by Dax Varley
Brom seemed reluctant at first, then explained. “The Notary woke this morning to find Garritt gone. He’d left him a note saying he was leaving. When de Graff went looking for him, he saw smolder in the distance. Instinct led him. He found Garritt’s body lying in a circle of charred grass.”
My stomach knotted. “When you say ‘he found his body’…?”
Brom eyes cut to mine. “His body. Not his head.”
I leaned forward and buried my face in my hands.
Why Garritt? Why him?
Once we’d reached home, I went straight to my room and silently shed my tears. Garritt, my sweet friend…dead. God only knew who the next victim would be.
* * *
I spent the next few days, stewing, wondering. The Horseman’s mark upon Garritt’s window was evidence that he did not kill at random. But how did he choose his victims? What had each one done to invoke his wrath? These questions continually haunted me. Though I imagine the Council was as flustered as I.
On the day of the funeral, the rain had ceased, but the gray veil lingered. While Garritt and Nikolass had both been murdered by The Horseman, their funerals couldn’t have been more different. Garritt was a child of the Hollow. Our grief for him ripped the heart, leaving an emptiness in its place.
Brom and Marten served as pallbearers, pacing grimly to the grave. The procession was slow as there were many in attendance. And the rain had made the grounds sodden and sluggish, adding to the drudgery. Elise and I hooked arms, helping each other along. With a handkerchief clutched in her gloved hand, she wept in shallow sobs.
Once there, the four of us stood, staring down at the oak coffin. It was as though we were still children, innocent and awed, yet disconnected without Garritt standing alongside us.
The Reverend spoke of the glory of Heaven, yet I felt no relief or joy. The only solace I took was that Garritt could now be with his mother who had died when we were six. His grave was dug alongside hers, joining them both in Heaven and on Earth.
Once the service ended, we faced the long walk back, along with the realization that Garritt was taken from us forever. Brom and Marten each offered an arm and escorted us to the church. But as we turned to go, I cast my eyes across the cemetery, toward that grave hidden beneath the weeds. My heart was black with hate. If I could, I would dig up his headless bones and feed them to the wolves.
There was food to be had, but no desire to eat. Most everyone stood, murmuring their sorrows to each other. A line had formed to offer condolences to Notary de Graff. I swept over and took my place. There were many statements of “I am so sorry.” and “He will be missed.” Once I approached, I took his hand. “I truly don’t know what to say. I loved Garritt so much.”
His faded eyes found mine, and he leaned toward me and whispered, “I must speak with you privately. After the service.”
I nodded, somewhat aghast. Had Garritt told him of my visit behind the house?
When I turned back, Brom was there. “Come.” He guided me back to where Marten stood. Elise had joined her family, still waiting to speak to the Notary.
“You should sit,” Brom said.
“I’d rather stand.” Somehow it felt wrong to relax.
Brom placed a hand on Marten’s shoulder. “Watch after her while I get her some tea.”
I started to tell him I didn’t need watching after, but he’d already hurried away. And he was being kind and civil for once.
Marten fidgeted with his tricorn, turning it corner to corner. In a whisper he asked, “Did you manage to see Garritt last Sunday?’
“Yes.” I recalled his tortured face. Go to safety. And tell no one of my plan to leave. Why had I agreed?
“Did you speak to him at length?” he asked.
“He only lingered long enough to urge me away.”
He stepped closer. “Did he confess anything?”
“Confess?”
“I mean did he give any explanation as to why The Horseman chose him?”
“None.” Making sure we were not overheard, I anxiously asked, “Marten, how much longer?”
He brushed back a tumble of hair from his face. “Soon, I hope. And rest assured, those further arrangements have already been made.”
I won’t rest assured until I’m away from this Godforsaken place. “What have you arranged?”
“Not here. I’ll come by tomorrow and explain.”
He’d barely finished his sentence when Brom returned with the tea. I took a sip, finding it as bitter and acrid as this awful day. “I have no taste for this.”
