by Dax Varley
I hid the sword under a bed of hay – I will not have it foul my room – then slipped into the house, tiptoed upstairs, and readied myself for bed.
With only the sound of my breathing, I waited through the cold dark hours.
* * *
Rising before dawn, I slinked out of bed, prepared, and hurried downstairs.
With no hearth fire lit, the empty kitchen was like a frigid tomb. And while every part of me quaked, I needed that biting chill to keep me moving.
I had no stomach for food, but I took an apple for later and grabbed a small bag of sage from our herb cabinet…for extra measure. Trying to steady my hand, I wrote a simple note to Simon. Though he could read a little, I felt the note itself would serve its purpose.
Have gone alone. Do not tell Father.
I left it in the tea bin where only he would find it. Then sweeping on my cloak, I set out.
The predawn air spiked me, and a light morning frost clung to my hem as my skirts brushed over the crisp brown grass.
After reaching the stables, I raked back the hay, retrieving the sword. No phantom had come in the night to reclaim it. I tugged on my gloves, assuring the vile thing would not touch my flesh, then hiding it under my cloak again, I rode.
The moon had set and all but a few stars had faded. Claret rays of the Eastern sun now lined the horizon. Dewdrop galloped with haste as we rode amid gray and blue shadows…all the way to the cemetery.
There was little light, but enough to see my way. The towering weeds were dry and brittle, easily drawn back and trampled. I walked slowly, careful that no burrowing rodents scurried under my skirt.
I expected the grave to be a dense patch of packed earth, but thanks to the ants, gophers and moles, there were many runners and mounds that loosened the dirt.
Fortune is on my side.
But my heart drummed with each step as I conjured images of a bony hand bursting through the soil, clutching my ankle, and dragging me under.
Concentrate.
Inhaling all my fears, I raggedly exhaled them away. Then, unsheathing the sword, I gripped the hilt with both fists, braced my arms, and brought the blade down, stabbing it into the grave.
Almost.
It’d only gone halfway.
Blast!
With gritted teeth, I bared down on the hilt – thrusting and straining and driving it until it sank the rest of the way in.
I stumbled back, sweeping loose strands of hair from my face. Still heaving, I opened the sage and sprinkled it on the dirt.
“Try rising now, Devil.”
Feeling confident that I’d completed the job, I spit on the grave and left.
The sun was finally making an appearance when I reached the empty church. It was still quite early, most of the Hollow just rising. Exhausted and drained, I sank onto the chair at the table, and laid my head upon my crossed arms.
It is done.
I’d rest a short time – until the Reverend arrived with the satchel. Just close my eyes…for a bit.
I don’t know if I’d lolled there minutes or hours. Time was lost. But I became aware of footfall behind me. The stalk of someone’s boots. I held my breath, keeping my eyes clamped tight. I did not need sight to know who was lurking.
How have you risen?
I remained dead still, worried that my banging heart might give me away. Flee, I told myself. Go! Now! But my body was leaden. Some metaphysical bond held me.
How could this be? I was in church. Nothing evil should befall me here. Yet the coldness threatened, as though God really had forsaken me and retired to Amsterdam.
The footsteps halted. He stood directly behind me…over me. Then next, I felt the cutting chill of a steel tip pressed lightly against my neck.
Heaven help me. Instead of sealing him in, I’d given him back his sword.
Now it was I who was sealed. Pinned. If I attempted to rise, the blade would thrust through my throat, skewering me like a roasting hen.
How long did he mean to restrain me? Until all the blood drained from my limbs? Until my body cramped and screamed with pain? It was evident that he knew my weakness. Confinement. This was more than just retribution for my attempt to seal him. This is a game of torture.
He held me there for an eternity. My arms tingled, my neck pinched, and my resting cheek grew weary. Then just when the pain reached its agonizing pique, he dragged the tip of the blade to my jaw. Stepping closer, he took up a lock of my hair, and with the swish of a swift stroke, he sliced it from my scalp. It ripped more than cut, leaving a burning sting behind my ear. That’s when I did scream – a piercing shrill that echoed through the church.
