SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow)

by Dax Varley

  “You know that Garritt isn’t well. He cannot receive guests.”

  “I am aware, but this is urgent.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “In what manner?”

  “I…uh…” Since the only urgency was my desire to talk to Garritt, I had to pull a reason out of thin air. Then I remembered the talisman that Simon had made for me. I uncovered it from my bodice. “I have brought him this.”

  The Notary reached out and touched the carved trinket, running a finger across the spiral. “Very intricate. Is this some rare charm?”

  “Yes, sir. It is for health and protection.”

  Other men in Sleepy Hollow might scoff at such a thing, but the kindled wreath on the door told me that the Notary was a man of superstition.

  “That’s very generous of you, Katrina.” He held out his hand. “I shall deliver it to him with your good wishes.”

  “I wish to deliver it myself.” I spoke as calmly as possible, trying to hide my panic.

  He briskly shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

  “Please, I’ll take no more than a minute.”

  He began to slowly close the door. “I should be attending my son. I’ll give him your regards.”

  “Wait!” I removed the talisman from my neck. “Here.”

  The Notary gave me a disheartened smile. “This is very kind of you.”

  And with those words, he shut me out.

  I stepped off the small porch, my spirits low. It made sense that Garritt would close himself away from The Horseman, but close out his friends as well?

  The whistling wind whipped across the property. It was like cold fingers raking my flesh. I heard my name whispered within the gust – Katrina – and felt his pale breath upon my neck. Or had it just been my imagination, stirred by the bleak surroundings? I hope.

  Anyone else would’ve ridden straight home, but it was my stubborn nature that guided me. I quietly slipped around to the side of the house, tiptoeing toward the back.

  I lingered in the chill with the presumption that the Notary would deliver the talisman to Garritt straight away. How long he’d remain, I could only guess. I had no sense of time – it being void here – and let instinct guide me.

  I pressed myself to the wall and ticked off seconds in my head. One…two…three…With my eyes closed, the stale air reeked stronger. It clung to my skin and I could taste it on my tongue. But I wouldn’t lose count. …thirty-five…thirty-six…thirty-seven… Then something brushed past my ankle! I jerked aside, shaking my skirts. What in the name of…? The ground moved! It spiraled and churned like the inner workings of a clock. How was that possible?

  My heart pounded as I knelt for a closer look. Oh God! I leapt back, clapping my hands to my mouth. Snakes! Masses of them – brown and speckled like the barren soil. They moved chaotically, weaving about with no sense of direction. Their tongues flickered. Their bodies coiled. Two fought over a field mouse, still squirming for its life. Another had swallowed its own tail.

  With my hands still pressed to my mouth – I will not cry out – I treaded gingerly through them. Then finding my footing, I crept around to Garritt’s window.

  He had not exaggerated The Horseman’s mark. It ran diagonally through the center of the pane, raven black with eyelash thin cracks branching from it.

  My need to see Garritt pushed me forward. I rapped once, then quickly jerked my hand away. It was like tapping the surface of a frozen pond, burning my knuckles. I wrapped my hand in my shawl and knocked again. “Garritt,” I called through the glass. “Come to the window.”

  I waited, my heart ticking the seconds. “Garritt.”

  I saw movement behind the curtains. Slight, but there nonetheless. I tapped again. This drew him over. He lifted the curtain just enough to peer out. His eyes drew to The Horseman’s mark and he pulled back. “Meet me at the other window,” he said.

  I rounded the corner to the one facing the back of the property. Garritt was already there, his pallor practically transparent and his eyes baggy and red. The talisman hung from his neck. He lifted the window just enough that we might speak without strain. His gaze shifted beyond me, looking left and right.

  “Go, Katrina. It’s not safe here.”

  “Why have you not told your father of The Horseman?”

  He winced, drawing back. “This is not your concern. Please, leave. I couldn’t bear it if you came to harm.”

  Why must he be so stubborn?

  “Garritt, simply confess your encounter. Measures will be taken to keep you safe.”

  “I can’t. And besides, I’ve already made my own plans.”

  “What plans?”

  He hesitated, eyes shifting again. “I’m refusing the blood-lettings to gain strength, then I’ll sneak out and ride away. The Horseman only keeps to this vicinity. He won’t pursue me outside the Hollow.”

  “Garritt, I’ve an even better idea. Speak with Marten. He’s purchased a ship. He and I are going to sail away. You can come with us.”

  His weary eyes grew wide. “Marten bought a ship?”

  “Yes,” I said, now smiling. “It will be here in a few weeks and –”

  “Weeks?” His shoulders sank and he ranked his fingers through his matted hair. “Katrina, I won’t last that long.”

  I feared he was right. “Please, Garritt, there has to be something I can do to help you.”

  “You can help me by staying quiet.”

  “But –”

  “No one must know. Now leave.”

  After all I’d risked, it’d been a fruitless attempt. There was no reason to continue pressing him. “Very well. But I do hope you’ll change your mind.”

  “I won’t.” He reached for the talisman. “You should have this back. You’ll need it more than me.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “You keep it. To protect you until you’re safely away.”

  He clutched it in his hand. “Thank you.”

  Our eyes held for a moment, then he said, “Go, before you’re discovered.”

  I stepped away, tightening my shawl.

  “Katrina.”

