SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow)

by Dax Varley

  He gripped me even tighter. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Horseman! He’s here.” I frantically squirmed within his hold.

  He loosened his grip but still held on. “Nonsense.”

  “I just saw him on the hill. He’s after Ichabod. I must warn him.”

  “Settle down. You only imagined it.”

  “Brom, we’re wasting time. Release me.” Why was he always so impossible?

  He still held on. “Katrina, take a breath.”

  “Let me go!” I sank my teeth into his hand. He whipped back, startled.

  “I have to warn Ichabod.” Trembling, I slipped the bit into Dewdrop’s mouth and tightened the bridle. No time for a saddle. I stepped onto the stall’s railings, then flung myself onto her back.

  Brom gripped the bridle strap, stopping me once again. “And if the Horseman is out there, what’s to keep him from taking your head?”

  “He’s not after me.”

  He glared, eyes tight. “Be reasonable.”

  I snapped his hand with the reins. “Let go.”

  He flinched again, surprised, but kept a firm hold. He studied my face, then letting out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll go instead.”

  Now I was the one stunned. “W-what?”

  “I’ll go for you.” He put his hands on my waist and hoisted me down.

  “But…”

  Brom strode out to his waiting horse. I followed, skeptical.

  “Why would you offer to do this?” I asked.

  He snorted a laugh. “Because Baltus would not forgive me if I let you ride away.”

  Naturally, it’s all a joke to him. “And what will you say to Ichabod?”

  He mounted Daredevil and took the reins. “Nothing. I’m not that stupid.”

  “He has to be warned.”

  “I’ll follow at a distance, making sure he gets to Van Ripper’s in one piece.”

  “Brom, please be careful.”

  He gazed down at the bite mark on his hand. “It seems I’m much safer out there.”

  With that he spurred Daredevil and sped away.

  * * *

  My thoughts whirled as I sat at dinner, my teacup trembling in my hand. With every blink, the profile of The Horseman appeared – haunting me. Ichabod. Brom. How could I have been so selfish to let Brom go in my place?

  Father paused from his meal, genuine concern on his face. “What’s wrong? You look pale.” He touched my cheek, feeling the icy numbness.

  I wanted so badly to tell him what had happened, but he was already keeping me prisoner. If he knew about this, I wouldn’t even be allowed onto the piazza. “It’s nothing.”

  “Well, you did spend the afternoon with those children, and they carry all manner of disease. I hope it isn’t the grippe.”

  I wish it were that simple “It’s just that…I was thinking about Mr. Devenpeck. Have any measures been taken to rid us of The Horseman? Any talk of him rising again?”

  “That’s not your concern. The Council is taking care of matters.”

  “It’s everyone’s concern. What actions have they taken?”

  The crow’s feet on his eyes creased deeper. “Leave it.”

  I can’t. “What about Old Brower and Cornelius Putnam? What business did The Horseman have with them?”

  He gnashed his food like it might escape his mouth. “Leave matters to the men.”

  “Father, I’m set to inherit this house. Should I leave matters to the men when that day comes?”

  “By then you’ll have a husband.”

  My patience was wearing as thin as his. “Are you so sure? What’s protecting you from The Horseman?”

  His chewing slowed. He gulped down his meat, then said, “You’re familiar with the André tree?”

  That was not what I’d expected to hear. “Yes.” The André tree stood just outside Sleepy Hollow. Its gnarled and twisted limbs gave it a vile unearthly look. Many have said it’d sprouted from Hell, and that its roots served as ropes, binding sinners who do not obey the Devil.

  But the tree is also a landmark – connected to the tragic story of Major John André, a British sympathizer who assisted Benedict Arnold during the Revolution. It was under that tree that the Major was arrested as a spy.

  “What of it?” I urged.

  He picked through his peas, stabbing three with his fork. “It was concluded that Brower and Putnam were somehow involved in Andre’s capture. The Hessian rose to punish them.”

  I considered it for a moment. “That makes no sense. André was taken some three years after the Hessian’s head was blown off.”

