SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow)

by Dax Varley

  Ichabod didn’t seem to give a hoot about the Council. He quickly turned to Simon. “How many children are there?”

  Simon glanced nervously at Father, then answered. “Seven that are of schoolin’ age.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Ichabod said. “We’ll meet this Wednesday. Sharpen seven short sticks for writing instruments and gather them in a spot with loose soil.”

  Simon tried to keep a blank face, but I could see a tinge of pleasure peeking though. “Yes, sir.”

  “And Baltus,” Ichabod said, facing Father again. “Are you in possession of a globe? I’m afraid mine is too large and bulky.”

  Father nearly choked on his meat. “I dare say you’ve run out of favors with me.”

  I quickly interceded. “I have a globe. Though it is covered with markings.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Markings?”

  “Yes. I’ve routed passages to the places I intend to visit someday.” Very soon.

  “A lot of poppycock,” Father rumbled. “Katrina’s always been a dreamer.”

  Brom pressed his knee hard against mine. “It’s a waste of a perfectly good globe, if you ask me.” No one asked you. “Katrina will one day inherit this farm. Her duties here won’t allow for much travel.”

  I knocked his knee away hard. “Which is all the more reason to travel now.”

  “Enough of this,” Father said. He pointed his fork at Ichabod. “Just remember, Crane, spend your time on logic. No filling the slaves’ heads with ridiculous stories or ideas of emancipation.”

  Ichabod reverted back to the shy teacher he was before. “I shall use the time efficiently.”

  Clever, Ichabod. You’re both a rogue and a risk-taker.

  Father waved Simon away, leaving us with a moment of strained silence.

  “Speaking of stories,” I said to soften the edge in the room, “You promised tonight you’d share one of your published pieces.” I wanted so badly to know what sort of tales were spun in that marvelous head.

  He patted his breast pocket. “And I never go back on my promises.”

  Brom’s knee found mine again. Enough. I stepped on his foot. He blanched and cut his eyes to me.

  Father wavered his hand as though conducting us. “Then eat up so that we may adjourn to the parlor for brandy.”

  * * *

  Father settled into his easy chair and took up his pipe. I chose to sit near the corner, far from Brom and his possessive knee.

  Ichabod walked to the fireplace, took out that curious little journal and removed a piece of folded newsprint. From my view I could make out some advertisements – a dentist, paper hangings, and several lotteries – but I was far more interested in the printing on the other side.

  Amid the crackling of the fire and the ticking of our mantel clock, he read:

  Of Fate and Fortune.

  Some ten miles from the city of Easton lay a scant few acres and a modest farm. The farm stood in isolation, with only the oxen and hens for company. On occasion the rumble of a nearby battle could be heard, for the revolution was at its peak and the upheaval vast. But the small farm was so detached, it seemed one of Earth’s hidden secrets that nothing could penetrate.

  The farmer himself, one Philip C. Hartley, was a stout and stubborn gentleman who refused to stay separated from the comings and goings of the city. He not only rode in to sell his plump squash and leafy cabbage, but to also partake in the pleasures of gambling. Hartley’s run of luck never ceased, and though he spent a good deal of his winnings on tobacco and rum, he was known throughout Easton as Fortunate Phil.

  But his good fortune was not due to any measure on his part. For at home he kept a wife by the name of Rebecca. She was ten years younger and ten times more tolerant than her selfish, demanding husband. Rebecca was lovely and fair, but it was her gift of strong intuition that pleased old Philip most. With his prodding, she would advise him on the best days to plant, hunt, and gamble. And she was never wrong.

  While he rewarded her with an occasional new dress or hair combs, Rebecca was not allowed away from the farm. And with no children to keep her company, she spent her days forlorn and lonely – a prisoner in her own home.

  After some five years, Rebecca became ill. Her ivory pallor turned gray, and her face soon resembled that of a death mask. Hartley broke his own rule and brought a doctor out to attend her. No tonics eased her. No pill revived her. And so she was left to linger.

