by Ranae Rose
“We’d better repair the roof today, then. Your pupils will be filling the classroom before you know it.”
John shrugged, the movement sending a ripple of motion through the tall grass. “I suppose you’re right.” He gathered the scattered pieces of his outfit and began to dress, apparently in no particular hurry.
“I feel the same,” he said a short while later as he pulled on his breeches and secured the front fall over his slender hips. “What you said in the schoolhouse…” His cheeks were pink as he tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. “I mean, I love you Brom.” His voice was soft and low, barely discernible from the breeze that swept over the field, causing the wild grass to ripple in golden undulations. “I have for a long time.” He was quiet, as any man with much sense would be while confessing such an incriminating thing as love for another male, but his eyes shone with honesty and something distinctly fierce.
Brom’s heart sped a little as the words spilled from John’s lips, though he’d already known that it was true. At some point after he and John had had their first tryst in this very same place, his own heart had become ensnared. He hadn’t even realized it was happening until after it was a done deal. What he felt for John now was much more than the simple lust that had struck him the first time he’d laid eyes on the man; it was a craving of the soul, an affection that couldn’t be broken or diminished over time. He couldn’t imagine how to put the enormity of that realization into words though; just confessing his love in the schoolhouse had been difficult enough – not because he was ashamed of his feelings, but because he feared the ones he’d be left with if he ever lost John.
He’d felt that black void of desperate rage, of despair creeping up on him the night before, threatening to suck him in as he’d watched John raise the barrel of a pistol to his head. That was the dark side of love: loss, and the consequent brokenness it brought. But if John felt the same way – and he believed that he did – he already knew. So he reached out and touched John, letting his fingers glide over the smooth expanse of his bare arm. “I know.”
A shadow passed through John’s grey eyes, but was quickly banished by a smile. Yes, John knew exactly how Brom felt – after all, that same sense of loss was what had driven him to steal that gun from Brom’s saddlebags the night before, to turn it on himself. Now that he thought of it, perhaps they understood each other perfectly. John must have thought so, for he said nothing, only relaxed under Brom’s touch for a few silent minutes, still smiling faintly.
“I’ll have to ride back to my home,” Brom said, picking up his own garments.
“Why?” John’s eyes flickered toward Brom, his eyebrows rising in question.
“I didn’t bring my hammer.”
John donned a knowing smile and waved a hand at their half-naked bodies. “So you intended for this to happen all along, and came to the schoolhouse under the guise of making repairs.”
Brom felt the corners of his own mouth tug down into a frown. “I meant to fix the roof, as well. I brought nails, but I forgot the hammer.”
“It’s not like you to forget things,” John said, pulling on his stockings.
“I had more pressing matters on my mind.” Brom shoved his feet into his shoes, rising from the grass to face the empty field and the distant tree line, where the crows had relocated to a particularly high branch.
“It’s no matter,” John said, gathering his loose locks into a tail and frowning when he realized he had nothing to tie them back with. “We can borrow a hammer from the Jansens. Only let’s go back to the schoolhouse first, so I can fetch my ribbon.”
Brom eyed John’s head appraisingly and nodded. With his flushed cheeks, inflamed lips and untamed locks, John looked highly disrespectable – enough so that Brom’s cock threatened to ready itself for another round of action. He suppressed the urge, turning on his heel to stride back in the direction of the schoolhouse. Maybe there would be time later, after they repaired the roof. Today, he just couldn’t seem to get enough of John. Would he ever be able to, after what had nearly transpired the night before? The sense of impending loss, of horror, was still ingrained into the back of his mind. He felt it full-force whenever he looked at John, and was compelled to touch him, to taste him, to confirm that he was real, and to keep him close, where he couldn’t slip away.
