by Dax Varley
I turned back to the wall. Once he was gone, I hurried over to the bars and stretched as far as I could to reach the mug. I set it and the bread on the chair, then dragged it close to the bed. If Fallon planned to collect them, he’d have to come inside. I’d burn him with the candle as a distraction, and then smash the chair into his face. All for pure satisfaction. But then I’d have no choice but flee. What he’d do to me would be far worse than the demons that surrounded me now. I reached under the mattress and touched the cool porcelain of my makeshift lance.
Fallon never returned. The man was nothing but lies.
* * *
I awoke to the sounds of the Hollow, seeming livelier than before. Or perhaps it was my impaired state. If anyone had come to bring me food, I’d slept through it. But last night’s bread and water still rested on the chair. Why would they offer more? And why would I care?
Around an hour later – so I guessed – a handful of walnuts blasted against the window. Even though time was lost on me, I knew it was way before noon. I placed the chair under the window and raised the pane. Leta stood in the cold, hopping foot to foot. Her face was screwed into a knot, and tears tracked down her cheeks. “Miss Katrina.” Her chalky lips trembled like an injured bird.
I held tight to the window’s bars. “Leta, what’s wrong?”
She sniffled, continuing to bounce. “That tavern owner came up to the house.”
A cold panic swept over me. “Peter Bottoms.”
“Yes, ma’am. And he brought out a whole passel of town folk. They was hollerin’ and throwing rocks, and yelling that you was a witch, making their hens to stop layin’ and their wells dry up.”
Peter’s turned everyone against me.
“They was demanding for Mr. Van Tassel to pay up for their troubles.”
“My Father was there?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She wiped her nose on her coat sleeve. “He and that lawyer man come back late last night.”
“Well, what happened?”
Her face hitched again. “It was the most terrible thing. Even though the door was barred, the tavern owner barged in. He hollered all kinds of nasty things, then he and Mr. Van Tassel started fighin’. They tussled for a bit, then Peter took out a pistol and shot him in the face.”
My knees buckled and the chair wobbled beneath me. Oh, my lord. “Is he dead? Leta, is he dead?”
Her tears spilled onto her lips. “I don’t know. He just laid there at first, but after Peter went to tearing up the house, he started crawling on his elbows toward the kitchen. His whole face looked like an open sore. Simon sent me to fetch the doctor. And I don’t know nothing else cause after I got the doctor, I come straight here to tell you.” She began bawling again.
The image of Father’s blood-soaked face made it impossible to swallow my own tears. How had this all gone so terribly wrong?
The clamor of the village grew stronger. I couldn’t allow Leta to remain.
“Listen to me,” I said. “It is too dangerous for you to come back here. If you can, ask the doctor to relay word of my father through one of the Councilmen.”
She rubbed an eye with her fist. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And one more thing,” I asked, quickly. “What happened to the lawyer?”
Her lip quivered. “He hightailed it back to the city after that swarm of people showed up.”
I rested my head against the window’s cold bars. “Thank you, Leta. Be safe, dear.”
She glanced up with wet almond eyes. “Bye, Miss Katrina. I hope you’ll be all right.”
I sank into a silent sob. No matter what happens, I won’t be.
* * *
I stayed at the window, long after she’d left, letting the cold air numb my senses. But heavy scuttling and clatter roused me. There were shouts as the echoes of hammers clip-clopped against wood. I pressed my cheek hard to the bars, straining to see. But my only view was the tangle of branches and the butcher’s stone wall.
What’s happening out there?
I slammed the window and dropped off the chair. Thoughts flooded my mind.
They’ll come for me. They’ll come for the witch. I paced, wondering, worrying. Minutes passed like hours. Then the jail room door unclicked. Reverend Bushnell bustled in, short of breath.
I hurried over. “How is Father?”
The Reverend held up his Bible as though to ward off my next words. “I’m afraid it’s bad news.”
“He’s dead?” New tears fell as I clutched the bars.