He gripped my shoulder, squeezing hard.
“Miss Katrina.”
I screamed again.
“Miss Katrina!”
My eyes flew open and I started, nearly tumbling from the chair.
Simon grabbed my arm to keep me from upright. “Whoa there, Miss Katrina.”
I jerked about, checking my surroundings.
“Calm down now,” he soothed. “It was just a bad dream.”
“Of course,” I said, my limbs tingling as the circulation returned. “I must’ve nodded off.”
Or had I? I still felt the chill of The Horseman skulking nearby.
Simon waited until I’d composed myself before saying, “Miss Katrina, you had me worried sick, running off like that.”
“I’m sorry, Simon. I didn’t mean to put you in such an awkward position.”
“Just please don’t do it again. Mr. Baltus would string me up.”
I considered all that I’d gone through last night. “I won’t.” But I avoided making it a promise.
“The Reverend asked me to bring this in.” He placed the satchel on the table.
I took a moment to clear my head, then glanced at it. The remedy for all my aches and fears lay inside. Surely Ichabod had sent me another written reminder of this affection.
Simon patted my shoulder. “If everything’s all right, I’ll be heading back.”
“Everything’s fine.”
He nodded, satisfied with that. “But I will be here to fetch you this afternoon.”
I smiled up. “Of course.”
Once he’d gone, my senses revived. I eagerly reached out for the satchel. That’s when I noticed my fist was clenched. Inside was a large wad of my hair.
* * *
I spent the better part of the school day sitting behind the table. Not only because I was exhausted, but in an attempt to hide the hem of my skirt – rimmed with mud from dragging it through dirt and dew. As it turned out, I was kept awake and alert by the children, who always tested my patience. And my mind churned, wondering how to tell Ichabod exactly what I’d done.
We had always proceeded carefully in case the Reverend or another of the Council felt a need to review our correspondence. But that afternoon I took a chance.
Ichabod, I have spent a long, weary night securing your safety. Everyone’s safety. Among the swords that had been confiscated from Smedt’s hoard, I found the Hessian’s. I braved the dangers (for you are more than worth it) to imprison him with his own blade. He is now sealed in his grave.
My immediate dilemma is how to confess this to the Council. Not only did I do this in secrecy, but I obtained the sword illegally from the Magistrate’s court. It could be they’d forgive me on virtuous effort, but they are a stern group of men, not accepting of decisions and deeds carried out by one such as I. My lack of masculinity proves me inferior by their standards.
I am looking to you for a solution. Soon all will be revealed and you shall be free.
With love, Katrina.
I tucked the letter between the return assignments, knowing that Ichabod reviewed them right away.
On Wednesday morning I found a simple note among the lessons.
Sacrifice is the ultimate form of love. And though I find your lack of masculinity superior (and enticing), I shall handle things from here.
; * * *
The Horseman was sealed. Ichabod would be freed. I should’ve been filled with jubilation. But there was still one lose thread to my happy ending. Elise. I’d lost my closest friend, and wanted so badly to make things right. While sitting at Father’s desk that afternoon, I wrote her simple letter.
My dearest Elise,
My heart is broken. Please understand that I never meant to hurt you. What came to pass between Ichabod and me was pure chance. There was no deceit on my part. Say you’ll come next candle day. I cherish your friendship and miss you greatly.
Forever your companion,
Kat
I sealed it, then hurried out to the slave quarters where I found Leta shelling peas. I put the letter into her hand. “I need you to deliver this to Elise Jansen.”
She dropped a long peapod back into the heaping bowl. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Go straight away,” I urged.
She hopped up. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And, Leta, do not return without a reply.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She brought the letter to her nose, sniffed it, then slipped it into her apron pocket. And with a spirited smile, she dashed off across the field.