  Hartley grew agitated and weary. Though his sorrow seemed genuine, it was not the loss of his wife that grieved him, but the loss of the excessive lifestyle that she had afforded him. He was helpless to provide for himself.

  Then the fateful day came. Rebecca gazed out the window with dark-rimmed eyes. She requested the grave be dug under her favorite elm, then laying out her pink dress, told him that was what she wished to wear.

  He fell into tears. His wife, a mere ghost of what she once was, had given him her last requests. What more could he do for this woman who had been faithful to him all this time?

  So Hartley took up a shovel and dug. It took the better part of the morning, but soon he had a deep clean hole, worthy of a six-foot coffin. He thrust his shovel into the waiting mound of dirt, wiped his brow, and turned. At that very moment, a stray bullet from the war connected with his head, killing him instantly and knocking him into the gaping hole that he had so vigorously dug for himself.

  Rebecca, suddenly taken with a bout of vitality, removed the shovel from the mound and carefully filled in the grave. An hour later, bathed, perfumed and wearing her pink dress, she rode away from the farm forever.

  A thoughtful silence followed. I’d never felt so connected to a tale. I was about to compliment the author when Father grumbled, “That ending certainly had an unexpected twist.”

  Ichabod’s lips crooked into a smile. “It’s what we call irony.”

  Brom sat stiff, gripping the arm of his chair. “And what made you choose that particular story to read?”

  Ichabod took a seat near the hearth. He glanced first at Brom, then me, then back to Brom. “Irony.”

  The shallow look on Brom’s face spoke for his mentality. But then, his perception of things are about as narrow as the fireplace poker.

  The next two hours were spent on less personal topics such as the weather, farm reports, and the rise of the Federalist Party. I spent that time observing Ichabod, his speech, his mannerisms, and how knowledgeable he was on all subjects. He seemed oddly out of place in Sleepy Hollow. What could possibly have happened in Connecticut that sent him here?

  When he rose to leave, Father walked him to the door. “By the way, Crane, you may have heard, each year I open my home for a harvest celebration. It will be on the twenty-eighth. You’ll join us, of course.” It echoed more as a command than an invitation.

  A broad smile lit his face. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Brom and I saw him onto the piazza. Gunpowder had managed to loosen his reins and wander some yards away. Ichabod threw up his hands and chuckled. “I swear, if that horse were a woman I’d marry her.”

  Brom leaned against the railing, arms crossed. “Then spend most of your time trying to tame her.”

  “Or keep up with her,” Ichabod countered.

  Their words flickered in and out as I felt a sudden stirring in the air. An odd chill. Though the night was calm, a slight draft brushed my neck, prickling my skin. I held my breath and gazed into the gloaming. He’s out there…waiting.

  “Katrina,” Ichabod said, snapping me back around.

  “I’m-I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously, then he glanced into the darkness too. “I said…” He turned back. “…you have a warm and lovely home.”

  “Oh. Uh, yes. Thank you.”

  He could easily detect my agitation. “Thank you. It was a wonderful evening.” He then nodded at Brom. “Thank you both.”

  As he started down the steps, I spouted, “Ichabod!” Something was there,
lurking, just out of sight. Something or someone lying in wait.

  He paused, anticipating.

  “I –I…” How do I start? How do I warn him?

  Brom tilted his head, annoyed. The only thing missing was an exasperated sigh.

  I was about to pour out the whole story of The Horseman – everything from the night at my window to Garritt’s near death. But then I remembered. Garritt. It’s Garritt who’s marked. Garritt’s the one in danger. I forced a weak smile. “I was wondering what time we should expect you on Wednesday?”

  He relaxed, his smile natural and sweet. “I hope to be here shortly after three.”

  Our eyes held…a little too long. If he saw some pleading within mine, it never showed. I looked away.

  He strode out to Gunpowder and mounted. Then after some goading, the horse turned. Ichabod gave us a parting wave, and they plodded off.

  Once he’d ridden out of sight, Brom caught me by the waist and pulled me aside, away from the windows. “He’s gone now. You can stop gawking.”

