The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel

by Alyssa Palombo

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  For Jen Hark-Hameister, the Katrina to my Charlotte, the Lafayette to my Hamilton, my partner in crime for all fun fall activities and all things Halloween-related. We always sort of hoped the Headless Horseman was real. I did my best to bring him to life.

  … This sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow … Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air.

  —WASHINGTON IRVING, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”

  Prologue

  Washington Irving got it wrong. I don’t know what secondhand version of Katrina Van Tassel’s story he heard, but it was all wrong. Oh, he got the names right: Ichabod Crane. Brom Bones. The Headless Horseman. But he left out the important parts of the story—the parts that matter most.

  When I was a young woman, if you had told me that the man I loved and I, and the men who loved me, would one day be as much a part of Sleepy Hollow’s lore as the Horseman himself, I would have laughed. I had no concept, then, of how deeply my actions affected those around me. I was selfish. I could not see beyond my own life, my own struggles, beyond the tale I was trying so desperately to write for myself. But isn’t it so for everyone?

  Charlotte knew, I think, even back then. In some corner of her mind, she recognized that our story would last and grow beyond us, taking on a life of its own. It is a story that forgot her entirely, forgot the enormous part she played in everything that happened, though often I think that that is how she wished it. She made sure her part would be forgotten.

  The appeal of this legend should not surprise me. After all, why should the story—my story—not be one for the ages? It has everything that a grand, epic tale should have, even if the details have been lost: a romance between a handsome hero and a beautiful heroine, a jealous rival, loyal friendship, music, ghosts and demons, magic, and murder most foul.

  I have let the wounds from that long-ago time heal, letting the ghosts die and lie in their graves. I had to. It was the only way I could go on.

  And yet I will tell the tale all the same, because I would have the true story known at last. For all these years, the truth has been known only to two souls living. But I have kept it inside long enough. Now you, too, will know the truth.

  1

  The Schoolmaster

  It was in early summer of my eighteenth year that my destiny arrived, and despite my fancy for premonitions he took me quite by surprise.

  “Katrina!” my mother’s voice called, summoning me from downstairs. “We’ve a guest! Do come down, dear!”

  I rolled my eyes and put my book aside. We always had a guest, or nearly so. My father was the most prosperous farmer for miles around, making him Sleepy Hollow’s unofficial lead citizen, and as such we often entertained our fellow townsfolk, in addition to travelers passing through: our home was the largest for many miles, situated conveniently along the Albany Post Road, and therefore the first place they would stop to pay their respects, usually in hopes of a handout. Word had long since traveled far and wide that the esteemed Baltus Van Tassel could not turn anyone away.

  I should not be so uncharitable, I knew; but it wearied me, a girl who preferred the company of her books and her dog and of nature, to have to entertain strangers so often. That these travelers and visitors were usually men who seemed to find it their right to openly ogle the heiress of so wealthy an estate only meant I had grown quite tired indeed of assisting my mother in playing hostess.

  Perhaps, I mused, smoothing my hair before my mirror, I had better give some consideration to these bachelors, before I wake up someday soon to find myself betrothed to Brom Van Brunt.

  But I would not think on that now.

  Satisfied I looked as respectable as could reasonably be expected on such short notice, I left my bedroom and went down the stairs, my dog, Nox, uncurling from his nap on my bed and following after me. I stepped into the kitchen at the rear of the house, where my mother was issuing instructions to Cook. She nodded for me to pick up the tray that held two silver mugs, filled with the pale wheat beer made in the brewery my father owned, and take it out onto the portico. The large porch was situated at the back of the house and framed gorgeous, sweeping views of the Hudson. I took the tray without comment, Nox trotting at my side. It was a routine we had long since perfected.

  “Ah, and here is my lovely daughter, Katrina,” my father’s booming, jovial voice said as I entered the parlor. He spoke English, I noticed, rather than the Dutch we used in casual company. I had grown up speaking both languages, as did most local families of wealth and property. Our guest must be from a different region of the country. “So nice of you to join us, my dear. Pray, set that down and meet our guest.”

  I placed the tray on the low table between my father and the other man, then straightened to see that the stranger had risen on my entrance. “Miss Van Tassel,” he said, taking my hand and bending to kiss it. His speech was clear, crisp. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  I was taken aback by his courtly manner, and even more so by his appearance—but agreeably so.

  He was young, that much was certain—likely only in his early twenties. He was tall and gangly, with long arms and legs; he nearly towered over me. Were my father to stand, his own considerable height would be no match for this man. His brown hair, which he had tied back at his nape with a simple black ribbon, was shot through with gold. Wide eyes stared back at me, a startling deep green, like the moss that grew at the banks of the stream in the woods. His ears, I noted, were unfortunately large, yet somehow made his already pleasant face even more endearing. He was handsome, but not too much so.

  “The pleasure is mine, sir,” I said, not untruthfully.

