by Dax Varley
I rushed to Ichabod, throwing my arms around him, both of us trembling.
The Magistrate took charge. “Now, let’s see if we can manage some decorum.” He held up a finger, glancing around. “Baltus, how badly are you hurt?”
Father wavered and sat. He still clutched the musket tight. “I’m fine, Harding. But check on Peter there.”
I had sliced deeper into Peter’s shoulder than I’d thought. He held his coat to the wound, but blood still splattered onto the floor. His eyes bled hatred as he narrowed them toward me.
I looked around for Marten, but he seemed to have disappeared.
Marten, where have you gone?
Dr. Goodwine examined Peter’s wound. “He will require stitches. I’ll need sewing notions.”
Father called for Simon to fetch them. “And show Gertie to my room to find a dress among my wife’s things. Get some salve for her legs.”
Gertie, dressed in a table cloth and clutching her child, sobbed as he led her away.
The Magistrate turned back to Father. “This is your home, Baltus, what do you intend we do?”
Father looked around at the whimpering wives and children. “We’ll gather in the common room.”
Most of the throng had now dispersed, looking guilty and shamefaced. Once we settled back, the Council, without Caspar, took charge of the situation.
“It is quite evident,” the Magistrate said, “that Crane failed in his task to seal The Horseman.”
“Or likely, he used the wrong sword,” the Reverend added.
I buried my face on Ichabod’s shoulder. All this was because of me. I had risked everyone’s lives.
“Either case,” the Magistrate continued, “it is my duty to insure the safety of the Hollow. Nobody leaves this house before dawn.”
No one argued.
“Come morning, we’ll place Crane in a secure spot. It’s apparent that The Horseman has a grievance with him.”
I snapped my head toward him. “Grievance? You make it sound like they simply quarreled.”
“Hush, Katrina,” Father warned. He was too weak and weary to bark.
Ichabod laced his fingers through mine to calm me.
The Magistrate shook his head. “This much we know. As long as Ichabod is safe, so are we. The Horseman has marked him. The ghost will not take vengeance on any of us until he’s taken Crane’s head. That’s why it’s in our best interest to keep this man alive.”
“And where will you take him?” the Notary asked.
“Don’t worry,” the Magistrate answered, “There is one place where The Horseman can’t reach him.” He waved us off after that, concluding, “Now, I recommend we spend these next few hours making peace amongst ourselves. It’s the only way we’ll survive.”
I reached up and stroked Ichabod’s face. “I have never been so terrified in my life.”
“Nor I.” There was still fear within his eyes. “I should’ve taken my chances with The Horseman.”
“Ichabod,” I whispered, “What are we going to do?”
He worried with the dangling button. “I don’t know. But for now, I’m trapped. These men will never let me leave.”
* * *
At first cockcrow, there was a stirring. Everyone gathered their things. The Reverend held up his hand for attention. “Church services will still be held, but moved until two this afternoon. I suggest you all attend.”
The guests left in groups. Little was said. No goodbyes or expressions of gratitude. And the few apologies uttered were to the Council, not Ichabod.
When most everyone had gone, the Magistrate said, “Come on, Crane. Let’s get you to safety.”
Ichabod made no attempt to resist.
“Where are you taking him?” I asked.
“For the sake of the Hollow, it’s best we not divulge that.”
“But this is wrong. You can’t make him a prisoner again.”
Father managed to step in, his face haggard and gray. The bloodstained bandages were peeling, revealing the severity of his wound. It was stomach-clenching. “Katrina, you will not stand in the way of the Magistrate.”
I threw my arms around Ichabod’s neck and whispered, “I will find you. I promise.”
He closed his eyes, breathing in my voice.
I watched, helpless, as they escorted him out. He walked like a man condemned. When he mounted his horse I thought, Ride away, Ichabod. Ride away now.
But no matter how much I willed it, I knew that he would not.
