Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones

by Richard Gleaves

  A. CRANE.

  A. Crane? It was peculiar. Surely it was I. Crane? As the engine of the New York Railroad arrived, I could feel Brom’s tension. He searched the crowd, looking for his old rival. He pointed at a man approaching, silhouetted by a curtain of steam, swinging a black valise with a bronze clasp.

  “That’s Ichabod!”

  The man was in all particulars exactly what I expected: lean and exceedingly lank, with a snipe nose and hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves. Yet as the man’s face swam into view I could see that he was about the same age as I, only thirty or so. Father fell back as if he’d seen a ghost.

  The man’s eyes were of the type that protrude slightly, giving a perpetually puzzled look. “Do I have the honor of addressing Master Van Brunt?”

  “You do, sir,” said Father.

  The man bowed. “Absalom Crane, at your service.”

  Brom extended a hand, “You are Ichabod’s son? You gave me a fright. You look so much as your father did. Is he with you?”

  Absalom shook his head. “My father died late last year, over the Christmas Holiday.”

  Brom saddened but clapped Absalom’s back saying, “Then you may call me Father.”

  The two walked on, arm in arm, and I carried Absalom’s bag.

  That evening all 24 acres of Sunnyside were resplendent with good cheer. Paper lanterns lit the path. Bonfires blazed in the outlying fields and the villagers danced as if at Sabbat. The people of Tarry-Town roasted apples or marshmallows and drank cider by the barrel-full. Tables groaned, heavy with turkey and ham and pumpkin pie and pumpkin bread and pumpkin puddings and hot Indian puddings of molasses and cornmeal. Children ran from one group to the next begging for pennies and treats.

  After the feast, the men rolled dice by the ice house. Young Sally Watterman ran from the fortune teller in tears, bewailing a verdict of perpetual spinsterhood. She had seen a skeleton in the gazing bowl and was destined never to marry. This came to be. She died two years later. I do not know the cause.

  We honored guests ate in Irving’s own dining room. The place was much changed since I’d known it as Woolfert’s Roost. A polka-dot paper covered the walls. A heavy chandelier dangled its baubles over our heads. The plain Dutch farmhouse of my youth had become a miniature Versailles. Absalom sat across from me at table. He ate little, merely raised a green water glass to his lips now and again and watched the show.

  “Are you sure that you are Ichabod’s son?” said Father. “He would have cleaned all of our plates by now.”

  Irving regaled us with tales from his travels, speaking of the mystical beliefs of the Celts, whose pagan celebration of Sow-Hen [sic] was forerunner to this haunted night. Father found “Sow-Hen” to be hilarious and went about wishing everyone a “merry pig and chicken”, to general confusion. Absalom was toasted with sherry and coffee, and we joined the dancing outside. Absalom danced with graceful abandon. This talent, at least, he had inherited from his sire. I gamboled for a time, but soured when the music stopped and I found no chair.

  I took Absalom aside, stepping into Mister Irving’s reading room. I do not remember how the conversation began. I was red-faced with liquor. I had been attempting to impress him with the Van Brunt wealth. The competitive urge had risen in me. We had owned this farm once. We had owned the quarry and Knoll and we were building the grand cathedral in New York. Was he not impressed? I intimated that rural Bridgeport must be a backwater and he, the country bumpkin, must be quite starry-eyed.

  “I am comfortable enough,” said Absalom. “My father left me some honest gold.”

  I could not let that pass. “Honest gold?” I pressed.

  Absalom did not clarify. He changed the subject to his young wife, Annabel and their son Jesse. “A handsome boy, which is a gift from his mother, not I.”

  “She is a beauty, then? You are eager to get back to her, I am sure.”

  “I return to Bridgeport in the morning.”

  “So soon?”

  “I have satisfied my curiosity. My father forbade me ever to come here while he lived. He feared the Hollow. He spent many weeks in hospital here, unconscious and near death.”

  This piqued my interest. I had spent a similar period in hospital after my own Horseman attack.

  “A brush with death can be a gift,” said I. Absalom’s eyes sharpened and his hands slipped behind his back. He had worn gloves all evening, even at dinner. “A gift,” I continued, “in that we appreciate life all the more. And our possessions, such as ‘honest gold.’ I am most curious to know what is meant by ‘honest gold.’”