* * * * *
The Jansen boys rushed from the farmhouse and across the lawn, where they heralded Brom and John’s arrival with joyous whoops, sprinting and skipping several yards ahead of the two men. By the time they reached the front door, Mrs. Jansen had rushed to the threshold, a wooden spoon clutched tightly against her chest, her eyes glittering and her cheeks smudged with flour. “Oh, it’s the two of you,” she said, looking relieved as she dropped into a hint of a curtsy, nodding toward Brom. “Good morning, Mr. Van Brunt. John, it’s lovely to have you back – you’re just in time for a batch of fresh buns.”
“Were you expecting someone else?” John asked, conscious of the way Mrs. Jansen wrung her apron, looking uncharacteristically nervous.
“No, no,” she assured them as she ushered the two men and her four sons indoors. “It’s only that Martha Smit came by scarcely an hour ago, and told the boys and me the most frightful tale.” She glanced askance at her brood, frowning as if wishing that they hadn’t heard Martha’s story. For that matter, Mrs. Jansen didn’t seem pleased to have learned of it herself.
John maintained a passing acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. Smit, the couple in possession of the farm that bordered the Jansens’. They had two children, both of whom were among John’s pupils. Martha was well-known for her propensity to gossip, and it wasn’t unusual for her to journey across crop fields to share a particularly interesting tale. “Was it that terrible?” John asked, as much out of curiosity as an attempt to calm Mrs. Jansen. “Martha has been known to add her own flair to a story.” As skilled a gossip as Martha was, it was difficult to imagine her digging up a scandal shocking enough to rattle Mrs. Jansen.
Mrs. Jansen shuddered as she bustled into the kitchen and set a tray of steaming buns in the center of the table. “If there’s so much as a grain of truth to her tale, I don’t think I shall ever set foot outside this house after dusk again.”
The boys began to shout over one another, fighting for the right to be the one to retell Martha’s story. Their mother deftly shoved buns into their hands. As they ate them their noise was muffled a little. “Enough,” she said sharply. “I’ll tell them. That is, if they’d like to hear?” She turned from her sons to face John and Brom, her stern expression softening into an inquisitive one.
“Of course,” John said. His curiosity had been thoroughly piqued, and Mrs. Jansen looked as if she needed to talk to an adult about the matter.
Mrs. Jansen told the story while kneading a large blob of bread dough. “Happened last night, on the way home from the Van Tassels’ harvest celebration, Martha claims. Said she and her family were riding home in their cart, pulled by their plow horse. They had to take the road through the wood, of course, and they were midway through the trees when it happened.”
“There was a horseman!” one of the younger boys managed to squeak out, only to be quelled a moment later by his mother’s fierce gaze.
“There was a horseman,” she said. “They encountered a rider in the forest, going the opposite way, as if he’d come from – from this direction.” She kneaded the dough with increasing speed, peering out the kitchen window, as if expecting a horse and rider to appear on the road outside. “They couldn’t think who it could be, since everyone had attended the Van Tassels’ party, and they’d been among the first to leave.”
John dared to glance at Brom, who was frowning. Brom had ridden alone on that road the night before. “Was he riding quickly?” John asked, anticipating the answer, eager to put an end to the mystery and Mrs. Jansen’s worry. If Brom had terrified the Smits by galloping past them on the dark trail, it would be no surprise.
“No.” She shook her head
slowly from side to side. “Not at all. His horse was walking at a leisurely pace, as if he were out for a Sunday afternoon ride.”
John glanced at Brom again, who shrugged almost imperceptibly.
“Did they notice what he looked like?” Brom asked, crossing his arms over his chest, perhaps offended by the idea of a stranger frightening the farmwives of Sleepy Hollow.
“That’s just the thing,” Mrs. Jansen said, now positively strangling the dough. “There was a thick fog about him, and at first, they couldn’t make out much at all – only that there was a horse and rider.”
“Strange,” John said, “I didn’t encounter any fog last night.”
“Nor did I, and we left the party scarcely ten minutes after the Smits, and traveled the same road,” Mrs. Jansen replied. “Martha said the fog hung about the horseman like a cloud, and traveled with him.”
The hair on the back of John’s neck stood up, and he realized that he was holding his breath, anticipating the next revelation. Barely suppressing the impulse to urge her on, he waited for Mrs. Jansen to continue.