  “Yes, but it’s believed that a Tory lived in our midst and conjured The Horseman to enact the revenge.”

  Were that true, there were other matters to consider. “Then what of Nikolass? Why would the Hessian come for him?’

  Father gave a shrug as he sliced into his beef. “Perhaps he’d been a British sympathizer during the war. We knew so little of him.”

  Something as dire as that would not have escaped Henny Van Wart. “Who could possibly be the conjuror?”

  He cut his eyes to me then went back to sawing his meat. “If we knew that, he would already be swinging from a noose, now wouldn’t he?”

  “So there is no solution? No defense?” I asked.

  Father sighed. “At present, our only defense is prayer.”

  “But there has to be something.”

  “Enough, Katrina. I’m weary of talking about it.”

  “But what of –”

  “Enough!”

  I sat back, collecting my thoughts. None of it made sense. Nikolass was a God-fearing man. As was Garritt. Why would God turn a blind eye to them? And what of Ichabod? He’d only just arrived. What could he have done to attract the wrath of The Horseman?

  A chill swept over me. If someone is controlling The Horseman, had the conjuror also sent him to my window that night?

  I placed my napkin on the table. “I’ve no appetite. May I be excused?”

  He tapped his fork against my plate. “You haven’t eaten.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He paused, huffed, then nodded.

  Springing up from my chair, I hurried to my room, locked myself inside, then sat, staring out the window. For how long, I could not say. I waited and watched until my eyes would no longer stay open.

  It was well after midnight when I was awakened by the sound of Brom’s horse, thundering back to his cabin. I could only assume that after Ichabod’s safe return, he had spent the rest of the evening at the River Song.

  I relaxed upon my pillow knowing that for tonight both of them were safe.

  * * *

  I wrote a note to Ichabod, then tore it up. An hour later I wrote another. I destroyed it too. After the third, I was questioning my own sanity, as well as The Horseman’s purpose.

  I sought out Brom, but he was doing everything in his nature to avoid me. It’s a little game he plays when he knows I’m anxious for something from him. With him, it’s always about control.

  On Friday, I tried to tempt him by having Leta deliver a basket of apple muffins. I did sincerely want to thank him for his selfless act.

  Leta soon returned to the house. “Mr. Brom said he wanted to know why you didn’t deliver ‘em yoreself – or was you afraid he might bite you back?”

  I wish I’d bitten him harder. “When next you see Mr. Van Brunt,” I said, “tell him that I would’ve delivered them myself had I known where he was. He has not kept me apprised of his work schedule.”

  Obviously Leta had easier access to Brom because she reported back immediately.

  “Mr. Brom said if you’d look out the back window sometime instead of the front, you’d know that his schedule changes with the seasons. And being that you’re gonna inherit this farm someday it might do you some good to stop being a dreamer and pick up a hoe.”

  Humph! If I picked up a hoe, it would collide with his skull.

  “When next
you see Mr. Van Brunt, tell him that when I inherit this farm, I intend to sell it and travel far from the vicinity. And where will he be then?”

  It wasn’t long till Leta was back on our doorstep. “Mr. Brom said he’d most likely be booking passage with you, and for you not to lose your pretty little head over it. Then he told me not to bring him no more messages.”

  “Ahhhh!” I stamped my foot, my blood rising.

  Leta looked at me with wide eyes. “Please don’t make me bring any more, cause last time he was holding a pitchfork.”

  “I hope he falls on it!”

  I took a deep breath to tamp down my ire. After all, once Marten’s ship was ready to sail, it was I who’d have the last say. “Thank you, Leta. There will be no more messages.”

  I poured her a cup of cider, then went about my day.

  * * *

  Father was gone the next morning. Some business in town. I had business of my own – telling Ichabod about spotting The Horseman.

  Around noon, I chanced harnessing Dewdrop to my cabriolet and riding to the schoolhouse. Ichabod would there with Isaiah, building the cellar floor. I also brought along a hamper of food, knowing that working men sometimes forget to eat.

