“So long as I am not imposing.”
“Not at all. Come, follow me.” I led him out the front door of the farmhouse and across the Albany Post Road to my usual path through the woods. It was a gloomy day, the sky gray and overcast, and I hoped the rain that seemed to be threatening would hold off for a time.
“Ah, into nature,” Mr. Crane remarked.
I turned and smiled at him. “Indeed,” I said. “There is a stream that runs through the woods just here, and eventually drains into the Hudson. On one of the banks is a small clearing that is quite my favorite place to read.”
“I look forward to seeing it.”
We remained silent as we walked deeper into the forest, on a path created by the first settlers of the valley—or so I always imagined. It had been here ever since I could remember.
Though I was always safe with Nox, I was glad to have some human company in these woods today.
Eventually, I stepped off the path, Nox on my heels, and Mr. Crane followed wordlessly. We had to step over some brush and fallen branches before coming upon the stream, its waters tumbling steadily through the wood.
I sat down unceremoniously on my favorite grassy spot, and when Mr. Crane did not appear beside me, I turned to find him standing a few paces away, looking around with wonder. “Beautiful,” he murmured, and I could not be certain if he was talking to me or only to himself. His gaze took in the dense cover of foliage, through which the sunlight trickled on bright days and turned everything a golden green; the waters of the stream, so clear one could count every pebble on the bottom; the rise of the hill across the bank from us. “Simply beautiful. Why, this spot is pristine, virtually untouched, hidden away … almost an Eden.” Then he looked down at where I sat and smiled at me. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
Warmth spread through me at having brought him such happiness. “Why, of course,” I said. “I had thought you might appreciate it.”
“More than I can say,” he said, lowering himself onto the bank beside me. Nox, after drinking his fill of the cold water, flopped down onto his side next to me.
Mr. Crane’s proximity made me wonder—should I have invited him? Was it not improper for us to be here alone? I bit my lip, considering. My parents had not had much occasion to lecture me on propriety and how I ought to behave around young men: I was generally only in the company of men—young or otherwise—in my parents’ house, or in public. Truthfully, as an indulged only child, they had not found much occasion to lecture me on anything at all.
I shrugged such thoughts aside. We were outdoors, after all, not ensconced in a bedroom together. We were alone for my lessons, anyway. And no one ever came to this part of the wood. Should someone see us returning together, I could say we merely encountered one another along the way.
No one would know, and even if they did there would be nothing to know.
My qualms laid to rest, I glanced up and saw Mr. Crane had opened his book: On Witchcraft by Cotton Mather.
I had read it as well, and so longed to ask Mr. Crane for his impressions. Yet, as being interrupted while I was reading was one of my least favorite things, I decided to defer until later.
My mind now full of witches, I was delighted—and a bit spooked—to open up Macbeth and immediately encounter three of them, and read of their eerie, blood-soaked prediction for the Scottish warrior.
I could not measure how much time had passed, only how many pages: I found Lady Macbeth both frightening and compelling, and was both disgusted and thrilled at the couple’s plot to murder the king. Absently stroking Nox’s fur as I read, I held my breath in anticipation and excitement as the king arrived for the fateful banquet, bloody mayhem ensuing thereafter.
It was just the sort of tale Charlotte would love as well, the kind of dark drama that we had been wont to act out as children, roaming wild through the woods and along the river, in the days when Brom Van Brunt was still our constant companion and Nox just a puppy. I often missed those days, when the innocence of childhood protected and let no ugliness reach us.
I would have to lend the volume to Charlotte when I saw her again.
After reading the banquet scene, I closed the book and pressed it to my chest, lying back against the grass to think about everything I had read. I was desperate to read on, to see if Macbeth and his lady would succeed in their quest for mastery of Scotland, or if they would get the justice rightly owed them. But if I read too fast, soon it would be over, and I would never experience it for the first time again.