  “Only that the Van Brunt fortune appears to have been won by trickery and deceit.”

  “Trickery?” I said, my anger sudden and hot as spilled pumpkin soup.

  “If Mister Irving is to be believed, the Van Tassel fortune was won by your father’s trickery, else it should have been taken by my father, along with your mother’s hand.”

  “Katrina was too far above Ichabod.”

  “That is not his version of the tale,” said Absalom with a knowing look.

  “You insult my mother.”

  “You insult my father, now let me pass. I’ve no wish to fight you.”

  “You’re a coward, then.”

  Absalom brushed past me. I fumed and would have set all of Mister Irving’s manuscripts afire had I not governed myself. I did not know then, as I do now, that my father had been napping on a sofa at the back and had heard all.

  I found Absalom in the parlor by the fireplace. Irving had encouraged his guests to re-enact the famous Van Tassel party of the Legend and tell ghost stories. The brandy poured freely, the men smoked, and the chestnut tales of the region were trotted out one by one in parade. The White Lady of Raven Rock. The Flying Dutchman and the pirate Captain Kidd. The ghost of poor Major André, hanged from the tulip tree aside the post road and, of course, the Headless Horseman.

  “Tell us a Horseman Tale, Absalom,” said Irving.

  “Don’t trouble him.” Brom had come to the door. “You have already told his father’s tale.”

  “Did you ride that night, Brom?” asked young Joseph Martling. “Was it you that affrighted the schoolteacher?”

  Brom sat and all eyes were on him. “Whatever the truth, I hope his son will forgive my part in it.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” said the son of Ichabod. “It’s a grand work, Mister Irving. A grand fiction.”

  The crowd raised its glasses. Father looked sad. He left the room again. On the mantel a bronze clock chimed eleven.

  “’Tis almost the witching hour,” said Irving. “Time for all children to be abed, lest they be caught on the road.”

  “I would not be caught dead on the road tonight,” said Martling, who lived nearby.

  “Why not?” said I. “Let us ride Ichabod’s route back to Beekmantown. In commemoration.”

  The young men cheered the idea.

  I turned to Absalom. “Would you join us?”

  “No. It’s absurd.”

  The Sleepy Hollow boys jeered at him. Absalom sighed. “Very well, then. We will ride together as a group.”

  The gloom that found us on the road was terrible. In those days no gaslights lit the post road and the way from Roost to the bridge-crossing still wound past Wildey Swamp, fearfully black at that hour.

  “That is where your father is said to have first seen the thing. Near André’s Brook and the old tulip tree.”

  “And who is this André?” said Absalom, his voice small.

  “A spy,” said Martling, “Benedict Arnold sent him with plans of West Point, and he was captured by three Tarry-Town patriots. They hanged him at that tree.”

  Slowly the hour and the blackness stole our laughter. I watched Absalom, riding to my left. He was a thin spectral thing in the moonlight. Idle talk died on our lips and our small band rode with only the sound of horse hooves for accompaniment. Horse hooves and the eternal buzzing of night insects flitting about the swamp
. An owl screeched past, raising nervous laughter. I alone remained serene. The Horseman was my servant. I knew the magic behind his rides. No one had whispered my name into Agathe’s reliquary. We were safe. I was more concerned about bandits than ghosts.

  “There it is,” whispered Martling. “The hanging tree.”

  The old tulip tree twisted against the starry sky. The road broke to either side of it. Martling and the others passed to the right. Absalom and I passed to the left, nearer the black brook. My companion had slowed, gazing fearfully at the branches above.

  “I saw something,” he whispered. “I saw a body swinging from the tree.”

  “Come now, Absalom,” I chided. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you? Hurry up, then. Quick before the Horseman rides. You can’t reason with a headless man.”

  As if on cue, a wind rose. Branches tore and leaves swept the air. A terrible cracking laugh rose all around. Eyes opened and watched us from the deep. The faces of spirits appeared. Horrors rose from the André Brook. Our horses whinnied and reared. Absalom grabbed my arm and pointed. The Horseman stood on the slope above. He raised his hatchet. His army of ghosts fell upon us.