  I tugged at his fingers to break his grip. “Let go.” The more I pulled, the tighter he held.

  He grinned down at me. “You know, Katrina, I’m a dreamer too.”

  I struggled to squirm free. “I’ve no doubt. Probably dreaming of tavern girls.”

  He craned back and cocked a brow. “Have you ever seen a tavern girl?”

  How could his fingers lock so tightly? “Not that I’m aware.”

  “There are only two at the River Song, and they’re as lovely as Ichabod’s horse.”

  “Brom, release me now.”

  “But I haven’t told you what I dream of.”

  I surrendered, going limp. “Tell me.”

  I didn’t think it was possible for him to pull me closer, but somehow he managed. “I dream of our house near the river.” He nuzzled my neck. “A side porch. Maple staircase. And a large brass knocker with the head of a lion.”

  I gripped his ear and twisted it...hard. His eyes widen in surprise.

  “Get this through your thick head. There will be no house by the river. And if, by some miracle, there were, I’d most certainly have a say in its structure.”

  He pulled my hand away and grinned. “Sweetheart, of course you’ll have a say. You can choose the location of our bedchamber.”

  “You are a dreamer.” I kicked his shin and he released me.

  “Katrina, you’ll never find anyone who cares for you as much as I do.”

  I smoothed the wrinkles from my violet dress. “Molesting me is not my idea of affection.”

  “I admit,” he said, “I don’t have the manners and education of our Connecticut schoolmaster.” He nodded toward Ichabod’s trail. “But I can certainly provide more than someone on a schoolmaster’s wage.”

  “With Father’s money,” I spouted.

  The words hung for a moment, then Brom stepped away, his face dark. “I think you’re forgetting that it’s my duties as overseer that produces that money. And it’s nearly doubled since Baltus put the farm in my hands.”

  “How can I make you understand? I don’t care about the money or being provided for. And I have no desire to be married. Not to you,” – I nodded toward Ichabod’s trail – “or anyone.”

  He stared, jaw jutted, then put his finger in my face. “You’ll change your mind.” With that, he strutted to his horse, mounted, and rode off to his cabin.

  Weeks, Marten had told me. Why must it take weeks?

  * * *

  I barely slept that night, still chilled by the unseen specter near our house. When I did sleep, I dreamt of The Horseman, below my window – his sword…his beckoning hand. I woke twice in a fevered sweat.

  But Monday morning finally crept in, and like every Monday it was candle day – a tradition Elise and I started as children. We’d spend the morning dipping candles, laughing, and catching up on gossip. Yes, even the nonsense spun by Henny.

  Elise arrived, gleeful and pert, bringing with her a satchel and the gown she’d borrowed. “Thank you so much, Kat.” She laid the dress on the bed and, floating in a daze, brushed her fingers across the emerald brocade. “It’s the color of Ichabod’s eyes.”

  She was right. It was a close match to those eyes I’d looked into so many times last evening.

  “How was your dinner with Ichabod?” she asked. “Isn’t he’s magnificent?”

  “He’s…different.”

  “To put it mildly.” She fluttered her lashes and sighed. “He’s so handsome and gallant and…and…”

  “Delicious?”

  “Sinfully. And look what he brought me.” She opened the satchel and brought out his copy of The Thousand and One Nights: Persian Tales.

  I took it from her and flipped through the vellum pages, awing at the sketches inside. Women peering through veils. Men in plumed turbans. Majestic palaces with spiral domes. “What a generous gift.” Exceedingly generous.

  Her mouth twitched. “Not a gift exactly. He loaned it to me. But he said the tales should play to my romantic nature.”

  “Oh. He’s speaking of romance already?” A pang of envy pricked my heart.

  “Not directly. But perhaps he feels it’s too soon to profess his love.”

  I suppressed a smile. “Perhaps.” I handed the book back and she gazed on it with love in her eyes.

  “Have you read any of the stories?” I asked.

  “Just the prologue.” She opened to it. “It tells of a king, whose name I can’t pronounce.” She pointed and I read Shahrayar. What a name. My tongue would stumble over it too.