* * *
The dawn shed its light on the disaster that was our home. We were accustomed to the clutter and mess that followed our yearly parties, but what I laid eyes upon looked more like the aftermath of war. Scorched planks. Shattered glass. And the russet stains of blood. All encased within a fetid stench of smoke, like that caught in the schoolhouse by the barrier of dead birds.
The windows, now gaping mouths of broken teeth, breathed the outside frost. I welcomed the chill as a reminder that I could still feel something. Carefully stepping through the debris, I closed the remaining curtains. It was our only defense against exposure until the slaves brought boards and nails.
Every inch of me ached as I trudged to my room.
Will this dark cloud ever disperse?
Exhaustion finally overcame me, and I fell into a dead sleep.
* * *
Over the next two days, I budgeted for repairs while Father saw to the farm. Our newly arrived overseer had fled back to Chappaqua. Who could blame him?
I worried for Father. His ghastly wound was now a livid lump, the color of egg yolks and chicken livers. The gash within it had crusted over with a prickly maroon scab. It turned my stomach every time I doctored it. And it was causing him headaches, I could tell.
And, of course, my mind was continually on Ichabod. What place in the Hollow was safe from The Horseman’s reach?
I considered having Leta deliver a note to Henny, the one person who may have wrangled the information, but that would prove too risky. I’m sure she had already concocted stories of a lurid affair between Ichabod and me. The query would only add kindling to the fire. I’d have to figure another way.
My first real hope came on Thursday. Reverend Bushnell had been invited to dinner. He knew where Ichabod was being kept, and I’d find a way to wring it out of him.
After grace, Father picked up his spoon. “Reverend, I again offer my humblest apology for the chaos last Saturday.”
The Reverend lifted a hand. “No need, Baltus. It was no fault of yours.”
“But had I known The Horseman was not restrained, I would never have…” His words trailed as though he no longer had the strength to speak them.
“Do not concern yourself. As it is, we are now somewhat skeptical of the whole business.”
“Which business?” Father asked, his spoon trembling in his hand.
Reverend Bushnell cast his eyes to me. “How Crane was able to slip away undetected and carry out the sealing process. There was no real proof that it was the correct sword. We now think it was just a ploy of desperation. A way to free himself from those whose only motive was to protect him.”
I met his gaze, chin high. “Reverend, how would you like being kept under lock and key?”
“Oh, don’t misjudge my remarks, Katrina. The inconvenience of his circumstance has not been taken lightly.”
Father blew steam from his stew. “So you think Crane took some random sword as a ruse to mislead us?”
“No,” the Reverend answered, keeping his eyes on me. “He most likely believed it was the true sword. After all, it certainly looked like the weapon of a bloodthirsty Hessian. No, I think there was more at play here.”
I was onto his roundabout accusations and met his challenge. “What more could be at play?”
His lips curled into a sly smile. “Perhaps you can tell me? You were corresponding with him during that time. Did he not tell you of his plan?”
He knows. “Did you not read our cor
respondence yourself? Surely the Council was keeping a close watch.”
He sank his spoon into his bowl. “Admittedly, I did go over the exchanged lessons. But only in the interest of the children.”
“Since you saw what was exchanged between Ichabod and me, you know that he relayed no plan to me of sealing The Horseman in.”
The Reverend chased a pea around in his stew. “Regardless, it was a good plan. I remember you asking me if such a thing would work.”
“And I remember you affirming that it would. What a shame that it was not the real sword. Especially since it looked like, as you put it, the weapon of a bloodthirsty Hessian.”
He nodded. “But there are so many swords in that stockpile. How could one possibly know the difference?”
“Well, perhaps we should stab them all into the grave. That should finish him.”
Father kept his faded eyes on his bowl. “A valid suggestion.”
“And,” I added, “Ichabod should be the one to drive them in. After all, his head is the one at stake here.”
The Reverend waved it off. “There is no proof that the Hessian’s sword is even there.”