I went back to the house and waited.
A short time later, Simon found me in the study. “Miss Katrina, there is someone at the front door asking for you.”
I looked up, puzzled. “Who?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. He’s a stranger to me.”
He?
A scruffy boy in frayed green breeches and a tattered shirt stood on our piazza. He smelled heavily of fish guts and bilge water. In one hand he held his knit cap, in the other, a small piece of paper. “I’m supposed to deliver this to Katrina Van Tassel.”
“I’m Katrina,” I said, taking it.
The paper was folded into six small squares. Once opened, it read: It is here. I’ll come by soon. Even though I recognized the scratchy handwriting, I asked the boy, “Who gave you this?”
He gazed up with round eyes. “Marten Piers.”
I looked back at the message, tapping the paper…thinking. Marten had told me to weigh my thoughts and decide. My decision was made. “Can you take me to him?”
The boy tugged his cap on slantwise and nodded.
“Wait here.” I hurried up to my room and placed the broken bracelet and beads into my pocket. How will Marten feel about the one lost rose? Then taking my shawl from the peg, I made sure no one was watching as I slipped out.
When we reached the pier, the boy pointed out Marten’s ship. I stood, gaping. Maybe ship was the wrong word. This two-masted schooner of about sixty feet was patched, faded, and worn. As I watched it bob drunkenly within the river wash, I could only assume it were the barnacles that held it together.
I shielded my eyes with my hand, looking up. “Marten?”
No answer.
“Marten,” I called a little louder.
I tested the gangplank, then scurried aboard. Though I could’ve never imagined it, the topside was even worse. Its brittle wood – intercrossed with patchwork – creaked at every step. I tiptoed, afraid it would crack and send me plunging through to whatever lay beneath.
“Marten?”
There was no cabin, just a hatch to the ship’s hold. Just as I reached for it, it flew open, nearly whacking me in the face. Marten’s head popped up with it.
“Katrina, no.” He hopped out, frantic. “You should not be here.”
“But I have something to tell you.”
“Not now,” he said, practically dragging me back toward the gangplank.
We’d only made it halfway when someone else emerged from the hold. “Look who’s come to visit?”
My blood chilled. Peter Bottoms. The beads in my pocket suddenly felt leaden.
His eyes crawled over me as he asked, “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
I looked to Marten, but his face was ashen and his lips pressed tight.
“I simply wanted to see Marten’s ship,” I offered. “I didn’t know he’d have company.”
Peter snorted back phlegm. “Wasn’t the plan that you stay hidden?” He cut his eyes to Marten.
“Yes,” Marten answered. Then he turned to me. “Katrina, you took a great risk coming here.” I felt there was more to that statement than me being seen. I was caught like a rabbit in a snare. What would happen if I told the truth? That I no longer intended to leave?
Peter drew closer. “I think this one is a bit of a risk-taker. Isn’t that right, sweetheart.”
Marten held my arm again. “Peter, she made a mistake. And now she’s leaving.”
Peter glanced at my wrist. The beads in my pocket were on fire. Why does he want them so badly?
“Yes,” I agreed. “It was a mistake. I’m so sorry.”
“What’s done is done,” Peter said, advancing. “Now that you’re here, you might as well come below and have a drink with us. I brought my best rum from the tavern.”
Marten took a step in front of me. “There is still water and debris down there. It’s not fit for a lady.”
Peter grinned, revealing a mouthful of stubby yellow teeth. “It’ll be fit soon enough. And I bet he’ll have your bunk smelling like roses.”
Marten gripped my arm tighter and urged me away. I hurried down the gangplank without looking back.
* * *
Once home, I went straight to my wardrobe. Then tearing away two stitches, I tucked the roses and chain into the hem of a blue summer gown. Why they were valuable, I didn’t know, but until I returned them to Marten, I couldn’t risk another being lost.
When I went down, Leta was in the kitchen, helping Simon with dinner. “Did you deliver the letter?” I asked.