“As you may well be soon,” he said, refusing me a moment to grieve.
I snapped my eyes to him. “Don’t you think I know that?”
He placed a hand over mine. “The Hollow is in a fever, my dear. Peter Bottoms has incited an uproar. He is preaching against you, blaming you for all the misfortune in Sleepy Hollow. Anyone with failed crops or diseased livestock is crying witch. And now they are taking matters into their own hands, erecting a scaffold.”
My mouth went dirt dry. “Where is the Magistrate? Is he not trying to stop them?”
The Reverend’s downcast expression hung loose. “What can he do, Katrina? We are outnumbered.”
“Do something! Can I trust that they’ll not get in?”
He withdrew his hand, a gesture that spoke volumes. “We’re keeping the doors locked and have brought in an extra guard.”
“Please, Reverend, let me go. I’ll leave the Hollow and never return.”
My hopes rose as he considered it, but then he fervently shook his head. “Out of the question.”
I slammed the side of my fist against the bars. “And you call yourself a man of God? What are you going to do when they drag me out? Stand in the corner and pray? Will there be any guilt on your part? Any remorse?”
“As much guilt as you feel over the death of Marten Piers.”
My body trembled with frustration as I held back a piercing shriek. As much as I wanted to lash out, I knew it would only satisfy him.
Sensing my fury, he took a step back. “I’m sorry, Katrina. I wish I could do more. But here.” He offered his Bible through the bars. “Perhaps you’d like to keep this.”
I backed away, my chin high. “No, thank you. I find it a useless weapon.”
He brought it back, clutching it to his chest. “Yet I fear the lack of it is what put you here. I’ll pray for you, Katrina.”
“Don’t waste your prayers on me, Reverend. Pray for those outside, erecting the gallows. They are the true murderers.”
* * *
Once he’d gone, I was left to my thoughts, and the sounds outside the window. The sawing and the hammering were no louder, yet deafening to my ears. And even though my heart had been completely ripped away, I did not want to surrender.
I took my shoes off next to the mattress, then hurried to the bars. “Fallon!” I screamed, banging the chair against them. “Fallon! Come quickly! Hurry!”
The man was incapable of haste. He pranced in, baring his crooked brown teeth. “What you wailing about in here?”
I wrenched my arm through the bars and clutched his sleeve. “I don’t want to hang.”
His eyes glassed over as though my grip were a sexual gesture. “Don’t worry. It’ll be quick. You’ll drop fast and…” He snapped his fingers.
“I don’t want to die. Please, help me.”
He plucked my fingers from his sleeve, wallowing in my desperation – something I was counting on greatly. “Know what I did with those coins Baltus gave me?” I waited for whatever snide answer he’d cooked up. “I used them to buy the chance of slipping that noose around your neck myself.” He reached through and squeezed my cheeks. “And I’ll be kissing them rosy lips just before you drop.”
I waited until he released me, then said, “So the money’s gone?”
His face twisted. “Not for long. With you and your papa both dead, I’m sure I can find some valuables in that fancy mansion of yours.”
“But the villagers may have taken most of
it already.” I kept the anguish in my eyes. He had to believe I was completely at his mercy. Which, as loathsome as it felt, I was.
“Then maybe I best get out there and pick the place clean.” His eyes crawled over me before settling on my breasts. “And while I’m there, is there a particular dress you want me to bring back for you? I think you’d be pretty all laid out in blue.” He chuckled and turned to go.
“Wait!” I gripped his sleeve again. “Fallon, you don’t understand. My family is far richer than appearances.”
His ears and eyebrows perked. I had him.
“A good deal of the Van Tassel money is invested. Father owns piles of bank shares and government bonds. If you get me out of here, I promise, they’re yours.”
He clutched my hand and squeezed. Raw pain pulsed up my arm. “Supposing that was true, am I to believe you could just legally hand them over?”
I winced against the ache as he crushed harder. “After my mother died, it was I who tallied the ledgers. And since Father was away much of the time, I was left to deal with the money issues as well. My signature is as good as his on any business transaction.”