“And no proof that it isn’t. Who was it that bothered burying the German devil?”
The Reverend’s agitation grew. “Katrina, you were but a babe during the Revolution. You have no idea the anguish and bedlam that took place.”
“Oh, trust me, I know a great deal about anguish.”
“At any rate, we will never know who dug that grave. But it was most assuredly someone who abhorred the British and their tactic of recruiting rogue soldiers. Quite unlikely that it was Smedt.”
“Still,” I goaded, “the old hermit might have pilfered the sword beforehand.”
The Reverend’s hard huff mingled with steam on his stew. “Katrina, the entire Hollow knows you have a vested interest and are quite anxious to resolve this…as we all are.”
Father suddenly found his voice. “Then let’s resolve it. Tell the Council we’ll meet at the church on Saturday.”
“Fine,” the Reverend said, slurping his meal.
I made no further snaps, but listened closely for any hints as to where they’d hidden Ichabod. When it was time for the Reverend to leave, I helped him on with his overcoat.
“Where are they keeping him?” I whispered as he slipped one arm through.
He heaved his other one in. “Katrina, I cannot divulge that information.”
“But you know that it was I who attempted to seal the grave, not Ichabod. Therefore you must also know that I am desperate to free him.”
He uttered a small laugh. “Oh, yes. It is your desperation that I fear most. What other extremes might you employ?”
“I will do whatever it takes,” I assured him.
“Even at the risk of endangering the Hollow?”
“Reverend, there is another way to keep me out of your hair.”
He smiled, amused. “Now that’s a suggestion I’m anxious to hear.”
I moved in close. “Marry me to Ichabod so that I may hide with him.”
His eyes bloomed and his jaw dropped. “Without your father’s consent? That’s preposterous.”
“Please. I beg you.”
He wrapped his scarf around his neck. “Believe me, Katrina, if I could do it, I would. Crane is just as bullheaded as you. The two of you belong together.”
“You’ll not even consider it?”
“No,” he huffed. “Out of the question.”
Had I really expected he would? “Can I at least send a message to him?”
He placed his hands on my shoulders. “It’s best that there be no written exchange between you for the time being.”
“Then will you deliver a verbal message?”
He sighed, waiting.
“Tell him that I hope he finds at least one grain of happiness in his cruel situation.”
He straightened his hat. “That seems harmless enough.”
“You’re forgetting, Reverend, I’m not the one who means him harm.”
* * *
I kept hope that the Council would come to some decision – find some method to blast The Horseman back to Hell. When Saturday did arrive, I could barely think. They couldn’t possibly adjourn without something substantial.
Simon came into the kitchen after running errands in town. It was far too early for dinner, yet he remained, finding ways to busy himself. And there was a certain restlessness about him.
“How are you today, Miss Katrina?”
I rested my forehead against my fingers. “As well as can be expected.”
“Would you like me to make you some tea?”
I peeked up, now curious about his motive to linger. “Yes. That’d be nice.”
I watched as he dallied with the kettle.
Sensing he had something to say, I asked. “How were things in town?”
He shrugged in a “so-so” manner. “Just the same, I s’pose. Lots of talk and such. I always hear some of the oddest things when I’m there.”
Odd? “Tell me, what did you hear today?”
He set the kettle on the stove. “It’s not my place to gossip.”
Again there was a bridge of silence as though he needed permission. “Please, what did you hear?”
He picked up a cloth and began wiping down our spotless sideboard. “Seems there was a brawl at the tavern last night. The fellow that caused it went crazy wild. Tore up the place.”
“Has Brom returned?” I scoffed.
“Oh no, ma’am, it wasn’t him. I didn’t catch the man’s name.”
I picked up the tea canister and walked next him. “I hope this nameless man took some of that rage out on Peter Bottoms.” And beat that vulgar sneer off his face.
“I don’t know about that,” Simon continued, “but the curious part is they didn’t arrest that man. They just sent him on home.”