“You should drink it,” he encouraged.
“Really, I’m fine.” Though far from it. As I handed it back, someone stepped behind him.
“Pardon me.” It was Ichabod, dressed impeccably in black. My heart hitched at the sight of him. He seemed awkwardly out of place, having never met Garritt. “I wanted to express my condolences. I understand he was a dear friend.”
Brom stood taller, chin out. “None closer.”
“If there’s anything I can do,” he offered, “please do not hesitate to ask.” Though these last words were meant for all of us, it was me at whom he looked.
I blushed, thinking of our near-kiss. “That’s very generous.”
Our eyes lingered for a moment, then he said, “I’ll leave you to your mourning.”
Though I couldn’t voice it, I wanted so much for him to stay.
* * *
I truly wanted to go home and rest, but I had agreed to speak with Garritt’s father, and it could only be here. Never again would I step foot on his harrowing property and the sorrow locked within.
Eventually the crowd thinned and I crossed over to where he stood. “You wish to speak with me?”
He took my arm and guided me to the door. He appeared so small and frail – a man left to grieve alone.
Once outside, he led me away from the remaining mourners. He stared down at the ground, his breath shallow. I worried for a moment that he might collapse.
“I know that you defied me.” He never looked up. “You went to Garritt’s window and spoke with him.”
I was a cornered mouse. “But I had to see him. To understand.”
“You knew of his encounter with The Horseman?”
“Yes.”
A silver tear fell from his eye. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?”
“I was told in the strictest of confidence. I begged him to report it, but he refused.”
The Notary wept and coughed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I will live in wonder the rest of my life.”
“As will I.”
He feebly dug into his pocket and drew out Simon’s talisman. “Here. This was found with his body. It was kind of you to offer it.”
“You keep it,” I said, closing it into his palm. “Perhaps it will do you some good.”
A sob escaped him as he nodded. “God be with you, Katrina.” With his head hung, he trudged back to the church.
* * *
Fear and grief leaves one achy, so I chose anger instead. Anger directed at whoever controlled The Horseman. If I could discover him, I’d have his head.
And then there was the waiting. Marten had promised to come by. I was itching to know what arrangements he’d made. But it was also Wednesday. Ichabod’s day to teach the slave children. My eyes were on the clock, worried they’d show up at the same time.
To my relief, Marten arrived a little before three. Again we stayed on the piazza so as not to be overheard.
“We must hurry,” he said, grappling in his pocket. There was an unusual urgency in his words and his hands trembled. He withdrew a silk cloth, then holding it in his palm, he unfolded each corner, revealing a thin pinchbeck bracelet with six miniature clay roses. “Take this.”
“Why? What’s it for?”
He clumsily fastened it onto my wrist.
It was lovely, but explained nothing. I thought he’d come with news. “Marten, what is this?”
&nbs
p; “A way to cover our tracks.”
I looked a question at him. How could a piece of costume jewelry make a difference?
He moved closer and met my eye. “Listen carefully. When the time comes, I’ll send word. You are to go to Greenburgh, where you’ll be met by Peter Bottoms.”
I drew back as though he’d bit me. “Peter Bottoms? Why him?” Peter was our local tavern owner, and a creature as foul as The Horseman himself. The man wore a permanent scowl and had his fingers in a lot of pies. Most, inedible.
Marten pressed a finger to my lips to quiet me.
I clutched his hand. “Marten, no. Not Peter. I’d rather have dealings with Satan.”
“It has to be Peter,” he argued. “Once we’re away, I’ll explain.”
“Explain now.”
He loosened my grip on his hand. “There’s no time. Just listen. From Greenburgh, Peter will take you to Sawpit. There will be a small boat waiting. The man piloting that boat will ferry you to my ship. As payment for delivering you, you’re to give Peter this bracelet. Understood?”
Not really. “But this is simple costume jewelry. Why would he want it?”
