Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones

by Richard Gleaves

  I admit that I rushed hastily into murder, pushed onward by my rage and avarice.

  Father had always prided himself upon his horsemanship and, in fact, a large measure of his reputation was founded upon it. Even at his advanced age he kept a full stable and, though he shied away from the wild and unbroken steeds he’d favored in his youth, he spent many an hour in the saddle, cutting a fine figure as he rode across the fields and farms of the region.

  His preferred steed was Halifax, a dappled mare of eight years, gentle but rather skittish. I secreted myself in the stable one afternoon when I knew Father intended to ride alone. None saw me enter. I stood in shadow inside a stall and watched old Brom saddle the mare, scratching between her ears, whispering words of affection. The sight appalled me, though I could not imagine why. I know now. Never had Father shown me the love he lavished on this dumb animal. The tender sound of his words, the gentleness, the whispered encouragement, these maddened me and urged me to my purpose. I slipped the pistol from my pocket and trained it on my father’s skull.

  “Go ahead,” said Brom. He turned to face me. “Fire, coward.”

  “I’ll kill you,” said I.

  “You’ll try. Eventually you might succeed. Go on. Let us see how good a shot you’ve become.” He spread his arms. “Let us see what manner of marksman. Do it, son. Let us see if any of my lessons took.”

  I thought of the days of my youth, when Father had taught me to fire my rifle at pigeons. How the echo of those shots and our laughter had reverberated through the valley of Sleepy Hollow! Oh, he had loved me once. He had encouraged me. He had been proud. Had he truly denied me affection or had I ceased to deserve it?

  I lowered the pistol.

  Brom shook his head, as if disappointed. “If you truly wish to be evil,” he said, “go into your closet and pray.” I did not understand his words. He climbed into his saddle and nudged Halifax out the stable doors. I followed, feeling doubly ashamed, for both my mission and my failure. From atop the horse, Brom looked down on me with amused contempt.

  “You always were your mother’s boy.”

  Ice took my heart. My spine straightened. I raised my pistol and fired into the air. The report terrified the skittish Halifax, who thundered away with Brom clinging helplessly to her back. She came to a stone fence, balked, and threw my father. I will remember always the sound of his head cracking against those stones. So much louder than my pistol shot had been.

  My inheritance was secured, and with it my damnation.

  I hesitate, now. There is more to tell you of my life. For several years I was happy. You were born, my Cornelius, and I celebrated. Yet I confess my joy was muted by the fear that my own son might someday rise to slay me in my turn. I trembled at the thought, and it grew in me.

  I believe I have denied you that chance forever. I will not worry your mother, but I know the end is near. By the time you read these words I shall surely be gone. I would not write them otherwise. One does not pen a deathbed confession lightly.

  The brutes of the Andersonville prison hospital have moved me to the Dead Room, or so it has come to be known. None so domiciled have yet left this place. We receive only the smallest rations and only cursory care, to reduce our odors and spare the nostrils of our keepers. The good Christians of the Confederacy do not see any need to provide comfort to those who will soon sleep soundly enough underground.

  You must know, at least, how your father came to such an end. In the decade of the eighteen-fifties, my ruination swept in as a cloud comes to cover the snow. No sooner was father placed in his bone box than a flurry of cancelled contracts came to my desk. I had imagined myself the Second Brom, yet only after my father’s death did I truly appreciate how his charisma and legend had contributed to the success of our quarry. I did not have these qualities. Nor would Irving ever pen me into immortality. The Great Knickerbocker went to his grave in eighteen fifty-nine, trailing garlands and accolades and the tears of kings.

  The coming of the War between the States delayed the construction of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I wrote an ill-advised letter to Archbishop Hughes, demanding assurances, and the pompous fool annulled my contract, saying it had been signed with the Elder Brom personally and not with his heir.

  My finances were in ruins. The business shrank, becoming a shade of itself. Our largest client was the new cemetery, and even the trade in headstones fell off as the fashion turned towards white marble in emulation of Irving’s marker.