  “This king,” she continued, “brought young virgins to his bed each night, and then the next morning he’d have them executed.”

  “What? That’s horrific! And not exactly what I’d deem exotic.”

  “Wait.” She pointed to another word. “This woman –” I read the name Shahazad. “ – came to him. She’d devised a plan to stop the killings. Each night she’d tell him a story, but never finish it – always leaving him curious as to what happens next.” Elise’s eyes bloomed with delight. “After a year had passed, the king grew to love her and her stories. He spared her life and kept her as his queen.” She sighed.

  “And you find that romantic?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Of course not. The man slaughtered all those young virgins and was never punished for it? That’s outrageous.”

  Elise slumped, tilting her head. “Kat, it’s not a true account.”

  “But even the most fantastical fiction should reflect real life in some way. Why was there not an uprising? Surely the fathers of those girls would have conspired revenge.”

  Elise pushed my brocade dress aside and plopped down on the bed. “I’m sure this is why Ichabod gave the book to me and not you. He knew I wouldn’t try to rewrite it.”

  She had a fair point. It was a valuable piece of literature. Who was I to pick it apart? “You’re right.” I held up my hands in surrender. “Maybe we can read some of the stories together.”

  “Only if you promise not to crusade against each one.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  She gazed upon the treasured item. “Where is Persia?”

  “A very long way from here.” I hopped up, took her hand, and tugged her to a standing position. “The fires are ready.” Then we hurried outside to the kettles and racks.

  Elise snipped the string while I attached it to the hooks. “I want to hear about your dinner with Ichabod,” she said.

  “I assure you, it was not as perfect as yours,” I teased.

  “I never said mine was perfect. You’re forgetting, my stupid little brothers were there. They dominated every conversation, badgering him with questions about school. ‘Will the assignments be difficult?’ ‘Will you allow us some play time?” And Dirk had the audacity to ask, ‘Will you be adding a whipping post?’”

  I blurted a laugh. “Ichabod prefers bargaining over beating.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You must
’ve learned a great deal about him.”

  “Just that he’s unconventional in his thinking.” And a breath of fresh air.

  She helped me lower the first group of strings into the wax. “And that’s what I love about him,” she uttered.

  “It’s an admirable trait.” But there was so much more of Ichabod to discover…if I wasn’t sailing away.

  We placed the strings onto the rack.

  “Did he bring one of his stories to share?” she asked.

  “Yes. He’s a marvelous writer.”

  Her mouth curved into a sly grin. “A tale of debauchery?”

  I laughed, remembering that look on old Henny’s face. “Hardly. Father would’ve booted him right back to Connecticut.” And very nearly did.

  We set about, dipping another set of strings – the heat from the kettle warm on our faces. I gazed out across the field, imagining Ichabod by the brook, journal and pencil in hand. “I wonder how many stories he’s published?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, “but I want to read them all. Or even better, lie next to him, my head on his shoulder, while he reads them to me.”

  I admit, it did sound like a cozy pastime.

  We dipped more and more, watching the wax grow fatter.

  Tilting her head, she mused, “I wonder why he doesn’t have a wife?”

  That came as such a surprise, I nearly dropped the candlewicks. “Elise, he’s barely older than us.”

  She continued as though she hadn’t heard me. “Maybe she died?”

  “What makes you think he should be married?”

  “Because he’s perfect.”

  “I’m sure if we look hard enough we’d find plenty of flaws.” My thoughts turned to that book of witchcraft that he read like a Bible.

  “Still” she said, “I bet he had his pick of girls back in Hartford.” I could see the cogs in her mind turning. “Surely one would’ve snared him by now.”

  I picked up a snippet of string and wrapped it around her ring finger. “Maybe he was waiting for you.”

  She admired it like it was a gold band. “If only that were true.”

  Once the dipping was done, we snipped the wicks and bundled the hardened candles into boxes. I had not told her about Ichabod coming to teach the slave children. Or that I’d be assisting him. It would only hurt her, I told myself…several times.