I propped myself up on my elbows and glanced over at Mr. Crane, only to find him looking right back at me. Upon being found out, his eyes quickly skittered back to the pages of his book, and the alarm on his face was so out of proportion with what had happened that I began to laugh.
The tips of his protruding ears reddened with embarrassment, yet after a moment his shoulders began to shake. He lowered his book, and our laughter echoed off of the canopy of leaves above us.
Once our mirth subsided, Mr. Crane let out a long sigh. “I find my concentration is quite broken now,” he said.
“As is mine,” I said, “but no matter. I have been wanting to ask you how you are finding Reverend Mather’s book.”
“Have you read it?” he asked.
“I have.”
He smiled. “I should not be surprised, for you are possessed of a rare intellect.” I barely had time to preen at his compliment before he moved on to answer me. “It is an interesting and important book. It allows us to see how witchcraft was regarded a hundred years ago, and what lessons we may apply to the world today.”
“And do you believe in witchcraft, the supernatural, and the like, Mr. Crane?” I asked.
“I do,” he said without hesitation. “Who does not?”
“Who indeed,” I said, for I could not claim anyone among my acquaintance who did not believe in magic or the supernatural in some form. “Do you agree, then, with Reverend Mather’s assessment of the women—and those few men as well—who were hanged at Salem? Were they indeed handmaidens of the devil?”
“I am of the opinion that the authorities of Salem—and Reverend Mather as well—were quite over-hasty in their findings against those accused,” Mr. Crane said, his voice softer now, yet deadly serious. “The result, of course, was a most tragic loss of life. Yet I do believe there are those on this earth who wish evil upon good men and women, and no methods to which they will not stoop to bring about such evil.”
I felt a chill come over me as my mind flitted to Charlotte. I had always tried never to imagine what Reverend Mather would have made of my friend Charlotte and her ways. “I quite agree,” I said. “And in turn I cannot help but wonder whether Reverend Mather was over-hasty in some of his other conclusions as well.”
“Interesting, and a well-reasoned point,” Mr. Crane said. “But tell me, Miss Van Tassel—do you not believe in witchcraft and the supernatural yourself?”
I hesitated, selecting my words carefully. “I suppose I cannot rightly say that I don’t believe,” I said at last. “Yet I find I am always suspicious of accusations of witchcraft and such evildoing, and skeptical of accounts of the supernatural that I have not witnessed with my own eyes.” All of magic I had ever seen was in little things, and perhaps no magic at all: the healing of a sick child, an herbal mixture that eased menstrual cramps, a remark made in passing that sometimes became an accurate predictor of the future, a strange feeling that something was about to happen.
“I applaud you, Miss Van Tassel,” Mr. Crane said, a hint of admiration in his voice. “You are a most modern woman, and I think that your application of such logic and reason will serve you well in your life.” He smiled wryly. “I might wish for a bit more skepticism myself. I find when it comes to frightening tales, my imagination quite runs away with me.”
A mischievous smile spread across my face. “In that case, I had best not tell you the tale of Sleepy Hollow’s most prominent resident spirit,” I said.
&n
bsp; He raised his eyebrows, the lines of his body suddenly taut. “Oh?” he asked.
I pretended to turn my attention back to my book. “I would not want to frighten you unduly, Mr. Crane. Perhaps it is best I say nothing.”
“Now you must tell me, my dear Miss Van Tassel,” he said. “My curiosity is quite unbearable. And for all that my imagination does get the better of me, I do so enjoy such tales.”
“Very well,” I said. As I spoke I heard the rumble of thunder in the distance. “But pray, let me tell you as we make our way back to the house. A storm is upon us.”
We rose from our spot and began our trek back to the farmhouse, taking our time so that I might do the story justice.
“Sleepy Hollow has a great many tales and legends,” I began, “and a great many spirits that are said to haunt these parts. But there is one specter who is considered to be the most terrifying apparition of them all,” I said. I shivered, remembering my nightmares. “For you see, he is without his head.”
Mr. Crane stopped short. “Without his … head?”
