SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow)

by Dax Varley

  As we gathered our things, Elise suddenly stopped. With squinted eyes, she peered across the field. “Katrina, is that Marten’s horse?” She was gazing in the far distance, where Brom’s cabin sat.

  I stepped onto a stool to see. Indeed it was Marten’s horse. And Brom’s was hitched next to it.

  “I wonder why Marten isn’t fishing today?”

  I wondered the same. And even more so, why Brom was not out overseeing the farm. What business did they have in his cabin on a late Monday morning?

  The wind picked up, and a sudden gust prickled my skin. “Maybe the waters are not right for fishing,” I offered. Though deep down I knew that wasn’t true.

  * * *

  Father and I had one thing in common. We always woke up grumpy and cross. Father would huff and growl, communicating with gestures. I, on the other hand, would plod through the house, seeing through blurry eyes. The only person with a smile was Simon, ready with our tea and breakfast. But on this particular Wednesday, I broke my droopy routine.

  Simon tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “Something’s got you mighty cheerful this morning, Miss Katrina.”

  “I’m just well rested,” I lied. Truthfully, I’d tossed about, a thousand things whisking through my mind. Mostly, the joy that this would not be a typical day, stuck within these walls. I stirred some honey into my cup. “Ichabod comes this afternoon.”

  Simon shuffled some pots off the stove. “He’s a very generous soul.”

  I gazed out the kitchen window. “Yes, he is. And thankfully, we’re having lovely weather.”

  “Thankfully,” he agreed, suppressing a grin.

  Was he thinking…? “It’s just that I’m interested in Ichabod’s teaching methods.”

  Simon still held back that grin. “I’m sure they’ll be most interesting.”

  I stirred in some cream. “The children will benefit greatly.”

  “It is a blessing,” he said, now smiling broadly.

  I finally had to ask. “Simon, what is so amusing?”

  He lifted the teapot. “I was just thinking that you might want some tea in that cream and honey.” He poured.

  “Oh…uh…”

  “Miss Katrina,” he said with a laugh, “it’s going to be a wonderful day.”

  * * *

  I prepared by baking two dozen apple dumplings and filling a jug with cider. These were not meant as rewards for good work, but to fill the children’s small bellies beforehand. After all, hunger is a gnawing distraction. So is clock-watching. Something I tried not to do.

  Ichabod arrived about half past three, juggling four hornbooks, a sum book, and two other texts in his arms. Even though he’d spent the day teaching the village children, his smile was as pleasant and refreshing as if he’d just awakened to a day of sunshine. “I would’ve been here sooner, but Gunpowder had other plans for me. It took some persuading to get him out of the schoolyard.”

  I peeked out at the pigheaded beast, which at the moment was using the hitching rail as a scratching post for his gray speckled breast. “Surely Van Ripper has another horse he could loan you.”

  “Not unless I want to ride the plow mule. Besides,” – he nodded back toward Gunpowder – “he’s shown me parts of the valley I never knew existed. Nor could ever find again.”

  “You don’t have to worry about getting lost around here,” I said. “As long as you can hear the river, you’ll find your way back.”

  His eyes softened as they met mine. “That’s assuring.”

  Those eyes.

  I quickly turned my attention to his supplies. “Let me help you with some of these.” I lifted the two texts from his grip, then I saw that one was a volume of Aesop’s Fables. No! Panicked, I quickly opened his coat and shoved it under his arm out of sight.

  He blanched, folding to the side as he wrangled the remaining items so they wouldn’t fall. He managed to grip the fables with his armpit.

  “Sorry” I said, reaching to steady him.

  He flinched at my touch.

  My face burned ruby hot. “You must think I’m a lunatic.” Or worse! “Honestly, I didn’t mean to be so brash.” I slowly reached out and took a couple of the hornbooks from his grasp.

  He slipped Aesop out from under his arm. “No, please, don’t apologize. It’s just that” – his cheeks reddened slightly as he gave me a shy smile – “I’m...quite ticklish.”

