by Dax Varley
“Believe me, you do not want to witness that.”
He snorted a laugh.
I nudged him with my elbow. “What?”
“Nothing.” His crooked smile was both devilish and adorable. “I was just wondering if you become a stumbling drunk or a besotted braggart.”
“Neither.” I took another small sip. “I recite naughty limericks and talk to the curtains.”
He sputtered the drink in his mouth. “Now there’s the Katrina I really want to see.”
I held up my glass. “Just promise you’ll stop me when I start slurring my words.”
We were interrupted when Clive Van Helt, Vincent’s father, staggered over. He appeared to have started celebrating before arrival. He reached out and poked my arm with his calloused finger. “I thought you’d like to know that Vincent enjoyed having you as his teacher. He spoke about you a lot.”
That caught me by surprise. I was truly flattered. “Thank you. That’s very kind. He is an industrious student.” And one I’m extremely grateful to.
Clive then cut his eyes to Ichabod. “Well, Crane, seems we’ve had similar undertakings.”
“Oh yes,” Ichabod said. “I’d heard about that. The ghost of the old trapper.”
Clive poked Ichabod’s arm too. “You should’ve come to me for some advice. You could’ve bungled the whole thing.”
Ichabod remained calm. “I apologize. The next time I need to seal a ghost, I’ll certainly consult with you first.”
Clive took a swig from a whiskey bottle that didn’t come from our store. “You young folk think you’re so smart. Think you know everything about everything.”
Now I know where Vincent gets his gall.
Ichabod whispered to me from the corner of his mouth, “Please tell me you don’t become like this.”
“What’cha saying there?” Van Helt wheezed.
“Nothing. I’m just thankful that it all worked out in the end.”
He poked Ichabod’s arm again. “I should probably go out to that grave for an inspection.”
“And while you’re there,” – Ichabod poked him back – “feel free to redo it.” He then drew my hand to his lips and kissed it. “Katrina, it’s so lovely to see you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m sure there are other parents waiting to reprimand me.”
I motioned to the table. “Please, Mr. Van Helt, help yourself.” I dodged around him and wandered away.
I spotted Elise across the room, standing with her mother. This may be a mistake, but…I weaved my way through to them. I first addressed Mrs. Jansen – an older, more worn version of Elise. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
She gave me a broad smile. “Katrina, these parties are always so lovely.”
At least her mother hadn’t turned on me.
Then to Elise, “And you?”
She shifted, causing her dress to glimmer like a spring pool. “It’s nice. Though I’ve noticed that you’re short a guest.”
“Oh?” I skimmed the room.
“Brom. I haven’t seen Brom tonight.” She dallied with her feather pendant. “He never misses your parties.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard that Brom is no longer our overseer.”
“And no longer seen,” she snipped. “I wonder what’s driven him away?”
I gently gripped her arm and took her aside. “Let’s not play these ridiculous games.”
She glared at me, her eyes blue fire. “I’m playing games? You snake. You knew how I felt about Ichabod and you tromped right over me.”
“I did nothing of the sort.”
Her nostrils flared. “He was sweet and good to me. But then, there you were, all over him – kissing out in the open where anyone could see.”
How dare she? “I’ve never kissed Ichabod in public.”
“I didn’t say in public, you ass. I said in the open. By the brook.” Her teeth ground deep. “Did you not think for a second that someone might see you?”
I stepped back, aghast, as it all became clear. “It was you. You’re the one who destroyed the schoolhouse that day.”
“Can you blame me? I went there with word from my father. He was going to lend Ichabod equipment for the cellar floor. Your horse was there – ” She poked her finger to my shoulder –“but you were not. It enraged me when I saw the two of you together.”
I shoved her hand away. “Then you should have confronted me instead of turning into a spoilt child. You ruined pottery and schoolbooks and furniture. What on earth were you thinking?”
“That it was your hair I was ripping instead of pages.”
