Oh, Marten, listen to yourself. ”
“But there are cases of people who’ve become hysteric just from ingesting bad grain.”
“And there are cases of people who were bewitched and murdered just like our former schoolmaster. Garritt has somehow attracted the wrath of The Horseman, and we must do what we can to help him.”
Marten stepped back, giving in, but the worry never left his face.
I placed a hand on his. “Listen, I’ll ride out to his place this afternoon and persuade Notary de Graff to let me in.”
Marten leaned close, eyes narrowed. “Katrina, that could take some bewitching from you.”
* * *
It was well after three before I could sneak out undetected. Being a Sunday, I knew Brom would not be near the stables. He only abided by the Sabbath when it came to work. I took every precaution not to encounter him. I quietly saddled Dewdrop and rode away.
A scattering of cotton clouds dotted the sky. The scent of pine and spruce filled the air, and the chattering of woodland creatures accompanied me. Had this not been such a grave endeavor, I would’ve relished the afternoon sun on my face.
The fall air was cool, normal for this time of year, but as I approached the de Graff home, I gaped. At present, the trees of Sleepy Hollow wore an array of autumn colors – a blending of lime, jade, ash, gold, and coral. But the trees on their property were barren and dry, as though they’d been embraced by some pestilence or
blight. Their rotting limbs resembled skeletal fingers, all pointing toward the house.
The Horseman’s handiwork.
The grass had also succumbed to some unnatural plague. Withered and scorched. It looked as through fire had rained down upon it.
What must the Notary think?
Dewdrop slowed to a canter as we neared the property line.
“Come on, girl,” I encouraged.
She stopped, refusing to take another step.
I snapped the reins. “Make haste.”
She remained firm, nodding and braying distress.
“Fine then.” I dismounted, intending to lead her the rest of the way, but she fought, pulling back, and nearly dragging me to the ground. Her ears pricked, and her black eyes grew wild with fear, arousing a sense of dread that rippled my flesh. But I couldn’t turn back. Garritt was enclosed in this hellish terrain. I had to see him.
I towed Dewdrop back to one of the living trees – “You’re just making this more difficult!” – and secured her to a limb. She wrestled with the branch. It felt more like a warning than an attempt at escape. Animals sense danger. I quickly turned away, refusing to heed.
It was only fifty paces back to the de Graff property, but one step into it and – Holy God! – the air grew bitterly cold. I pulled my shawl tighter around my arms, wishing I’d worn wool instead. There’d been no forewarning that The Horseman had left his mark upon the climate here too.
I walked in haste, drawing closer and closer. The house itself looked the same. The small saltbox structure stood firm as always, the paint and trim unmarred. The dark smoke of the chimney disappeared into the graying sky.
As I reached the porch I noticed a medicinal wreath on the door. No doubt placed there to ward off disease. But rather than green and aromatic, the sprigs appeared to have been touched by flame. Whatever it meant to keep out had burned its way through.
With a trembling hand, I tapped lightly on the door. Within moments Notary de Graff appeared, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his shirt hanging loose. He looked woefully weary, as though all strength had abandoned him.
“Katrina. We were not expecting you.”
“Many pardons, Notary. I’m here to see Garritt.” How foolish of me not to bring a gift – mutton soup or sweet cakes. Something to show my goodwill.