  “Oh.” Why do I find that so endearing? I covered my mouth, holding back a giggle.

  He rolled his eyes. “I know. Go ahead and laugh.”

  “I wouldn’t.” But I wanted to.

  He held up the book, turning it front to back. “So tell me, why are we so eager to censor Aesop?”

  “Because if Father sees it he’ll skin your hide and bury you in Smedt’s root cellar.”

  His face opened in a jest of shock. “Then to save my hide, I should explain its purpose.”

  “They are stories,” I reminded him.

  “But they’ll be used for critical thinking. I’ll read a short tale, then have the students try to determine the moral. It stimulates the mind.”

  I shrugged a little, conceding. “That sounds reasonable.”

  “And,” he added, “I think the children will be inspired to know that Aesop himself had been a slave.”

  I exaggerated a sigh. “Ichabod, you are one brave man.”

  Our eyes held for a moment, then a smile lit his face. “Why don’t we test that with the children.” He gently took the texts and hornbooks back from me and shifted them to his arm. “So, where is our schoolhouse?”

  “This way.”

  I led him into the kitchen where I’d placed the plate of dumplings and jug of cider into a hamper. I’d brought out some quilts too. Since the children had no benches or desks, I felt these would ease the discomfort of sitting on the gritty dirt. We carried everything to the spreading maple where Ichabod would teach.

  The soil underneath it had been loosened and patted, making sure each child had a proper writing surface. No doubt a deed Simon had seen to. I’d barely spread the quilts when the children came marching up from the slave quarters.

  There were eleven instead of seven – all led by Leta, a strong-willed child of about twelve. After getting them seated she turned to Ichabod. “I invited some others. I didn’t think you’d mind. And I sharpened some extra sticks.” She held them bundled in her fists.

  “Excellent,” Ichabod said. “How many did you sharpen?”

  I’m sure this was a question to test her mathematical abilities, but Leta looked up at him like he was the village idiot. “One for each of them.”

  “Clever girl,” he praised.

  He then brought out a ledger, quill, and a small pot of ink. “I’ll start by taking down your names.” He looked first at Leta.

  “My name’s Leta and I already know how to spell it.”

  He turned the ledger toward her and offered her the quill. “Would you like to write it in for me? I could help you.”

  A moment of panic crossed her pretty face. Then just as quickly she regained her composure. “I don’t want to get ink on my fingers.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Would you spell it for me?”

  In this she took great pleasure. “L-E-T-A.”

  “Thank you,” he said, suppressing a smile.

  Each child in turn stated their name, except for Elijah, a boy of about six. He had the energy of a wild hare. He sprang up from his spot and raced in a circle, giggling and taunting us with, “You can’t catch me.”

  As he went for his third turn, Leta reached up and snatched him by the suspenders. He sprang back onto his bottom with a whop. “Sit down, Elijah!” She kept his suspender straps clutched in her hand so he couldn’t make for another escape.

  “I think it would be safer for all of us,” Ichabod said, plucking the boy’s stick from his hand, “if young Elijah here used his finger as his writing tool.”

  I gave each child a dumpling and a cup of c
ider while Ichabod informed them as to what they could expect from these sessions. They seemed eager for both the food and the knowledge.

  They shared the hornbooks, running their fingers along the carved alphabets. Ichabod explained the difference between upper and lowercase letters. Then, starting with the letter A, they practiced writing in the dirt. Some of the children were more skilled, so I took the slower ones aside, helping them to catch up. I found that I enjoyed teaching. I never thought I’d have the patience for it.

  Their sharpened sticks served for more than writing. Ichabod used them as counting tools to teach addition and subtraction.

  He also formed shapes with them – a square, rectangle, triangle – and had the students look around and name objects and structures that held those geometric shapes. I was mesmerized by his calm voice and patient gestures.

  The lessons ended with him sharing the Aesop Fable of The Fox and the Grapes. To bring more life to the story, he stood, holding up a dumpling, while small Elijah jumped and jounced, trying unsuccessfully to seize it. Though Ichabod asked them to determine a moral, they tried concocting ways in which the fox could obtain the grapes instead. They had that weary fox pulling carts, riding horses, and waiting for lightning to strike.