She leaned close to me and sniffed.
“Yes, I know. I smell like the wharf rat. Did you present the note?”
“Well,” she began, “when I arrived, Miss Elise wasn’t there. Her ma said she’d gone to Mr. Van Ripper’s.”
“Van Ripper’s? Why would she go there?” Though I could guess.
Leta’s eyes widened. “That’s what I asked.”
“And…what did her mother say?”
“She said if it was any of my business she would’ve told Henny.”
“Leta,” I prodded, “what happened next?”
“I told her that I had a note for Miss Elise, and that I was to deliver it straight into her hands.”
“Did you?” I asked, growing impatient.
“Yes ma’am. I shot like a bullet to Mr. Van Ripper’s farm.” She said this with a fair amount of pride.
“And was Elise there?”
“I found her on the road, coming back. She was prancing and grinning like someone had just gave her a shiny new coin.”
No doubt she’d seen Ichabod.
“Did you give her the note?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I waited. “Leta! Was there a reply?”
She pulled open her pocket, peeped in, then she gazed up at me with doleful eyes. “Just this.” She scooped out small bits of ripped paper and dropped them into my hands. I stared down at the mass that had once been my letter.
“Thank you, Leta. That will be all.” I let the pieces flutter into the bin and dusted the spite from my hands. There are some wars that are never won.
* * *
The one good thing about not having an overseer, it kept Father away from the house. That meant there was no one to oversee me when I left for the schoolhouse the next afternoon. I needed to find that bead. And I’d pull the place apart if that’s what it took.
I rode quietly under a sky of gray drizzle. As far as I knew, no one had been to the schoolhouse since The Horseman marked it. As I approached the schoolyard, Dewdrop halted, refusing to take another step – much like the day I visited Garritt.
Were there still traces of evil here?
I snapped the reins. “He is bound in his tomb, you silly nag.” Fruitless. She wouldn’t budge an inch. But then it occur
red to me, did I really want my horse hitched out front? Only Ichabod and I knew there was no further danger. If Father or the Council found out I was here, I’d have no fitting excuse.
I led Dewdrop into the woods and tethered her to a limb. “Pray that I find it.” Then creeping through the trees, I treaded across the damp ground. I found myself glancing left and right, worried someone might spot me. I swear, I’d done more sneaking in the past week than I had my entire life. It was becoming second nature. But still, my blood chilled and my heart raced as I drew closer to the school.
I took the longer path, avoiding the marked cellar. I wanted no fresh image of it haunting me.
The porch had not been swept in all that time and was covered with leaves and twigs. A scattering of molted feathers had collected under the door. I double-checked for watchers, pushed my way in and Dear God! It had to be at least ten degrees colder inside. Had the closed windows contained the previous night’s chill? My body quivered, but it was a discomfort I’d have to endure.
On hands and knees, I searched, starting with the farthest side of the room first. That’s where the bracelet had broken. And while I knew that Ichabod and the students had swept the area more than once, I couldn’t leave a single stone unturned.
I hunted for at least ten minutes. As remarkable as that rose was, it could not up and vanish on its own. It was here. Somewhere.
I ran my hands along the cleft between the wall and the floor. I checked the cracks in the benches. The crevices in the desks. My fingers brushed any surface with a dimple. Guh! Where is it! I was nearly ready to throw something when I heard approaching footsteps outside.
I froze, the blood draining from my face. I darted under Ichabod’s desk, holding my breath and hugging my knees.
Within moments there was footfall on the porch…then the creaking of the door. I closed my eyes, shivering. Who other than I would chance coming here? Had I failed in my attempt to seal The Horseman? And if I had, would he dismount and seek me on foot?
Go away, go away, go away.
Whoever had come in stepped softly. He seemed to be wandering rather than stalking.
My heart hammered as he approached the desk. I was trapped with no way out and no weapon to defend myself. But then, what weapon would I use against a ghost?