“Indeed,” I said, enjoying the nervous look on his face. He started walking again and caught up to me. “And how he came to be parted from his head is quite a tale. He is said to have been a Hessian mercenary in the employ of Britain during the war for independence. Many battles took place hereabouts.”
“Yes, I did know that,” Mr. Crane said.
I nodded and continued. “This Hessian—whose name has since been lost to us—was known by both sides as having a penchant for violence, and for being a particularly able killer. The Americans dreaded him, and the British soldiers alongside whom he fought feared him.
“During one battle—deep in these very woods, the story goes—his head was claimed by a cannonball. The Hessian’s body was laid to rest in the churchyard, an honorable burial for a dishonorable man. A local woman interceded on his behalf, for a Hessian soldier had saved her child from a burning house—though it is unlikely it was this same bloodthirsty villain—and so he was buried in an unmarked grave. Or his body was. His head, of course, was … beyond recovery.”
Mr. Crane remained silent.
“And so,” I finished, “the Hessian rides at night in search of his lost head. It is said he cannot rest without it. Some say he carries a pumpkin carved with a grotesque face in place of his own head, and some…” I paused for a moment—for ultimate effect, I told myself, but also to master my own sudden uneasiness, “… some say he takes the heads of those unfortunates he happens across.” I paused again. “We call him the Headless Horseman.”
We had reached the edge of the forest and were crossing the road when Mr. Crane spoke again. “You tell a marvelous and gripping tale, Miss Van Tassel.”
“I thank you, sir,” I said, disappointed at the continued formality of his tone. After being alone together all day, surely we might be less formal? “I pray you enjoyed it. It is a favorite legend of ours here in Sleepy Hollow.”
“I can see why,” he said. “It is quite chilling. I shall indeed struggle to master my imagination once darkness falls.” He turned to smile at me. “The sign of a well-told tale.”
“I hope you do not miss any sleep tonight, good Mr. Crane,” I said.
“I hope for the same. But, tell me, Miss Van Tassel,” he said, stopping. We were almost at the front door of the farmhouse again. “Have you ever seen this Headless Horseman with your own eyes?”
A chill ran through my entire body, and I knew Mr. Crane must have noticed.
For I had seen the Horseman. I saw him often enough, in my dreams.
It is always the same: he faces me through the mist of the forest that surrounds Sleepy Hollow. He never approaches, nor does he ride away; he never tries to harm me or offer me violence of any kind; never even raises his great sword—though I can see it, sheathed and strapped at his side. He never so much as moves—he only sits immobile atop his horse, turned in my direction, a hollowed out, flaming pumpkin carved with a misshapen face at his horse’s feet. I cannot even say he watches me, for the collar of his heavy black coat is empty where his neck and head should be.
At many an evening gathering, as the coolness of autumn begins to leach summer from the air, my family and friends discuss him, debating whether he is mere myth, or something more. The more rational minds argue he is simply a scary tale; a legend born out of the frightened, anxious minds of those tasked with building this young nation. The rest swear he is real, though none can claim to have seen him with their own two eyes. Their only proof is a murder supposedly witnessed by some craftsman who is now dead, or stories of livestock stolen or found butchered. That such could be the work of thieves, vandals, or even wolves is, when brought up, dismissed by those who cling to the certainty of their superstitions. Tales of those who have ventured deep into the woods, only never to return, are considered by some to be proof of his existence, merely runaways or the victims of accidents by others. There can be no agreement, yet such stories and debates help to pass the increasingly dark, cold nights; the nights we do our best to ward off with the glow of candles and lanterns and roaring fires in the grate, even as the darkness encroaches on us; even as it presses in over the fields of farmland and in between the trees of those fearsome woods.
But as far as I knew, I was the only one the Horseman visited in dreams.
For a moment, it was as though Ichabod Crane and the farmhouse and the fields and the bright summer day had vanished, and I was once again standing within the landscape of my dreams, watching the Horseman linger at the edge of the forest, his attention fixed solely on me. I shook my head slightly, and soon I was back, standing before Mr. Crane, who was beginning to look rather concerned about me.