“Believe me, Katrina, he does.”
I examined it, running my finger over each clay rose. Intricate, but not delicate. “If he wants it so badly, then what’s to stop him from simply nabbing it and abandoning me on the road?”
Marten hesitated, his eyes heavy, then said, “Because I’ll be waiting with the rest of the payment. The only way he can get it is to comply.”
I twirled the bracelet on my wrist, thinking of the complexity of this scheme. “It feels like I’m being smuggled.”
“Would you rather risk pursuit from your father?”
I shook my head. My heart beat fast as I thought of what was to come. “Marten, are we doing the right thing?”
He gazed at me like I’d lost my mind. “Katrina, there is more at stake here than living your life tied to this farm. The Hollow has become far too dangerous.”
“For everyone.”
His drew close and whispered, “I cannot save everyone, but I can save you.”
Though my mind whirled with questions, I quietly nodded.
He stood, looking down at me sharply. “Weigh your thoughts and decide now. Because once I sail away from Sleepy Hollow, I will never return.”
* * *
When I stepped inside, Simon was walking toward the door. “I was just coming out to find you, Miss Katrina. Your father’s asking for you.”
I hurried to his study.
“Oh, good,” he said, rising. “There are some inconsistencies on these export registers. I need a fresh pair of eyes to look them over.”
My eyes were anything but fresh, and in no way would I be able to concentrate. “Can it wait until this evening? Ichabod’s coming and I must prepare.”
“Ichabod won’t be coming.” He tapped the ledger and went on as though that statement needed no explanation. “I feel there is some miscalculation in the tobacco column, but it could very well –”
“What do you mean he’s not coming? It’s Wednesday. He’s expected.”
Father kept his gaze on the numbers. “Not anymore.” He ran his finger down one of the columns as though rechecking the figures, but I knew he was simply waiting for my response.
There could only be one explanation. I exhaled, determined to stay calm. “Why have you put a stop to it?”
Father exhaled his own sigh, more from impatience than surrender. “Because he did not use discretion.” His finger grew white as he pressed it to the ledger. “He made me look weak before the Council.”
Father? Weak? Not when his money sets the rules. “I can assure you, Ichabod told no one.” He would never jeopardize all he’d contended.
“We’d agreed he’d teach my slaves, yet there were others from neighboring farms.”
“That was not his doing.”
Father jerked his head up. “Then whose?”
I froze, mum. I couldn’t name Leta. “Perhaps you should’ve rationalized it to the Council instead of giving in.”
His face flushed as his eyes bore through me. “I did not give in! I simply came to realize the ridiculousness of it.”
I returned his glare. “It’s not ridiculous.”
“You’re right. It’s not ridiculous, it’s preposterous. I should’ve never agreed.”
“But he only means well,” I argued.
“Are you so sure?”
Without a doubt.
“Katrina, the Council is starting to question whether Crane is a teacher or a troublemaker. He’s allowing the children too much freedom, and filling their heads with unorthodox thought. One child reported that he had them spend the afternoon studying ants!”
Had I not been so angry I might’ve smiled.
“We’re keeping a close eye on him.”
“Perhaps the Council should worry more about The Horseman, and less about Ichabod.”
He jabbed his finger down on the page again. “Perhaps you should stop arguing and come help me as I asked!”
I stood stock still, considering my options. I turned and swept to the door.
“Where are you going?” he called.
“Out,” I said, glancing back. “I will find the numerical problem when I return.”
He lifted his finger from the ledger and pointed it as straight as a pistol. “You are not to leave this house.”
“Why? Because of the danger? You’re forgetting, Father, The Horseman only rises at night. Or are you more afraid I might encounter Ichabod?”
Before he could protest further, I hurried down the hall.
* * *
I spurred Dewdrop into a gallop – riding hard, the sting of the cool wind on my face. My intention had been to get away. To taste a little freedom. To breathe. But after a few minutes, I changed course, and didn’t slow until the schoolhouse came into sight.