  I had to hitch Dewdrop to a tree limb because Gunpowder had lay claim to the rail. He stood, nodding, and pacing side to side – most likely a trick to loosen the reins. But it seemed Ichabod had grown wise to it, taking great care to wind and secure them. I doubt his students are as contrary as his horse.

  I strolled around to where he and Isaiah were working, pausing briefly to watch Ichabod as he sawed a wooden plank. It rested on two trestles, and he steadied it with his knee. Perspiration beaded his forehead, curling the tips of his ebony hair. The top buttons of his white cambric shirt were unfastened, affording me a view of his glistening chest. I could barely pry my eyes from him as I admired his slender frame. Elise’s devilish word immediately sprang to mind. Delicious.

  His face opened in surprise when he spotted me. “Katrina.”

  I put on a smile as I carried the hamper forward. I must tell him.

  He laid down his saw and wiped his face with his sleeve. “What have we here?”

  “You’ll both need to keep up your strength.” – I set the hamper on a block of wood – “so…” – I snapped back the cloth covering it – “I brought sausages and beer.”

  Isaiah paused. They both beamed.

  “Watch out, Isaiah,” Ichabod said. “She just might spoil us.”

  Isaiah wiped his hands on a rag. “Miss Katrina is too kind.”

  We moved away from the splinters and wood shavings and found comfortable spots on the grass. I took out the sausages, along with three tankards and a jug. I poured out the frothy brew. “Enjoy.”

  They both drank politely, taking moderate sips. I, preoccupied with how to tell Ichabod of The Horseman, tilted my mug to my lips and took two generous gulps –to loosen my nerves a bit.

  Ichabod cocked a brow. “Isaiah, remind me to never challenge her to a drinking contest.”

  Isaiah’s face split into a grin. They both drank heartily.

  I cut into a sausage, without taking a bite. I had no appetite…and no idea how Ichabod would react when I relayed to him what I’d seen. He’d said he believed me when I pleaded The Horseman’s existence. But had he really?

  He watched me, curiously, sensing something was wrong. “No appetite?”

  Not since Wednesday. I forced a smile. “After guzzling my beer, I thought I should show some restraint.”

  “Ha! Around me? Prim and proper makes me terribly uncomfortable.”

  I gripped my mug firmly. “I’ll try not to extend my pinky.”

  The sky had turned an iron gray and the air smelled damp and heavy. I glanced over at the timber, then cast my eyes upward. “How do you plan to protect all this wood from the rain?”

  He feigned panic, pressing a finger to his lips. “Shhhhhhhhh! Don’t say that word.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Honestly, Ichabod, I’d have never figured you as the superstitious type.”

  He wavered a finger. “I never take chances when it comes to rousing the Devil.”

  Isaiah discreetly spit three times on the ground.

  Ichabod spread his arms. “You see? I’m not the only superstitious one.”

  “Especially around here,” I said. “The Hollow thrives on superstition. There isn’t a person in the village who doesn’t put his coat on right sleeve first.”

  “The right sleeve is the right sleeve, and the left sleeve is the wrong sleeve,” he joked.

  That drew a chuckle from Isaiah. I wished I could feel as lighthearted.

  I pointed to the sky. “Yes, but about the…”

  He wilted like a wet rag. “You might as well say it now.”

  “Rain,” I whispered.

  “Should the” – He pointed upward – “inevitable happen, we’ll load the timber into the wagon and cover it with oilcloth. But I predict there will only be a thin afternoon drizzle.”

  “Are your predictions always correct?”

  He held up his mug. “Don’t place any wagers.”

  “Can’t you simply store the wood in the cellar?”

  He took a sip, foam lingering on his lips. “There is more preparation to be done inside. Carrying the planks in and out would just be added work.”

  “Then have Isaiah bring it back this afternoon,” I said. “We’ll store it in our barn.”

  “Oh, no. I’ve imposed enough already.”

  “Believe me, Ichabod, a corner of our barn is not an imposition. And besides, we’re all anxious to see you succeed.”