  “Katrina, my dove, this is Mr. Ichabod Crane, our new schoolmaster, just come from Connecticut,” my father said. “He has come to visit with us in the hopes that we may smooth his way as he joins our fair community.”

  The schoolmaster turned to me. “I have heard tales of your father, miss, and his exceeding kindness and generosity. Therefore I had hoped I might prevail upon him on my arrival, seeing as I know no one here.”

  “You have certainly made the best choice available to you, Mr. Crane,” I said, my words coming out in an unexpectedly low, throaty pitch. “My father is indeed a pillar of our community, worthy of all the praise you have heard, and more.”

  “And who is this distinguished-looking gentleman?” Mr. Crane asked, his attention turning to Nox at my side. He extended a hand slowly, and Nox stepped forward, sniffing him thoroughly. His large, bushy tale began to wag, indicating his approval. Mr. Crane took it as such and reached out to scratch
Nox behind his ears, something the big dog enjoyed immensely.

  “This is my dog, Nox,” I said. “He was born into a litter of herding dogs my father raised, and I could not resist taking him into the house as a puppy and spoiling him.” He was also an excellent judge of character, and if he liked this Mr. Crane, my initial favorable reaction to the schoolmaster was justified.

  “Nox,” Mr. Crane mused, as the dog shifted closer, giving him better access to the spot behind his ears. “Latin for night, is it not?”

  I smiled, delighted. “Indeed. He was black as night when he was a puppy, though now that coloring remains only on his face and ears, as you see.” The rest of Nox’s coat was a magnificent gray and brown brindle.

  “And do you speak Latin, Miss Van Tassel?”

  “Just a bit. I expressed an interest, and so my tutor in my younger years taught me a little.”

  My father chuckled, patting my hand. “Katrina is my delight, Mr. Crane,” he said. “She is the only child the Good Lord saw fit to send to my wife and me, and yet I hardly think any other daughter—or son, for that matter—could be her equal.”

  “I am certain that is true,” Ichabod Crane said, smiling at me.

  “Indeed, indeed,” my father said. He reached for his mug of beer. “And now, a toast.” At this, our guest hastily picked up his own mug. “To you, sir, and to your future endeavors in our fair town. May you succeed in amply educating our young ones.”

  “Hear, hear,” I murmured as the two men clinked their mugs together. More education would hardly go amiss in this town, for the adults as well as the children; perhaps then the old Dutch farmwives would not look at me quite so askance whenever they saw me with a book, nor would the foolish young men—like Brom Van Brunt—tease me that my face was far too pretty to be hidden behind its pages. “At least my fair face conceals a far more beautiful mind, something I would not expect you to understand,” I had snapped at Brom not long ago in the churchyard. He had stormed away, brow furrowed, as he tried to work out how, precisely, he had been insulted.

  “Do they speak much Dutch in Connecticut, Mr. Crane?” I inquired. “For you will find that most of your prospective students—especially from the farther-flung farms—have no more than a passing familiarity with English.”

  “I know a bit, Miss Van Tassel, though not as much as I should like,” the schoolmaster confessed. “But as part of my duty here will be to teach my students English, I am sure between the two languages we shall get along well enough.”

  “No doubt,” my father agreed. “We are fond of our Dutch language and Dutch food and Dutch ways here, Mr. Crane, as you will soon find, but English is the language of this new nation of ours, so we do not teach it to our children at our peril.”

  “Very wise words, sir.”

  “Even so, Mr. Crane, should you like to practice your Dutch, you may certainly seek me out,” I said, giving him a quick, coquettish smile. It did no harm to flirt with the handsome newcomer, after all.

  “And, Katrina,” my father added, after the two men had drunk of their beer, “Mr. Crane also brings us some news which I think will be agreeable to you. He is a musician, and in addition to his duties at the schoolhouse, he will be taking on students for singing lessons. I took the liberty of engaging his services for you.”

  I could feel my face brighten as I considered this Ichabod Crane anew. “This is most agreeable news indeed,” I said, and this time my smile had nothing of the coquette in it—it was only genuine. “As my father may have told you, Mr. Crane, outside of books nothing delights me so much as music.”

  “Indeed?” Mr. Crane said, meeting my eyes. “We will have much to talk of, then.”

  My father chuckled. “Katrina is wont to wander in the woods and sing to the birds,” he said. “I fancy her voice is even finer than theirs, but I am no musician, only a doting father. I shall entrust her to your expert tutelage, Mr. Crane.”

  “I look forward to it,” he said, having never taken his eyes from mine.

  “And when may I expect my first lesson?” I asked.

  “My dear, the boy has been several days on the road,” my father said. “Perhaps we had best allow him time to rest first.”

  “If I may be so bold as to contradict you, sir,” Mr. Crane said, “I find nothing so rejuvenates me as music.” He glanced over at me again. “Your father, Miss Van Tassel, has been kind enough to invite me to stay for a time, so I may get settled and determine which of my student’s families may host me next. As such, I am entirely at your disposal for the near future and can begin whenever you wish.”