  I turned.

  “Be careful.” With those words, he closed the window.

  * * *

  Garritt’s deathly face haunted me all the way home. I told myself there was nothing more I could do. And I kept repeating it as I counted down the minutes to Ichabod’s arrival. I was weak-kneed with anticipation, yet determined to remain level-headed. Still, I changed out of my church dress and into a shimmering violet gown with silver trim.

  What’s wrong with a little dazzle to brighten the evening?

  Stepping out onto our piazza, I breathed in the evening air. The western sky blazed with streaks of spun gold and deep burgundy. What a contrast to the environment of Garritt’s surroundings. How would this sunset look through his eyes? A boy in Hell. A boy marked by The Horseman.

  A hand touched my shoulder and I blanched.

  “Jumpy, are we?”

  “Brom!” I clutched my fists to my heart. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” How does he always appear out of nowhere?

  He arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t sneaking. You were in a daze.”

  I brushed his hand away. “Still.”

  Brom had dinner with us every Sunday evening. Although I’d wished tonight he’d gone carousing instead.

  He puffed his chest and rocked back on his heels. “So tonight we dine with the honorable Mr. Crane.”

  “Honorable being the pertinent word,” I said. “Try to behave yourself…if you’re capable.”

  “I promise not to lick the mutton drippings off my fingers.”

  “I was referring to your sharp tongue.”

  He grinned and pulled me close, nuzzling his lips to my neck. “I shall be a proper gentleman.”

  I unwound his arms from my waist. “Then start now.”

  He stepped back, laughing like a fool. I would’ve kicked him had I not worried about losing the bow on my slipper.r />
  The clip-clop of hooves echoed softly from the road. Momentarily, Ichabod approached…on what appeared to be the most cussed of all horses. It shambled forth, flicking its tail and flaring its nostrils. As they neared the hitching rail, the dapple stopped, backed up, and circled clockwise…twice.

  “Steady,” Ichabod said, patting the animal’s smoky mane.

  “Quite the cavalier,” Brom whispered. I poked him with my elbow.

  Ichabod dismounted, and with a little goading, led the horse to hitch. “Meet Gunpowder,” he said, patting the horse’s hindquarters.

  Brom lifted a brow. “Looks as though he’s lost his spark.”

  In several long strides Ichabod joined us on the piazza. “I can only assume by his name that he’d had spirit in his day. Now it’s purely spunk. Van Ripper loaned him to me with the assurance that, ‘An ornery horse is better than a mile on foot.’” His raspy imitation made me giggle.

  “Well, you certainly showed that beast who’s boss,” Brom scoffed.

  Ichabod, being the only gentleman present, ignored the comment and turned his attention to me. “Katrina, you look radiant this evening.”

  Judging by his fitted suit and teal waistcoat, I could say the same for him. But then, he could wear sackcloth and be just as delicious.

  “Why, thank you, Ichabod.”

  The front door pushed open and Father stood, filling the entry. “Were you planning to leave our guest out there with the frogs and insects?”

  “We wouldn’t hear of it,” Brom said with a sweeping after you gesture.

  I boldly hooked my arm through Ichabod’s and escorted him inside.

  Though Brom looked on gently, I knew deep down his soul rumbled. I didn’t care. It was time to show him that our engagement was simply a product of his imagination, no matter what blessing Father may or may not have bestowed.

  Simon had laid a lovely table with our Delft pottery and pewter candlesticks. Brom quickly took the seat next to mine. I was fine with that. Sitting across from Ichabod allowed me the opportunity to look into his eyes and study his face. Expressions speak as clearly as words, and I wanted to know everything about him.

  “So tell us,” Father said, passing the soup tureen, “Are you adjusting to our simple ways here at Sleepy Hollow?”

  Ichabod lifted the dish from him. “I am, sir. It’s like a breath of fresh air. Just the change I needed.”

  “Too many pitchforks?” I teased.

  Father eyebrows bristled. “What a ridiculous question.”

  Ichabod waved it off with a smile. “I simply needed a quiet place to clear my head.”

  Brom chuckled, his eyes on his plate. “If you want your head cleared, you’ve come to the right place.”

  Father shot him a threatening look. It was imperative that we stay mum on the subject of The Horseman. Even at the risk of Ichabod’s neck. He turned back to Ichabod. “I can’t imagine how a schoolroom full of boisterous children could be relaxing, but we’re grateful that you came.”

  “They’re not boisterous at all,” Ichabod said. “We’ve only had two days of instruction, but I’ve found the students quite eager.”

  “And what form of discipline do you impart?” Father asked. Discipline being Father’s specialty.

  Brom stabbed a slice of mutton and dropped it onto his plate. “Yes, tell us. Do you rap their knuckles with your ruler or paddle their little bottoms with a board?”

  At the moment I wanted to rap his.

  “Neither,” Ichabod answered without a hint of annoyance. “I’ve never been a believer in Spare the Rod. I find communication and bargaining works best.”

  Father’s eyes grew so wide I thought they might roll out of his head. “Bargaining with children? That’s absurd.”

  “Yet it gets results.” Ichabod carved into his meat, not the least bit offended by Father’s remark. “The children and I have struck an agreement. If they finish their lessons to my satisfaction, they earn a short session of storytelling at the end of the day.”

  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 dea
d 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.”