“It wasn’t until he and his horse came within a few feet of their cart that they were able to see him clearly. Only, they couldn’t identify him, because he had no head.”
No head. The words took a moment to sink in, and when they did, they left John feeling as if he’d been punched in the gut by someone every bit as large and strong as Brom.
“He was headless!” Timothy trilled, apparently morbidly delighted by the notion.
His mother didn’t reprimand him this time, only continued speaking, as if eager to finish the retelling. “As soon as they realized that, the fog billowed out all around their cart, so thick that they couldn’t even see each other. Martha says it was terribly cold, and she couldn’t even scream because her teeth were chattering so fiercely. The children clung to her, and she could feel them shivering against her. The three of them nearly tumbled out of the cart in a quivering bundle when their horse took off, scared out of its wits. It took them back to the farm at a dead run, and by the time they arrived, one of the cart’s axles and two of its wheels were damaged. That’s where Tobias went,” she said, peering cautiously out the window again, in the direction her husband had gone, “to help Mr. Smit repair the cart.”
Several moments of silence passed, and John took some small comfort in the fact that Mrs. Jansen’s shoulders relaxed a little, as if she’d been relieved of some burden. There was little else to be comforted by, though – the conclusion of Martha Smit’s tale had sent a shiver straight down his spine, cold as ice. “That’s quite the story,” he remarked, at a loss for what else to say.
“There have been rumors for years,” Mrs. Jansen said. “Ever since the war. Whispers of a headless horseman, a casualty of some nameless battle. I thought they were nonsense.”
Brom grunted, his thick arms still crossed over his chest. “They are. Sounds like we’ve either got a stranger or a prankster in town.” He seemed to disapprove of each possibility equally, and apparently gave no thought to the fact that the offending rider was reported to be a headless entity that traveled in a cloud of its own personal fog.
“If Mrs. Smit is telling the truth, I hardly think that the mysterious rider can be explained away with such mundane theories,” John said.
Brom seemed to dismiss this too. “You said yourself that she’s been known to exaggerate.”
“Yes, but the damaged cart—”
“Someone is up to no good,” Brom interrupted. “Mark my words.” He stepped forward gallantly to stand at the counter by Mrs. Jansen. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Jansen – I’ll be on the lookout for this supposedly headless horseman, and whoever he is, he won’t get away with giving you and the Smits such a fright.”
Mrs. Jansen smiled up at Brom, looking somewhat comforted by his promise.
The boys were now chattering amongst themselves, eyes darting between Brom, their mother and John. Conflict was displayed on their faces – on one hand, the desire to side with Brom, who they hero-worshipped, and on the other, the boyish urge to believe the very worst and most frightening explanation. Of course, the hair on the back of John’s neck was still standing on end, and he doubted that the horseman had been a prankster, or any sort of human, for that matter. But Brom was stubborn about such things, and if the set of his jaw was any indication, he wouldn’t surrender his theories anytime soon. “I’ll help you get to the bottom of the matter, Brom,” John volunteered. “Whoever’s behind this, we can’t allow them to lurk about the local roads in the dark, terrorizing citizens.”
Brom nodded, still frowning. “No, we can’t. I’ll pay the Smits a visit myself, and see if they can recall anything else about the culprit.”
“I wish you luck,” Mrs. Jansen said, “though you know how Martha is – she never leaves out a single detail, if she can help it.”
“We’ll see,” Brom said. “Perhaps her husband will have noticed something she missed. Meanwhile…” He picked up a hot bun, and as he broke it open, the frown disappeared from his face. “We came here to borrow a hammer to repair the schoolhouse roof with. Do you mind, Mrs. Jansen?”
“Of course not. Let me just fetch it…” Within moments she’d returned with the appropriate tool. While she’d been gone, Brom had devoured four rolls without batting an eyelash. John envied his lover’s ability to put matters – even highly disconcerting ones – so completely out of his mind. Doubtlessly, he’d return to it later and analyze every last little bit of Martha Smit’s tale, but for now, it was as far away as summertime. Unfortunately, John couldn’t stop thinking about the reputedly headless horseman for even a moment.