  My horse and I turned circles, terrorized and confused. “I haven’t summoned you,” I shouted.

  Young Martling shouted, “We have to make the bridge!” and rode off.

  “Make the bridge!” cried the others, as one, and our companions scattered, tearing up the post road with a clatter of frantic hooves. “Make the bridge!”

  The Horseman gathered his form and lunged at Absalom. Young Crane dodged the blade, dug heels into the flanks of his steed, and fled.

  Cries of “Make the bridge!” echoed all around.

  “Where?” cried Absalom, galloping into the swamp, his voice distant and small. “Where is the bridge? Someone tell me! Help!”

  He was gone before I could answer, yet what could I have said? The bridge of Legend is gone, torn down. It shall never be crossed again. I watched Absalom splash into Wildey Swamp, the Horseman in pursuit, and I knew what his fate would be.

  The next day, Crane’s head was found by the road, quite a distance from the rest of him. Brom summoned me to his townhouse.

  “You killed our guest!” he thundered.

  “I did not! The ghost rose on its own!”

  Brom took me by the jacket and escorted me from his study. He threw me down the stairs and into the street. I would learn later, by letter, what he had done. He had buried Absalom in the new tomb, the Van Brunt tomb, with the Treasure secreted inside his coffin. I inquired at the cemetery offices but was told that the tomb would thereafter be denied me. I found the lid of my own sepulcher, lovingly carved in anticipation of my future burial, broken to pieces on my front steps. Father had done the deed, just as Moses had smashed his commandments when he’d discovered the Children of Israel worshipping a golden calf.

  I knew what I must do. Father was quite capable of disinheriting me. He could write a new will and rob me of the Van Brunt gold and quarry stone, just as he’d robbed me of the book and reliquary. I saw no other way to proceed. The younger Bones would have to slay the elder, and soon.

  It is a difficult undertaking to pursue. How does one kill one’s own father? That is like murdering God. I prayed over it, spending endless hours on my knees at the Old Dutch Church. How could I—

  The pages went dark. Jason realized with a stab of disappointment that his cell phone had died. He had no more light to read by. He held up the remaining pages but couldn’t make out the words.

  A dim purple stripe grew over the Hudson. The dawn had crested the Pocantico Hills. Its light had not yet penetrated the valley of Sleepy Hollow but had touched the rooftops of New Jersey.

  Jason had survived to see morning. Beyond anything he might have learned from the tale—and he’d learned so much—the story of Dylan and Brom and poor Katrina had thankfully taken him out of himself, had allowed him to stay awake, to bear the discomfort of the cold night. Slowly, he reacquainted himself with his body, with the numbness of his hands and legs and cheeks. He felt pain in his chest. His breathing had grown shallow and raspy. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t cry for help or even worry over his fate.

  He had survived the night. And it was enough.

  Coughing took him over. A shudder ran through his body, bringing pain. He needed to go to the hospital. He needed to think about what he had read. But The Nightmare was calling. He heard gunshots and horses and cannonballs. The giant piers of the broken bridge grasped hands. Fee, fi, fo, fum… I’ll grind your bones to make my bread. He shook himself awake. No. You’re not out of the woods yet. Out of the woods… the woods… once upon a time in the deep, dark, woods… His hand fell on the pages of the letter. Hadewych knew. Hadewych knew all this. Hadewych knew all this. Hadewych. Knew. The thought ran ’round and ’round in his fevered brain, ’round and ’round. Spinning in delirium. Hadewych knew all this and he still wanted the Treasure. He still wanted it. He wanted it. He still. Knowing. All of this. He still—wanted it. Jason fell into a spinning delirium and rose. He watched his body from above, wracked with coughing so terribly that he felt sorry for it and wanted it to find rest. To let it slip away, slip away. Goodbye. That’s all, folks… The shark was watching. The shark in the dumpster was watching and circling and it could smell blood. So long, folks. So long, old chum. Chum, get it? Get it? The shark has come to eat me up like chum, chum. The Big Bad Wolf will eat me up, Grandma. Grandma, what big teeth you have. The better to eat you up, my dear. Eat you up. Eat you up. And The Monster is circling. Circling. And Hadewych knew all along. Knew all along… He knew… all along…

  …and he still wanted it.