“No,” I said. I reached down, twining my fingers in Nox’s short fur, as if for reassurance. “I have not seen him.”
Yet even as I spoke, the words tasted like a lie. And as we went inside together just as the rain began to pour, back into the safety of my house, I found myself wishing neither of us needed to be alone that night, when imagination and dreams and shadows would threaten to overtake us both.
6
The Old Dutch Church
I was awake much of the night, waiting, watching from one of my bedroom windows, the one beneath the sloping eave which faced the small patch of woods at the edge of our property. I felt as though, having spoken of the Headless Horseman, I had somehow summoned him, must have done; that now he would be waiting for me for certain, with no dream to protect me.
My uneasiness gave lie to my earlier words to Mr. Crane, about logic and skepticism and reason. Perhaps it was the darkness of the night; perhaps it was that I was weary, in spite of which I could not sleep; but all those spooky tales suddenly seemed much more probable than they ever had before.
I usually turned to books when my mind was distracted, could lose myself in the words; yet somehow I did not think that Macbeth, with its witches and prophecies and bloody murder, would be quite the balm for a troubled mind that I sought.
At one point I heard a heavy tread move down the hallway and descend the stairs; it had to be Mr. Crane. A part of me longed to follow, to sit in the parlor or even the kitchen with him, just to be in the company of another person—and there was no one’s company I craved more than his, I realized. Yet the thought of doing so frightened me in an entirely different way than tales of goblins and spirits. Eventually I fell into a troubled sleep.
* * *
As the next morning was Sunday, we arose early, dressed, and ate a light breakfast, then piled into the cart to head to the church for services. I was pleased to see Mr. Crane was to accompany us, and my father voiced his approval as well.
“Ah, I am glad to see you are a God-fearing man as well as an erudite one, Mr. Crane,” my father said, as the schoolmaster clambered somewhat awkwardly up onto the back of the cart.
“Indeed I am, sir,” Mr. Crane said, once he had settled himself on one of the sideboards. “One is not a God-fearing man at his peri
l, it seems to me.”
My father nodded his agreement before snapping the reins over the backs of the two large draft horses hitched to the cart, and with a jolt we were off.
“Sir Nox does not attend the Sunday service, Miss Van Tassel?” Mr. Crane asked me with a grin.
I returned his smile. “Indeed he does not. I do not think he would find it much to his liking, and the minister would find such a congregant even less to his.”
Mr. Crane laughed aloud at this, and then we lapsed into silence.
I had hoped for further conversation with Mr. Crane on the journey—some two miles—but he was quite engrossed in the scenery, looking appreciatively over the acres of rolling farmland that alternated with the ever-present forest, sometimes encroaching directly on the road, and sometimes beaten back to make room for fields and crops and cottages. The evident delight he took in my lovely little niche of the Hudson River Valley warmed my heart to a degree I would not have expected, and so I did not wish to interrupt his reverie.
When we reached the church, my father tied up the horses to one of the hitching posts at the edge of the churchyard—just past the bridge over the Pocantico River, which skirted the edge of the church property—then helped down first me, then my mother. Mr. Crane climbed down last and, brushing off his coat, promptly offered me his arm. “May I have the honor of escorting you inside, Miss Van Tassel?” he asked.
I could feel my countenance light up at his words. “You may,” I said, taking his arm. My father, with my mother’s hand on his own arm, gave the schoolmaster another approving look and began to climb the hill that led up to the church. Ichabod and I followed a few paces behind.
“Did you sleep well last night, Mr. Crane?” I asked.
He glanced sideways at me. “About as well as I expected. I thank you for asking.”
Our eyes held for just a moment longer. Perhaps you would sleep better with me beside you, I thought, as all sorts of unseemly things tumbled through my mind. My face began to burn, and I knew I would never be able to say such a thing, only imagine that I might.
The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Page 3