  As the discussion continued, Elijah still exerted great energy trying to grasp that dumpling. Then, with a frustrated grunt, he drew back his foot and kicked Ichabod hard in the shin. As a manner of reflex, Ichabod bent over and clutched his knee. Elijah plucked the dumpling from his hand, stuffed the entire thing in his mouth, then plopped down on the ground, arms crossed. The children and I bellowed with laughter.

  Ichabod sat down, rubbing his shin. He leaned toward me and whispered, “That one will grow up to emancipate them all.”

  After bringing about order, he told them, “I’ll leave two of the hornbooks with you. When there is time, practice your letters and numbers, and I’ll check your progress next week.”

  “If you still have yore head,” Leta mumbled under her breath.

  “Leta!” I scolded. “Do not speak out of turn.”

  But Ichabod held up his hand, indicating he’d allow it. He kept his attention on her. “I’ve heard the tale of your famous horseman. Tell me, why do you think he might take my head.”

  She rolled her eyes as if the answer were simple. “Because he whacked off the first schoolmaster’s. It’s like arithmetic. He’s doing his own subtraction.”

  “So you believe there is a horseman?” he asked.

  “Of course there is,” she said. “I’ve seen him.”

  I felt a hitch in my chest. “Leta, if this is some game…”

  “It’s no game, Miss Katrina. I saw him the other night.”

  I worked to keep my breathing normal. “When?”

  “When I went out to the outhouse to do my business. Coming out I saw him up there.” She pointed to a hill near our house.

  I turned to look. The trees upon it instantly rustled as though they knew that I watched.

  “He was holding that sickle of his, and his horse pawed the ground like it was fired up, ready to chase somebody down.”

  Ichabod arched a skeptical brow. “Why didn’t you run?”

  Again she gave him that “are you thick?” expression. “I did! You think I just stood there like a fool?”

  “He didn’t come after you?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am. He was more interested in what was going on in there.” She pointed to the house.

  Ichabod rubbed his chin. “What night was this?”

  I knew the answer before she said it.

  “Sunday.”

  It was The Horseman I’d sensed.

  “You’re very calm about this,” Ichabod said. “Weren’t you frightened?”

  “Scared to death! But I have this.” She reached under her collar and produced a talisman hanging from a string. It was the same type of charm that Simon had made for me. The one that was now protecting Garritt.

  Ichabod lifted the talisman into his hand and stroked it lightly with his thumb. His expression clouded as he studied it.

  Leta tugged it back like his touch might wear away its power.

  He sat back and sighed. “Forgive me, Leta, but I’ve never been one to believe in ghosts.”

  Yet you believe in the black arts.

  She shrugged. “You’ll believe it when yore head is rolling away from yore body.”

  This earned some giggles from the other children, who’d been listening with wide eyes.

  My mind churned. If it was Garritt he sought, then why had The Horseman come here? I held back my anxiety as best I could. The children had enough burdens without me adding further distress.

  “Well…” Ichabod rose. “If I’m still in possession of my head next Wednesday, I’ll see you all then. Class is dismissed.”

  Rather than hurrying off, Leta took charge, seeing to it that the children shook out the quilts and folded them neatly. The cups were emptied and placed in the hamper. She ordered each child to say thank you, then led the way, marching them back to their quarters.

  I crossed my arms against the chill as we walked back to the house. I could not let go of my fear.

  Ichabod watched me from the corner of his eye. “You believe in this horseman too.”

  I turned quickly, gazing up at him. “I’m so sorry. Someone should’ve told you before you made the decision to come here.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I’m not sure that would’ve swayed my decision.”

  “Don’t you get it? There is a Horseman. He murdered Nikolass Devenpeck.”

  “But where’s the proof?”

  “The Council has proof. And Nikolass was not the first. Apparently The Horseman follows a pattern.”