  He slanted his head, looking genuinely touched. “With this type of generosity, how can I fail?”

  Isaiah shook the last drops of beer from his tankard. “Miss Katrina, would you like me to rinse these dishes for you?”

  “No, leave it. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Then I better get back to the chore,” he said, rising. “Beat the...” He grinned wide and pointed up to the sky. “Thank you kindly for the meal.”

  “You’re welcome, Isaiah.”

  Once he was out of earshot, Ichabod blurted, “Tell me what’s wrong. Why have you really come?”

  “I saw The Horseman again.”

  He pushed aside the plates and moved next to me. “Where?”

  “At the farm, just after you left. I was terrified he’d go after y–”

  We both started when a crow swooped down and perched upon the hamper, inches away. Its black beady eyes observed us, and it cocked its head like someone listening with intent. My heart rose to my throat.

  Ichabod waved his hand toward it. “Shoo!”

  It remained there, challenging. Then the first sprinkles of rain fell.

  “Come,” Ichabod said, wrapping his arm around me and helping me into the dank cellar.

  “Watch your step. Some of the stones are loose.”

  He lit a candle and set it on an old three-legged table. “Tell me what happened.”

  I relayed everything – spotting The Horseman, sending Brom, Father’s speculations, and added, “The Council believes The Horseman does not rise on his own.”

  “Do you believe that?” he asked, his face masked with worry.

  I peered into his gentle eyes. “I don’t know what to believe. But I’m frightened for all of us.”

  “That much I can see.” He swept back some strands of my dampened hair, his fingers lightly brushing my neck. It sent a new tremor through me.

  “Ichabod, what should we do?”

  He held my gaze, his eyes expressing trust. “I’ll speak with Van Ripper. Perhaps he can tell me something.”

  “The Council is very secretive. Even with matters of civil concern.” I pulled my shawl tighter around me. “And you’re not even supposed to know about The Horseman.”

  He shook his head, thinking it absurd. “How could I not? The town empties at dusk. The villagers shut themselves away. A
nd most every door has a cross or hex sign painted on it.”

  “Perhaps you should put one on the school.”

  “No,” he asserted. “I’m here to teach the children, not frighten them.”

  “So you do intend to stay?” I thought surely this would drive him back home.

  “Katrina, there is danger everywhere. You can only run from it for so long.” We’d moved so near, his breath brushed my cheeks.

  I considered his words, realizing it was not just the bustle of Hartford that he’d wished to escape.

  We stood close and quiet as the rain tapped the earth above us. His whole presence enveloped me. He smelled of woods and nature and sweat and spice, and I could practically taste it.

  “I promise you,” he whispered, “I will not leave.”

  He leaned ever closer.

  I did not move.

  I did not breathe.

  I closed my eyes.

  And just as his lips touched mine…

  “Katrina,” a voice called down.

  We parted quickly, composing ourselves.

  “Katrina.”

  It was Brom. Oh God, I’ve been caught. What will he tell Father? I stepped out of the shadows so he could see me.

  He was wearing his tricorn instead of his fox cap, and his coat was beaded with mist. His face was sallow and lax as he descended at a leaden pace.

  Had he seen?

  “Brom,” Ichabod greeted.

  Brom held up a hand to silence him. “I’ve come for Katrina.” His eyes, clouded and copper, gazed at me like never before. If he were capable, I thought he might cry.

  “Brom…what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Garritt,” he said. “He’s dead.”

  * * *

  The room blurred and my knees gave way. Brom placed his arms around me. “Come. Let’s get you home.” He carefully led me up the steps.

  If Ichabod said anything, I don’t remember. I don’t even recall looking back at him. All I could see was Garritt’s face before me – his expression of torment.

  Brom tethered Daredevil to the back of my cabriolet, and together we rode back to the farm.

  We sat in silence, hearing only the metrical clapping of the horses’ gait. Chills traveled through my cold and clammy skin. I could barely swallow or catch my breath. It wasn’t until we crossed the church bridge that I found my voice. And though I already knew the answer, I still had to ask, “How did it happen?”