Fallon opened his hand, dropping mine. His mouth twitched as his mind rolled it over. He was buying into my lie.
I lowered my voice to sound more convincing. “We’ll go to the city together. Just the two of us. I promise you, every share that was ours will be yours. You’ll have wealth like you’ve never imagined.”
He studied my eyes, wanting it to be true. “And what’s to keep you from running off after we leave here?”
I tossed him a puzzled look. “You own a pistol, don’t you?”
He considered it a moment, then reached through and placed his trigger finger to my temple. “And what’s to keep me from firing it into your precious little head?”
“I’ll take that risk. I’m dead either way.”
He glared a moment, then jangled the keys. “We’ll go out the back.”
I placed my hands to my chest. “Oh, thank you.”
A click. Then the squeak of the iron door. I lifted my skirt, exposing my filthy bare feet. “My shoes.” I hurried to the corner. As I’d hoped, Fallon sauntered in.
Kneeling with my back to him, I slipped my shoes on my feet, and the pitcher handle into my hand. I paused, panting, heart thumping. Taking my time. Careful. Just injure him enough to get away.
“Let’s hurry, woman,” he sneered.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that…” – I pretended to struggle – “conditions here have caused my feet to swell.”
“Then just bring ‘em along. Once you sign over those bonds, I’ll lend you the money to buy new ones.” He cackled a laugh that nearly rattled the window.
“I’ve almost got them.”
“Almost ain’t good enough.” He loped toward me. I spun, ramming the porcelain blade on the inside of his left thigh. His face registered both shock and pain as he stumbled to the floor.
I broke around him, but only made it a few steps before he clutched my skirt, bringing me down.
“You filthy bitch!” He grabbed a huge wad of my hair as he reached for the handle that protruded just inches from his groin. “To hell with the Hollow, I’ll kill you myself!”
Blood coursed as he worked the weapon from his flesh.
I clawed at his hand, trying to free my hair, but he held it too close to my scalp. My eyes fixed to the cell door, and the keys still hanging from the lock. If I could only get there I could lock him in. I squirmed and kicked, but he rolled on top of me, the pitcher handle held high.
I moaned, gripping his wrist to keep him from bringing it down on me.
“Should I take out your eyes first,” he sniped, “or just ram it into your throat?” Using his legs, he pushed my knees apart and bucked his pelvis against mine. “Or maybe I should have my way with you first.” He ran his wet serpent tongue up my neck.
I closed my eyes, grimacing against the struggle and repulsion. Then his tongue traced the outline of my lips. “Like that, missy?”
He continued pressing his groin against me, but now, with a slower rhythm. I could feel the heat steaming from his body, and the taste of spiced pork on his tongue. My stomach curled. Then he brought his mouth down fiercely on mine, trying to burrow his tongue inside. This was my only chance. I opened my mouth to take him and as soon as he crammed his tongue in, I clamped my teeth upon it, refusing to let go.
His eyes popped wide as he fought harder to bring the porcelain weapon down upon me. But I kicked and fought as his coppery blood rolled down my throat. He finally pulled his head upward, somehow freed. I then realized, I still had part of his tongue in my mouth. I spit it into his face.
His eyes darkened with hatred as he raised up, eager to finish me. Blood sheeted down, dropping on me in great gobs. I did not want mine mingled with his. Bringing my foot to his chest, I kicked him off, then rolled onto my hands and knees. But he lunged, grabbing me before I could get away. I turned to fight, amazed that he still had strength.
Grappling for the handle, we fought again, his darkened blood oozing from his mouth. At last, I wrested the weapon from him. When he sprang at me, I brought it up and into the flesh of his neck, just above his collarbone.
We both glared, heaving. I waited for him to drop, but with fingers splayed, he slowly placed his hands to the sides of my face. Then with the quickness of a deer, he lifted my head and slammed it to the hard floor.