  How often did I stand at the gate of the Van Brunt Tomb, longing for the old magic, the power to bend the world to my will. Within lay the cornerstone of our family fortunes, foolishly denied me by Brom. The ruination of the Van Brunt line grew nigh and I was denied salvation by a few bars of iron, a few walls of stone, and my father’s malice. I broke in. One midnight, with the aid a few select men, I tore the gate from the tomb and went inside. The coffin of Absalom was nowhere to be found. Brom lied to me about the resting place of the Treasure. Or else it is there yet hidden by some trickery. We did not find it. Once more I was defeated. I broke the lid of my father’s ossuary as he had broken the lid of mine.

  In desperation, I joined Lincoln’s army. I hoped that as a Union officer I might distinguish myself, make an impression, and thereby win the favor of powerful men, such as those who had commissioned the great aqueduct from my father.

  I was passed from camp to camp and fool to fool, eventually finding myself in Georgia, a Colonel at the side of Major General Kilpatrick, known as “Kill-Cavalry” for his reckless disregard for those he commanded.

  At Doctortown, Kilpatrick entrusted me with the conquest of a railroad trestle and my bummers—my demolition team—acquitted themselves admirably, thanks to my ingenuity with powder. My years of quarry-work made all the difference, as I was familiar with the explosive charges and clever in the manner of their placement. We successfully destroyed the trestlework past Morgan’s Lake. This would prove to be my entire contribution to the war. Federal troops were unable to capture the bridge or overcome the enemy’s battery. Kilpatrick withdrew and my bummers and I found ourselves on the wrong side of the Altamaha River, behind the enemy line with no hope of reaching our encampment.

  Rebels accosted us, taking our remaining supplies. We escaped and headed south, hoping by a long march to reach Seymour’s forces in Jacksonville, but we encountered other Rebel encampments at Jesup. Four of my men were lost to gunfire. We marched west then south again, barely evading capture. We had no choice but to brave the great swamp Okefenokee.

  Oh, Wildey Swamp pales in comparison to that fearsome bog. On and on it goes, in every direction endlessly. We trudged through miles of grasping mud and noxious rot, pursued by hunger and the mosquito, scratching at our arms and faces until all our skin was scourged. We lived off alligator meat at first, then nothing at all. My men grew mutinous, blamed me for all their misfortunes, threatened to throw me in a sack, weigh me down with stones, and sink my body. Yet was I not equally hungry? Did I not starve? I grew weary of their endless insubordination and contempt. Finally they took hold of me and swore they would hang me by the neck for leading them to ruin. They were five in number, younger than I and more muscular. I was no match for them physically. They lay their hands on me and I burned them.

  I burned those men. As Agathe burned her servant girl. The flame rose from me as from a volcano, stripping the skin from those boys, blackening their faces, roasting their flesh.

  And—let this by my final ghastly confession—I feasted that night, feasted on the meat of my prospective murderers.

  And that is how I survived. I staggered alone from that swamp, a mad thing, fueled by outrage and guilt. I saw an encampment of Rebel soldiers and surrendered myself, gladly.

  They say in Andersonville Prison all men are brothers. Equal in filth. Equal in terror. Equal in ruin. Yet I feel I may claim some small distinction, at least. For I am surely damned to a greater extent than any here.

  I am an officer, and so lay in t
he dead room with pen and ink. Spring has come to the world beyond, but not to this place. Here, the ground is white with corpses, in drifts between the tents. I am dying of fever. I lose myself. Sometimes I stare at these pages in Old Dutch as if at a page of Egyptian hieroglyphics. I do not understand my life, son. The day of Revelation is denied me—the Someday I was promised.

  I have no answers.

  If you will allow me the presumption of offering advice to you—No. Who am I to advise any man in the proper manner of living? I will never know you, Son. I will never teach you to be a man. Perhaps that is best. I could only teach you to be a man like myself.