In turn, I poked a finger into her shoulder. “And I suppose it was you who clogged the chimney with dead birds.”
She stepped back, her mouth open. “You know about the birds?”
“Only after a fire was lit. Was burning down the schoolhouse part of your revenge as well?”
She raised a little taller, finding composer. “Hardly. I did that after the school was marked.”
After? “Elise, that’s madness.”
She threw up her hands. “No, Kat, not madness…love. If you’d paid attention, you would’ve seen bird feathers lining the doorway and windowsills too.”
I did remember seeing them as I’d entered. “I still don’t understand. Why?”
“To remove The Horseman’s mark. I love Ichabod. I only meant to keep him safe.”
I couldn’t fault her for that. “And you risked going to the schoolhouse alone?”
“Oh forget it,” she spat. “You probably think it’s superstition.”
“No, I think it’s witchcraft.”
“At least I took measures. What have you done to insure his safety?”
Broke into the courthouse. Stole from the weapons store. And risked a trip to The Horseman’s grave to seal him with his own sword.
I burned with anger. “You have deluded yourself into thinking that there’s something romantic between Ichabod and yourself. That has never been the case.”
“But it might’ve been had you not interfered, you spiteful minx.”
“And now you resort to name-calling.” I wanted to fling my brandy right into her face. “I am truly at a loss, Elise. I don’t know what you expect me to do.”
“Spin your treasured globe, point to a destination, and leave.”
Before I could counter, she turned and stormed away.
Tears filled my eyes, and I was helpless to control them. I hurried to the staircase, meaning to hide in my room to regain composure. But I had the misfortune of passing Henny, who was captivating a small crowd with one of her tales.
“Oh, Katrina!” she called as I tried to slip through. “Come, come.”
I sniffled back tears. “Henny, I – ”
“We were just discussing our wonderful schoolmaster. That young man is the embodiment of bravery.”
“Yes, he’s quite noble. Now if you’ll excuse – ”
“Noble?” She slapped her meaty hand to her chest. “Positively fearless!”
There was a great nodding of heads following that statement.
Henny pursed her lips. “Did he tell you of his encounter with The Horseman?”
Oh dear. “No,” I said, blinking away the tears in my eyes. “I don’t recall him relaying that story.”
“What?” Her face opened in astonishment. “Why, I would not be surprised if he wrote about it for publication. A tale far more enthralling than any fiction.”
And yet I knew what I was about to hear would be fiction indeed.
“You see,” she began, “he came to know of the Hessian’s sword by way of a dream.”
“A dream, you say?” I found that a bit of a compliment considering I was that dream.
“Yes, it was relayed to me that he dreamt of the sword as a glowing hot blade, shining brighter than the sun.”
I mocked surprise. “It’s a wonder he didn’t have to shield his eyes.”
She clucked. “Remember, Katrina, it was a dream.”
<
br /> “Of course.”
“Knowing that Smedt had pilfered that sword, Ichabod devised a plan to save us all from that abominable spirit.”
“Well, he is quite cunning.”
“Oh, more than that!” Henny praised. “He not only managed to recover the sword, but chose the witching hour to carry out his task.”
I twitched my mouth as though curious. “Interesting that he didn’t wait till the safety of dawn.”
“Not our courageous Ichabod! He set out to finish that demon once and for all.” Henny took a deep breath, most likely to spew the rest of the story in one uninterrupted exhale. “He stood by that grave and waited. In a matter of minutes the Hessian was there. It was a vicious battle. But in the end, our fearless Ichabod prevailed, slicing through The Horseman with the fiend’s own sword, then driving the blade into the grave, he seal him in forever. Bless him and his immeasurable courage.”
“Yes, we are blessed to have him.”
It was then that Ichabod sauntered over, no doubt to rescue me. “Ladies.”
“Oh, Mr. Crane!” Henny said, crossing her hands to her heart. “We are indebted to you for your daring deed.”