The school day had ended, but Gunpowder was still tethered in front. Good. I hitched Dewdrop, then smoothed down my windblown hair. I touched my palms to my face. How must I look after that fierce ride? Rosy nose? Mottled cheeks?
I pushed through the door. “Ichabod?” The room was empty. I peeked out at Gunpowder… then I remembered.
There’s a comfortable patch of clover near the water. An excellent spot to think.
Of course.
I hurried through the schoolyard to the old birch by the brook. Ichabod sat against it, journal and pencil in hand. His eyes were fixed to his notebook. He wrote intensely, like the words may evaporate before he could get them onto the page. I watched for a moment…then two. I could’ve watched for an hour, but secretly observing him felt a bit lewd.
“Ichabod,” I whispered.
He started as I brought him out of his trance. “Katrina.”
Quickly rising, he tucked the journal and pencil into his vest pocket. How beautifully handsome he was. I touched my cheek again, worrying that I looked a smallpox victim.
He stepped closer. “You seem upset. Has something else happened?”
I dropped my hand from my face. “I just heard that Father has ceased the Wednesday lessons.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “I gave it my best. Maybe after The Horseman is dealt with, he’ll reconsider.”
“Father? Don’t count on it. And don’t make excuses for him. ”
“Relax, Katrina. Progress takes time.”
I studied those vibrant green eyes. “How can you be always so carefree and optimistic?”
His lips softened. “Because I prefer it to the alternative.”
I swept a windblown lock of hair from my face as I stepped a little closer. “I wish I could be as mild tempered. I’m always one heartbeat away from strangling someone.”
“Well then,” he said, holding out his hand, “I’ll show you something that’ll settle your murderous rage.” When I reached over, he quickly drew his hand back. “If it’s safe.”
I playfully swatted at his arm. You m
ake me cheerful. Then, gently taking my hand, he led me to a white ash tree just yards from the rippling water. There, on the ground, was a large cluster of black and gray rocks. I peered down at them, confused. But after a moment, the grouping took shape. “Oh! It’s a dragonfly.”
“Yes,” he beamed. “It’s a mosaic.”
I knelt and ran my fingers over the smooth stones. “It’s beautiful.”
He knelt too. “After all the children have faced this week, I thought it would be uplifting to resume classes in a more enjoyable way.”
I thought of the Council and their watchful eye. “What exactly did this teach them?”
He gave me a heart-melting smile. “Mathematics.”
I stepped back, admiring it. “It’s utterly amazing.”
“Katrina, you should have seen them working. They completely engineered it themselves. I had no hand in either the design or the building of it.” I’d never heard anyone speak with such pride.
“Please don’t let Father or the Council see this. They already think your methods unconventional.”
“I know. They feel all learning should be written or read. But if they find this grounds for dismissal,” – He threw up his hands – “then good luck finding a replacement.”
I laughed. “Yes, you do have some leverage.”
He helped me to rise, then stepped intimately closer. As close as we’d been in the cellar. Tingles danced along my skin as I drew in his scent.
“What about you?” he asked. “How do you feel about my methods?” He waited, like my reply was the only thing that mattered.
“I think you’re absolutely wonderful.” Did I just say you’re? “Methods. I think your methods are wonderful.” His presence was like nectar, and every part of me wanted a taste. I needed that kiss – the one that had been interrupted several days ago.
After a few seconds of anticipation, I finally took a step back. “It’s getting cooler.” I rubbed at the nonexistent chill on my arms. “Maybe I should let you get back to your…” – I circled my finger toward his pocket, indicating his small notebook – “…story.”
I turned to go.
“Katrina.”
When I turned back, he pulled me into his arms, and in an instant, his lips were on mine.
With plans in place to sail away, I should’ve pulled back. Why do this to myself? To him? Instead, I wrapped my arms around his neck and drank the nectar.