  I burn.

  I know my end is coming. Perhaps I shall have my Someday after all—face Agathe in some chamber of Hell and shake loose her secrets at last. Perhaps I will see Katrina again. I do not know with what eyes I could look upon my father when I die and go under the earth, nor yet my wretched mother—those two to whom I have done things deserving worse punishment than hanging.

  I am on fire. My face runs with tears and I have lice on my legs. I feel guilt. I feel it. I am burning with it. It consumes me.

  NO NO NO

  I WILL LIVE. I will fight. I will reclaim all that was taken. Every stone of my quarry. Every coin of my fortune. I will have the Treasure. We will have it Cornelius. This world will burn not I. I am a Van Brunt. We were here first. I will have it all back and [illegible-M.F. Dulles]

  [Affixed to the first page by wax seal. In English.]

  July 9th, 1865

  To the Lady Von Brunt

  We regret to inform you of the death of Colonel Dylan Von Brunt of the third Division of the Calvary Corps of the Army of the Cumberland. Please find enclosed a letter written by his hand. Though he penned the enclosed mere weeks before the end of hostilities, he was tragically lost before Andersonville Prison was liberated.

  Col. Von Brunt’s mortal remains have been taken to Camp Sumter under Union control and will be buried there but may be removed into your custody at your expense on some future date.

  In recognition of his Honorable Service to the Union, the Bureau of Pensions will contact you regarding your widow’s pension.

  I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice on the altar of freedom.

  I forward his final letter and his sword.

  Yours very sincerely and respectfully,

  Maj. Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman

  Dylan’s sword sat propped in the corner of Zef’s room.

  How many times had Zef played with that sword? He’d pretended to be Obi-Wan or Luke or Darth Vader, swinging his ancestor’s sword and making lightsaber sounds. It had been part of his Horseman costume. He’d frightened Jason with it at the Spirit Dance. Just an old family relic. Just some stupid ancestor—Dylan Van Brunt—that dead guy dad talked about so much. The one Zef had been named after. Joseph Dylan, in honor of Brom’s son.

  And now… did he live in Dylan’s room? Is this where he had slept? Yes. Zef was sure of it. Hadewych slept in Agathe’s suite, upstairs. Jason had the servant’s room. Zef imagined he saw the ghost of that servant girl, the one that Agathe burned and Dylan buried. He could see her, screaming. Dylan, digging. Where did he bury her body?

  Shame…

  Shame…

  …whispered the persimmon tree.

  And all that happened here in this house.

  He looked at the closet door.

  “If you truly wish to be evil, go into your closet and pray.”

  Why had Brom said that? What did it mean? Had Agathe’s spirit whispered those same words to Zef in the cellar? The day he’d hidden the magazine?

  “Go into your closet and pray.”

  Zef sat motionless. His mind raced. A growing sense of dread had risen with every word of the story. Jason had been insisting, for months, that Hadewych had killed Mrs. Merrick—the old woman whose home this had been. He’d only met her once, the night of the Spirit Dance, but she’d seemed kind and welcoming. He pictured her in her coffin. Did my father do that?

  How exactly had Hadewych put his name on the title of this house? How had he gained control of the money? Was that the goal of his grand Project to open that tomb? To retrieve the Horseman’s Treasure? To make Dylan’s “someday” a reality at last?

  A pit opened beneath Zef and he felt terror. He didn’t want to believe it. He refused to believe it. His father was a good man.

  No, he’s not.

  Zef pushed the nagging voice away. He wiped his cheek. His Headless Horseman costume hung from the back of the door, watching over him. It laughed at him.

  “It’s not true.” He rose, spitting the words at the hollow place between the wings of its collar. “My father is a good man!” He slammed his fists against the Horseman’s chest, rattling the door. “Do you hear me? A good man!” He beat at it. Why had he ever worn this thing? What had possessed him to ride around Sleepy Hollow dressed as a monster?