“Well…” He shrugged. “It was a deed that needed doing.”
“Indeed!”
“Katrina,” he said, taking my hand. “Would you honor me with a dance?”
“Of course.” At last, I was freed.
He nodded toward Henny’s assembly. “If you’ll excuse us.” We took to the middle of the floor.
We’d barely danced two steps when he said, “Something’s upset you.”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s something.” He peered into my eyes.
“Really, forget it.”
“Forgotten.” He spun me around and brought me back. “So what will it take to make you smile?”
I chewed at my lip as though contemplating. “It’s hard to say. Especially since I’m not ticklish.”
His warm breath brushed me when he let out a sigh. “You’ll always hold that over me, won’t you?”
“You can count on it.” I broke into the smile he was longing to see.
“That’s better.” He leaned closer. “This is a party, Katrina.” He spun me again. “Have fun.”
I didn’t hesitate to heed his advice.
As the night progressed, the spirits flowed. The more drink consumed, the more everyone enjoyed themselves. There were all manner of circle and folk dances. We partook in several parlor games, and I played a couple of songs on the pianoforte, accompanied by the quartet of musicians.
Near midnight – the witching hour as Henny would call it – the festivities had not ceased. The fiddlers sawed the strings, and the music stayed wonderfully fast and uplifting.
Twice I’d looked for Marten, but he was always within a crowd or drinking with Peter. But I could not let the night end without speaking to him. I brazenly grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the floor. “Dance with me.”
He’d never cared for dancing, but he was inebriated enough not to object.
“Marten,” I asked, once we were amid the stumbling mass. “How much longer?”
His kept his voice low. “So you haven’t changed your mind?”
“No, I haven’t, but there is a new…hitch.”
“No Katrina. Everything must go as originally planned.” He glanced at Peter, who’d cornered a young woman against the wall.
“Forget about Peter,” I said. “We won’t need him.”
Marten’s face darkened as he clutched my arm. “Katrina, listen to me. Terms are set. We cannot change them.”
“But Marten, you don’t understand.”
His grip tightened. “No, you don’t underst –“
That’s when the window exploded with a thunderous crash. Shards of glass showered as a flaming log burst through, landing at our feet.
“Marten!”
He wrapped his arms around me and jerked me away.
There were yelps and gasps from the crowd. People scattered. The musicians leapt from their chairs.
Three men pitched forward to stomp it out, but it was still kindling when another log shattered the next window and hit the floor.
“What the Devil?” Father roared.
As more men rushed over to beat out the flames, a shovelful of hot cinders flew in, skittering next to them.
The shrieking and howling of guests pierced the room. Caspar Jansen peered out the window, then stumbled back. “It’s The Horseman! He’s returned!”
My heart thrummed. That’s not possible.
“What should we do?” someone shouted.
Marten kept a tight hold on me, attempting to block me from danger. Heat and smoke choked the air.
Another window smashed as more burning wood and coals flew in.
The crowd grew chaotic – wailing, crying and shouting. Some rushed the stairs seeking refuge, but a fireball blast through, hitting the steps and setting the decorative trim ablaze.
Burning cinders skittered under Gertie Marris’ skirt as she cradled her infant son. Her hem ignited, blue flame gobbling her dress. She held her child out to the frantic crowd. “Take my baby! Please! Please! Someone take my baby!” Ichabod was among the many who came forward to help.
People cowered in corners and under tables. Some scattered to the inner parts of our home.
Efforts were made to extinguish the flames, but as soon as one fire was snuffed, The Horseman would launch another blazing missile.
“Someone do something!” the Magistrate ordered.
Father turned to him, disgruntled. “A bloody suggestion would be nice!”
Peter Bottoms stumbled forward, a fierce glower in his eyes. “We all know what he wants.” Then he shifted his gaze to Ichabod, who was beating hot coals with his silk coat.