That was curious. “Why didn’t they arrest him?”
“That’s the oddest part. It turns out there was already somebody in the jail.”
“Was there any reason they couldn’t have tossed him in with the other prisoner?”
He stopped wiping and gazed past me. “I thought that too. But I heard they wouldn’t have none of it.” He then turned his deep eyes to mine. “Makes you wonder who’s occupyin’ that jail, now don’t it?”
Our gaze held.
Oh, my sweet, wonderful Simon!
I plopped the canister onto the sideboard. “On second thought, I think I’ll wait until later for tea.”
His lips curved into a thin crescent. “Yes, ma’am. Is there anything else you need me to do?”
I gave his hand a squeeze. “No, Simon, you’ve done more than enough.”
Sweeping on my cloak, I hastened to my horse. I didn’t care who saw me or to what consequence. I spurred Dewdrop into a winged gallop and did not slow until I’d reached the Magistrate’s court.
I pushed inside, marching straight to the jail.
The jailer, a rangy lizard named Fallon, stepped in front of me, blocking my entry.
“Move out of my way,” I ordered.
He remained stiff. “The prisoner is not allowed visitors.”
I slipped off my gloves. “Prisoner? Is that what you’re calling him?”
He puffed his chest as though that should intimidate me. “You have no business here.”
“I am going through,” I said, “and you won’t stop me.”
The blacks of his eyes shrunk to beads. “You think I can’t?”
I met his glare with equal measure. “I think you’re forgetting something extremely important. My name is Katrina Van Tassel. My father is Baltus Van Tassel. Our wealth keeps this village alive. And if I’m not mistaken, pays your wages.”
He flinched, blinking. “I will have to notify the Magistrate about this.”
“Go ahead.” I nodded toward the door. “He is presently at the church with the other Councilmen. I’m sure you can still catch him.”
>
Fallon seethed, practically breathing smoke.
“Now let me through.”
“Fine,” he scoffed. “But you’ll get no key.”
“Not yet,” I muttered as I hurried past.
Ichabod lay on a cot, his journal and pencil in hand. “Katrina.” He flung them aside and rushed to the bars.
We caressed each other as best we could. He kissed my hands and fingers, then reached through the bars, placing his palms to my cheeks. I placed mine on his – the bars too thick for our lips to meet.
His mouth creased into a smile. “What took you so long?”
My heart ached. “Ichabod, what have they done to you?”
He drew his hands in and gestured. “Take a look.”
For the first time I saw his cell instead of him. I blinked surprise. They had dressed it up nicely. He was afforded a writing desk, chair, goose quills, a sheaf of paper, basins, quilts, and a large comfortable featherbed. I then gazed up at the small barred window just under the ceiling – the pane shut tight. “No fresh air?”
“Believe me, it’s best closed.”
I remembered the ghastly stink of the narrow alley beyond it.
“So,” he said, his eyes playful, “what do you think of my new quarters?”
“I’m certainly relieved. I feared they had you in shackles.”
His fingers swept across my cheek. “They do.”
His touch only deepened my anger at the Council. “Ichabod, this is outrageous.”
“Well, they are right about one thing. The Horseman can’t touch me here.”
“Nor I. Not in the way I wish.” The desire gripped me.
He braved a smile. “So our fates are in the collective knowledge of the Council, and yet my optimism isn’t raised.”
I clutched his hands, “Ichabod, I intend to free you.”
“I’d put my faith in you before them, but I don’t know how you can. And Fallon would swallow the key before turning it over.”
“Perhaps I could slip some type of sleeping draught into his cider.”
He chuckled. “He’s rarely alone during the day. And at night I’m protected by two guards. I think they’d grow suspicious if you were to show up with a jug.”
I squeezed his hands tighter. “Then I’ll find some way to stop The Horseman myself.”
He rested his forehead against the bars. I placed mine on the other side.