  You are a monster.

  The demons roused themselves. Who was he to criticize anybody?

  “I know,” Zef said. “I’m a bad son.”

  He heard Jason’s voice saying, “You’re a coward. Just like Joey said. And your dad’s a psychopath.”

  “No. No.” Zef pressed his forehead to the door. He wiped his tears on the Horseman’s chest. “He’s not bad. Not my daddy. Not my daddy.”

  He heard a knocking sound. A hand had appeared at the window, rapping the glass. He wiped his face, hurriedly, and raised the window. Kate stood in the side yard. She didn’t look angry, or sad. Just determined and matter-of-fact.

  “Hey you,” she said. “It’s time we talked.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “The Star-Maiden”

  SIE STERBEN AN DER BRÜCKE

  …shouted the red ink on the cover of the Gatewood Guide. Jason flipped the book face down. He was sick of staring at it.

  He leaned back in the bunk, grateful to be in the RV again and protected by Eliza. He kissed his fingertips and pressed them to her picture. It wasn’t even sunset but he was ready for bed. Finally, he would have a good night’s sleep without being beheaded.

  Jason didn’t know what to make of the Nightmare now. Had Ichabod’s father done all those things? Fought in all those battles? What kind of man had he been? What makes a hero, anyway? The man in Jason’s dream was arrogant and brash, fearless and confidently masculine. Jason didn’t feel much like his ancestor. He felt exhausted and overwhelmed.

  Charley whined. He scratched her head. The months of cold weather had wrought a change in the poodle. Her fur had grown out. The last of the polish had chipped from her nails. She wore no bows or rhinestones. She was muddy and snaggly and loved to roughhouse. No lapdog now. More like a woolly pony. She seemed happier. Jason liked the change, too. She was a boy’s dog at last.

  He held up the diary.

  “No. Bad dog. Don’t chew this any more.” Charley stared at him blankly. “This is not a chew toy. Look what you did, you nut. You practically ate the cover off, see?”

  He held the book out, slipping a finger inside the binding to showcase the damage. As he drew his finger out, something fell to the floor—a folded piece of parchment. Charley sniffed it. Jason snatched it up. The writing was faded, almost illegible, but…

  ….this time his Gift worked. His palm flashed and the ink stood out vibrantly.

  One side bore the fragment of a map. Hand-drawn and crude. On the other side was written:

  Ergeben Sie Sich ~ Do you surrender

  Verhafte ich Sie ~ I arrest you

  Ich bin Soldat des Königs George ~ I am a Soldier of King George

  Bleiben Sie stehen oder ich schieße ~ Stay ware you are or I will shoot

  Gehorchen ich, oder Sie sind tot ~ Obey or Be killed

  Das wird konfisziert ~ I confuskayte this

  Lagerha
us ~ Storehouse

  Brücke ~ Bridge

  Frau ~ Woman

  What the hell…?

  He felt an irrational thrill of spooky delight. However weird and awful his life had become, it sure wasn’t dull.

  Ergeben Sie Sich ~ Do you surrender

  Jason’s finger trailed down the list. Stopping on…

  Brücke ~ Bridge

  “Bridge,” Jason whispered.

  He grabbed the genealogy guide and flipped it over again.

  “Hey Gatewood. Know what I found?” He held up the map. “This… is a primary source.”

  He tucked the map back inside the cover of the diary, shaking his head.

  Oh, Agathe… you do love your secrets.

  “I’ll keep your secret,” said Kate.

  Zef exhaled, as if he hadn’t dared to breathe since New Year’s.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Zef kept glancing at the other diners. About five booths of the Horseman Restaurant were occupied. At the opposite end from where they sat, a few tables had been pushed together and a gaggle of giggling freshman girls were noshing on a feast of chicken fingers and milkshakes. A bald man sat two booths away, reading The Fountainhead and fiddling with a pencil. Fireman Mike sat at the counter, shaking Tabasco onto his hot wings.