* * * * *
“I told you the crows were a bad omen,” John said, removing a crooked shingle and wedging a new one in its place.
Brom grunted, his lips closed tightly around several nails.
John took that as a question and waved a hand toward the horizon, where the sky met the forest. “It’s going to rain.”
Brom peered over one broad shoulder, and his eyes widened a little at the sight of the encroaching storm clouds. Taking the nails from his mouth and pinching them carefully between his fingers, he sighed. “Rain isn’t a bad thing if you’ve got a solid roof over your head.”
John reached out and took the borrowed hammer from Brom, neatly driving the nail he’d been holding into the overlapping joint of two shingles. “Yes, that’s the problem.” He gazed appraisingly around at the roof, which he and Brom were perched precariously on top of, not so unlike two crows themselves. “We’ve still got half an hour’s work ahead of us, and we must finish, or the roof will leak.”
“Here,” Brom said, holding a nail in place and motioning toward the hammer.
John raised the tool and pounded the nail down, careful not to smash Brom’s thick fingers.
“A little rain never hurt anyone,” Brom said, pulling his hand away.
“Ha,” John said austerely, “tell that to Mrs. Jansen. A thorough soaking will be nothing compared to her reaction. She’ll hold me prisoner in front of the kitchen fire for the rest of the day.”
Brom flashed John a hint of a wry smile. “There are worse fates than being coddled by a farmwife.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” A twinge of regret assailed John, causing him to grip a nail a little too tightly, piercing the pad of his thumb with the tip. As he dropped the nail, he chanced a glance at Brom’s face. It was an impassive mask, lightly lined in concentration as Brom lined up another shingle. Brom’s lack of reaction did little to quell John’s guilt over his careless complaint, though – surely, being fussed over by Mrs. Jansen was vastly preferable to returning home to an empty house and a cold bed, as Brom must. “It’s only that I’d much rather go home with you.” The words tumbled out of John’s mouth before he had a chance to stop them.
Brom paused, looking up from his work to meet John’s eyes. “I’d rather you did too.”
Heat suffused John at the idea of keeping
Brom warm the whole night through, their bodies close together in a single bed. The sensation was accompanied by a pang of desperate longing, and then regret – regret that it couldn’t be so. “If only,” he murmured, tearing his gaze away from Brom’s dark eyes to scan the roof for any other cracked and crooked shingles in need of attention.
Brom grunted his agreement, several nails caught between his lips again.
They both worked in silence for a while longer, and the dark rainclouds stretched overhead, spilling their contents. When the first volley of raindrops hit John’s back, he looked over his shoulder at Brom. The other man was still working, doggedly nailing another shingle in place. There was only one hammer between the two of them, and Brom showed no signs of relinquishing it, but John stayed with him on the roof until the job was done, helping where he could. By the time they climbed down and their feet touched solid ground again, they were both soaked.
“I feel badly for Torben,” Brom said as he and John ducked through the door and into the schoolhouse. “I’ve left him tethered at the hitching post long enough – I’ll have to leave soon.”
John nodded as he strode around the schoolhouse, examining the floors for dampness and listening for the sound of dripping water. He found neither.
“I’ll see you again tonight though,” Brom said, “if you can manage to escape Mrs. Jansen’s clutches.”
John couldn’t help but perk up at this mysterious promise. “Oh? What’s the occasion, then?”
Brom’s mouth curved in a grimace of determination. “Tonight we start our search for this supposedly headless horseman.”
A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold wracked John. Distracted by the discomfort of his soaking and the glorious sight of Brom gleaming with rainwater, his clothing clinging to his muscular frame, John had managed to temporarily forget Martha Smit’s frightful tale and his own promise to help Brom set things straight.
“Unless you’d rather not?” Brom asked, arching a dark brow.