“It’s true!” Caspar Jansen shouted. “He wants Crane.”
The Horseman made another pass, his outline visible among the torches.
“Deliver him,” Clive Van Helt cried. “before the Hessian takes us all.”
“No!” I screamed, struggling to break Marten’s grip.
Caspar ground a cinder with his heel. “Send him out.”
Then the lynching began.
A crowd descended upon Ichabod, grabbing his arms and legs. He flailed and fought, but there were too many.
I shoved my way out of Marten’s hold. “No!”
Father slammed his fist to the wall. “Are you all mad? We cannot offer this man up as a sacrifice.”
But the drunken villagers were heedless.
I rushed them, pounding and kicking. “Let him go! Let him go!”
They pushed toward the front door, dragging and shoving Ichabod as The Horseman still cast cinders inside.
The Magistrate stomped his foot. “Order! Let there be order!” No one complied to his authority.
Father scrambled to block the way, but was shoved upon the hearth. His head thwacked against the brick, splitting his scalp and sending sheets of blood streaming down his face. “Father!” I ran to his aid, cradling him as he bled onto my dress.
The Magistrate, now in a frenzy, shouted, “How is sending this man to his death going to help us? What guarantee do we have that The Horseman will be appeased?”
But those determined to have Ichabod butchered would not hear a word.
Notary de Graff hurried over to me with napkins in his hands. “Katrina,” he said, pressing one of them to Father’s head. “Don’t let them do this.”
I grabbed the fireplace fork and charged, swinging, pounding and thrusting. One man, named Dathan, pulled it from me and shoved me to the ground.
Marten ran to assist me, then with one solid blow, bloodied the man’s nose.
The brawl continued as many of Ichabod’s defenders stormed forward to barricade the door. But I feared the mob were too many. I looked around for something…anything!
Elise huddled behind a table, whimpering.
“Ple
ase, Elise, please! Help me!”
“I cannot,” she sobbed, her gown clutched within her fists. “I cannot go against my father.”
I raced back into the revolt, pulling and tugging. Ichabod still struggled, teeth grit. Our eyes met and he cried, “Katrina!”
Dear God!
Caspar, who clutched one of Ichabod’s sleeves, yelled to me, “Move out of the way!”
“We won’t let you through,” the Magistrate held.
“Then we’ll toss him out the window!”
They shifted direction, traversing the room.
I flew to the kitchen in search of a weapon, my heart slamming against my chest.
Simon, as though by accident, knocked a large cleaver off the sideboard close to my feet. I snatched it up and ran back.
They continued to trudge, dragging Ichabod through the cinders and glass. But I streamed around them, standing at the window with the cleaver held high. “Let him go or I’ll chop all your heads off myself!”
“Move out of the way, Katrina,” Peter Bottoms ordered in a drunken slur. He grabbed for me, but I brought the razor-sharp blade down on his shoulder. I wasn’t strong enough to sink it, but it sliced through his shirt, sending a spray of blood from the slash. He buckled, then reached for the cleaver, trying to wrestle it from my hands.
No! No!
The Reverend pressed in, holding up a Bible. “Stop this ungodly behavior now!” But they struck him and shoved him aside.
Peter continued battling for the cleaver. Though I held strong, it finally popped from my grip, sending me stumbling back, nearly toppling out the window. They would’ve tossed Ichabod right on top of me, leaving both our fates to The Horseman.
Just when I thought there was no hope, Father stepped up, a rag tied to his head and a musket aimed at the crowd. “Stop! I will not stand for this in my home. Release him at once.”
The room went silent. The lynching ceased. No one wanted to chance a bullet.
Ichabod shoved out of their hold. He slumped against a wall, panting. His hair was disheveled and his shirtsleeve ripped. The top button was missing from his waistcoat and the second one dangled from its thread.
The Reverend rose from the floor. “He’s gone.”
We all turned to the window.
“The Horseman is gone,” he repeated.