  He still looked doubtful. “That doesn’t prove these murders were carried out by a ghost.”

  “Ichabod, he is real. I know. I’ve seen him myself.” I realized I was practically shouting. I lowered my voice when adding, “And not just me. He’s marked a dear friend, leaving him tortured and driven to madness.”

  Our eyes held and a thousand questions crossed his face.

  “I know it sounds insane,” I said.

  “No, it doesn’t.” He gently clasped my arm. “You’re trembling. Let’s get you inside.”

  When we reached the backdoor, the smell of baked fish greeted us. Simon was busy in the kitchen, tension framing his eyes. “I hope all went well with the children.”

  “Extremely well,” Ichabod assured him. “They are all bright and receptive.”

  I set the hamper on the sideboard and removed my shawl. “I can attest to that.”

  Simon’s shoulders relaxed as he continued paring potatoes.

  I began removing the cups and placing them into the tub for washing. I kept my eyes down, trying to steady my grip. If Garritt is marked, why was The Horseman here? Another chill rippled through me.

  Ichabod gazed at me, his face a mask of concern. “Katrina, I must be getting back. I promised Van Ripper I’d help – ”

  “Yes,” I blurted before he could say more. “I’d feel better if you’re inside before dark.”

  Simon paused and said, “Thank you kindly, Mr. Crane. I’ll be sure Isaiah’s there on Saturday with timber and tools.”

  “Perfect.” Ichabod shifted his books from one arm to another.

  I managed a weak smile. “I’ll see you out.”

  We stepped onto the piazza, the veil of evening unfolding before us. Gunpowder, still hitched and waiting, greeted us with a rolling snort.

  I followed Ichabod to the hitching rail. He took a moment to place his books in the saddlebag, and then turned. “Katrina...”

  “Please, please be careful.” My eyes cut to the hill and back.

  Ichabod glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t worry.”

  “How can I not?”

  He took my hand in both of his. “There is no mistaking your fear. Trust me, I do believe you.” He stroked my fingers as though they were treasured
porcelain. I placed my other hand on his and we stood there, speaking through touch. The night air grew colder, yet the feel of him warmed me.

  “I will be careful,” he promised, bringing my hand upward and kissing my fingertips. “And if Gunpowder remembers he’s a horse, I shall be back at Van Ripper’s in a flash.”

  I reached over and stroked the beast’s neck. “He’s in your hands,” I murmured into his flickering ear.

  Ichabod loosened the reins from the hitching rail. The frisky horse seemed eager to go, making Ichabod’s mounting a clumsy task. Once in the saddle, he looked down at me with those haunting green eyes. “Take care, Katrina. I shall see you soon.”

  Then he was off. I watched until he was no longer in sight.

  I stood there for a bit, gazing down at my fingertips, still tingling from the brush of his lips. But I finally snapped out of my daze by realizing I was dawdling out in the biting cold without a cloak or shawl. I turned to go inside and…Dear God! My breath caught and my knees buckled. The Horseman was there, on the hill, sitting tall upon his steed.

  His silhouette loomed larger and more malevolent than when I last saw him – like he bore all the hatred of Hell. His scythe rested on his shoulder, the blade touching the sky like a silver crescent moon.

  My blood drained as I stood frozen to the spot. Then, like a slap…Ichabod!

  It could be no coincidence that The Horseman has appeared twice during his visits. It was suddenly clear. Ichabod had become the target.

  I must warn him.

  Hitching my skirts, I flew around the house racing toward our stables. My heart thundered against my chest as my unsteady legs carried me.

  Ichabod.

  Fortune was on my side. One of the stable doors stood open and a lamp flickered within. I ran all the faster, hurrying for my horse.

  As I hastened through the door, an arm reached out and grabbed me. I immediately flailed and screamed.

  “Whoa, Katrina.” It was Brom, struggling to steady me.

  “Let go,” I cried, fighting to break his grasp.

  “Calm down there, little filly.”

  I had no time for his childishness. “The Horseman is out there.”