Pain exploded through me as pinpricks of light danced before my eyes. The room blurred. Fallon hovered over me. Then there were two of him. Then darkness closed in.
Within that darkness were fireflies and shooting stars. And rain. Rain? Droplets hitting my face. Blood. Fallon’s blood. The fireflies dimmed. Then the world rolled over and I ceased to exist.
* * *
The fireflies returned, winking upon a sea of blackness. Their number grew greater as their bodies grew larger, becoming the size of bumblebees. They swarmed inside my head, their droning boring through my brain.
“Katrina.”
The bees are calling me?
“Katrina.”
No, a man. Whispering.
The bees parted as light sliced through the slits of my eyelids.
“Katrina, wake up.”
The voice. I recognized it. Brom.
I slowly rolled over, my head thundering with every move. Brom was crouched near the locked cell door.
Where is Fallon?
Brom grimaced as I slithered on forearms and knees. “Holy God,” he gasped. As I reached he bars, he quickly pulled a flask from his coat.
“Thirsty,” I managed.
He tilted it to my lips. Whiskey. It was hot cinders going down.
“I only have a moment,” he said. He tugged a cotton scarf from his neck and doused it with whiskey. “Listen closely.” Reaching in, he wiped at the blood on my face.
“How…how?” How did you get in?
“I don’t have time to explain.” He raised my chin so that my drooping eyes met his. “I’m coming back for you tonight. About midnight. Do you understand?”
My eyelids fell.
“Katrina.” He shook me, causing a pain like a bullet had shot through my skull. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I croaked, the taste of blood and whiskey mingling with the word.
“Keep this.” He slid the flask through. “But just take mild sips. I’ll need you alert.”
“Brom.” I rested my head onto my arm. “They’re going to hang me.”
He reached in and brushed back my hair. “Not as long as I’m breathing.”
I closed my eyes and he slipped away.
* * *
Shouting roused me from sleep. I briefly blinked my eyes open. Dark smoke swelled through the cracks in the wall, the room held an amber glow. Fire. I tried to stir, even a little, but my head screamed like I’d been kicked by an ox. Fire. Through blurry eyes I looked at the waxy wooden chair. Then the cornhusk mattress. Kindling. All
kindling. The witch won’t hang, she’ll burn.
My stomach heaved twice, then vomit shot out, slapping the floor. I closed my eyes, steadied my breathing. The world slowed again. Brom. He’d come. I felt around for the flask, but it wasn’t there. My mind drifted downward. Had he really been here, or had I only imagined him like before? I slipped into darkness again. This time tomorrow, I’ll be nothing but ashes.
* * *
I awoke to a dead quiet – in my head as well as the room. I lay still, my eyes fixed to the back wall. The room smelled smoky and singed like The Horseman had slashed it. But what did I care? I was already marked. Night had fallen, but the glow of sconces lit the cell.
I listened to the sound of my steady breathing, then realized someone else was there. I lifted and turned, blinking my eyes. Beyond the bars, the Notary sat. His hands folded in his lap, his mournful eyes watching me. He rose and walked forward, his face slack.
God help me, I haven’t the strength for more bad news.
He voice was low and soft. “I thought you’d want to know that Peter Bottoms is dead.”
“Dead?” I felt suddenly lighter. “How?”
“Knife to the throat.”
At least it wasn’t The Horseman. I was spared that accusation. “Who killed him?”
He shrugged his weary shoulders. “No witnesses.”
Brom?
I waited for more, wondering why he was the one to inform me. After a moment his stature slumped. His eyes glistened. “My son liked you.”
Was that meant to compliment or shame me? “I liked him too. I loved him. You know he was a very dear friend.”
He looked down, studying his clenched fists. “I remember when you and Garritt were children, about eight-years-old, I think. He broke his arm tumbling out of a tree. You made a sling out of your petticoat and helped him inside. Then you waited with him till the doctor and I got there. When I walked in you had his head in your lap, petting his hair, and singing softly to soothe him.”