  I did not look away from his green eyes. “Tomorrow, then?”

  His smile widened. “Tomorrow.”

  2

  Brom Bones

  I awoke early enough the next morning to see the mist coiling low outside my window. It slithered along the fields into the small stand of woods near the farmhouse, a grayish blue in the eerie morning light. Soon the sun would rise fully and burn away the fog, taking with it my ever-present fear that I might see a ghostly rider emerging from the mist.

  But that morning my fears felt far away. At first I could not remember why I felt so happy. I had never been unhappy—save of late, when such nightmares had been plaguing me—but it had been some time since I wakened with such excitement at the thought of the coming day. Then my lips perked in a smile—Mr. Ichabod Crane, the music teacher. He was in our house, and would be commencing my musical instruction that very day.

  Oh, that I could tell Charlotte, my dearest friend, about this: a handsome houseguest, and he was to teach me music, as well! But she had been away for the past two months, caring for an ailing aunt near Boston.

  I rang the bell to summon Nancy, my mother’s and my chambermaid. She fancied herself more my meddling aunt than anything else. While I waited, I poured water from a ceramic pitcher into my small basin and quickly washed my face. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and could not help but smile. I had never given much thought to my appearance, but suddenly I was glad that so many people considered me pretty.

  When Nancy arrived, she looked down from her considerable height—she was tall for a woman, much taller than I, and had also grown stouter as she aged—and huffed at Nox. He lifted his head up and thumped his tail against the mattress at the sight of her. “I don’t know why you let that dog sleep in your bed, Miss Katrina,” she said to me in English. Nancy had been born a slave on a plantation in Virginia—though now she was free and paid a healthy wage by my parents—and English was still her preferred language, though she had picked up much Dutch since joining us. “Dogs are meant to be outdoors, not in a maiden’s bed.”

  I grinned. “You say the same thing every morning, dear Nancy. And still Nox loves you.” As if on cue, Nox leapt off the bed and gave a lick to Nancy’s hand on his way out the door. Downstairs, Cook would let him outside so that he could do his business.

  With Nancy’s assistance, I commenced dressing. I had her lace me into a light summer gown I had not yet worn; it was part of a brand-new wardrobe my father had purchased for me in New York City. I had consented to go along on the trip and be measured for new clothing only because my father always allowed me to purchase whatever volumes I chose from the bookshops. But now I found myself happy and relieved I had pretty things to wear.

  Nancy raised her eyebrows. “My, my, Miss Katrina,” she said. “This fine dress just to spend the day at home?”

  “Yes,” I said coolly. “I … have been wanting to wear it, is all.”

  “I see,” she said, and thankfully did not comment further. “Shall I bring you something to break your fast, Miss Katrina?” she asked. “A busy day ahead of you, what with music lessons and all.”

  “Yes, please,” I said. “And some tea to soothe my throat.”

  Nancy left, and I quickly tied back the top strands of my hair with a ribbon. I frowned at myself in the mirror, twirling one long, wavy blond strand around my forefinger before letting it f
all. If only this mop of straw would curl nicely, instead of insisting on this maddening in-between state, I thought. Then I broke into a laugh. Since waking I had put more thought into my appearance than I had in the rest of my life altogether, and suddenly I felt quite silly.

  Nancy returned bearing a tray with a hunk of fresh cheese and some warm bread. A cup of tea stood steaming as well, and from the smell I could tell it had honey in it. “Will you be needing anything else, then, Miss Katrina?” she asked.

  “No, thank you, Nancy,” I said. “But pray tell,” I added, unable to hold my curiosity in, “has anyone sent breakfast to our guest?” He had been put in a room just down the hall from me—only a few steps away, really—but it wouldn’t be quite proper for me to knock and inquire after his comfort myself, not as the unmarried daughter of the house.

  A knowing look came into her eye, and I wished, not for the first time in my life, that she did not know me quite so well. “Ahh, Mr. Crane,” she said. “I believe your father has sent Henry to look after him.”

  “Very good,” I said, taking an imperious tone that I knew Nancy would see through clear as a new window pane. “I just wish to make his stay as comfortable as possible.”

  Nancy chuckled and patted my shoulder. “I’ll be sure to tell your mother what a fine hostess you’re becoming,” she said. “But mind you don’t make young Mr. Crane too comfortable, yes?” She turned and left my room, still laughing as she went.

  I scowled at her retreating back before turning my attention to my meal.

  Once I finished eating, I went downstairs and peeked into my father’s study. Empty. I debated briefly as to whether I ought to seek out Mr. Crane for our lesson, or wait for him to seek me out. I had just decided on the latter when my mother happened upon me. “Ah, Katrina, I was just coming to fetch you,” she said. “There is a visitor whom your father wishes you to greet.”