  At seven a.m., Zef’s cruiser slid into the parking lot, kicking up slush. Its front grille struck the dumpster. The shark fell out and lay on its back in the snow, a dead thing gone belly-up. Zef followed the sound of coughing to the prison where Jason lay.

  Zef tugged at the mesh. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll get you out of here. Don’t die, Jason. Please don’t die.” He was weeping. “Wake up. Wake up. Oh, please, man, wake up!” He struck his palm against the mesh, raising a loud clang.

  But Jason couldn’t hear, not over the booming of the cannonballs…

  The Monster had circled and had struck.

  Jason Crane had been swallowed by The Nightmare.

  And this time he saw it in its entirety…

  Hadewych walked blearily into 417 Gory Brook at eight that morning. He felt bone tired. He’d answered questions through half the night. Questions from police and, even worse, from Paul Usher. But no one could prove anything against him. He’d rid himself of the reliquary. And if Jason pointed fingers, Jason could be controlled. Zef’s car had not been in the drive, only a late-model sedan of Usher’s. Zef wasn’t asleep in his room either. All the better. Maybe Zef and Kate had reconciled. Zef might be sleeping at her place. Hadewych frankly didn’t care. All he wanted to do was to fall into a soft bed.

  It was New Year’s day. He should make his resolutions. I am through, he swore. I am free of it now. It’s at the bottom of the lake. He climbed the stairs. New year, new Hadewych. I will be a good man again, somehow. I will be the father Zef needs me to be. It’s never too late to start again… He unlocked the door of his room, opened it, and screamed.

  The stain on his bedroom ceiling had spread. It was a dark mouth that drooled rivulets of slime and lake water. And, beneath, in the center of Hadewych’s bare mattress, on its side in a puddle of fetid mud, lay the golden lantern that was the Horseman’s Treasure.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “The Nightmare”

  This is how the Nightmare begins.

  The Nightmare begins like rot in the roots of the forest, on some afternoon of Indian summer tens of thousands of days ago. Jason can taste those roots. A root of grass lies on his tongue and he turns it, the blade whips his cheek like the tail of a horse batting flies. His musket is heavy on his should
er. Sweat gathers on his forehead, in the band of the fur hat he wears. Jason rides slowly, eyes scanning distant hills that blaze with orange beneath a gathering band of green thunderous sky. A storm is coming.

  He wears no gloves. His right hand holds the musket, his left a skein of leather. The jangle of his horse’s bridle sounds like distant swordplay. Jason matches his breathing to the rhythm of the animal. They move together. He can feel its ribs between his knees. Weeds whip at his high boots. The field is brown but dotted with pink seed pods that wave like baby rattles in the hand of the crying wind.

  Other riders surround Jason, to each side and ahead and behind. The tail of the lead horse twists with elaborate braid, weighted by silver beads. The man who rides that beautiful stallion wears blue wool, identical to Jason’s own uniform. No Redcoats, they. All the men are laden with canteen and cartridge box, with saber and sword.

  Jason stands in his stirrups to see over the head of the lead rider. The wind hits his chest. It feels good. The air smells clean and bright, ready for gunpowder, and the sweat on his cheek evaporates with the turning of it. He takes reins with both hands and rides standing. He feels confidence and vitality. His body is top-heavy, its center of gravity lying in his shoulders and chest. His arms are powerful, and at the center of him burns a bright core of testosterone and aggressive lust. He is a man at the height of his power, and the fields of the Earth are his.

  Something whips past his ear. A bee? No. A scattering of grapeshot. He spits out the blade of grass and drops. The lead rider raises a palm, a finger, makes a circle in the air. All horses turn into the direction of fire. The men form a line flanking the lead. Their muskets stalk the horizon. The enemy is sighted. The lead barks out an order. Jason’s flintlock cracks the air and sprays his hand with biting sparks. The reports are deafening but the horses are well-trained. He slings the musket across his back and raises a pistol. He wipes his cheek and discovers blood there. He licks it from the side of his thumb and grins.