SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (4 page)

“What did you do?”
I asked, reminding myself to breathe.

He shifted his
eyes toward me. “I barely made it inside. The Horseman lingered, circling our
house twice. Then approached the window next to my bed.” Tears now fell. “He
ran his scythe against the glass, scoring a blackened slash within the pane.”
He clamped his fists to his ears. “I can’t stop hearing that noise.”

I imagined the
teeth-gnashing shriek echoing through his head. I leaned closer. “Why did you
not report this?”

He brushed the
wetness from his cheeks. “For fear that no one would believe me.”

“After Nikolass’
death? Don’t be absurd. You must say something.”

He winced, then
rubbed his brow. “Please, Katrina, I’d rather not speak of it.”

“But you should,”
I urged, clutching his sleeve. “Do it now while everyone is gathered.”

Brom plucked my
hand from Garritt’s coat. “Relax. It was probably just a bad dream. ”

Garritt whipped
him a fiery look. “It was no dream!” I dodged the spittle from his rage.

Brom rose,
nodding. “Fine. If you’re convinced, so am I.” He picked up his coffee and took
a sip. “I say we devise a clever plan to destroy this headless brute once and
for all.”

I stood and met
his eye. “Are you insane?” A redundant question. “He should report it to the
Council.”

He puffed his
chest, choosing to ignore me. “Come, Garritt. We’ll conspire at the tavern.
Surely there is some tangible manner of defeating a ghost. We’ll simply put our
heads
together on this.” A curl of a smile played on his lips.

Garritt pushed up
from the pew and straightened his waistcoat. He sniffled back his remaining
tears. “No. I promised Father I’d accompany him tonight, but hereafter I’m
staying in.”

“Garritt –” I
started.

“And I’ll not
report it.” He brushed past me and hurried to where his father stood.

Brom scoffed,
shaking his head. “The boy’s gone stark raving mad.”

I shoved him hard,
spilling the coffee down the front of his vest. “You’re the only madman here.”

I turned quickly,
planning to plead with Garritt again, but Brom clutched my arm, holding me
back. “He needs a drink more than he needs you.”

I jerked free. “He
needs someone he can trust.”

When I turned
back, Garritt and his father had gathered their things. I stood trembling as
they pushed through the church doors and into the night.

Yes, Father,
we’ll all carry on in our
usual
manner.

* *
*

I didn’t see Garritt in the days
that followed. He kept good to his word of staying in. No one else had seen him
either. His father made excuses, and rumors of his drinking grew worse.

Poor Garritt. The
boy who used to chase me across the fields and leap out our hayloft window was
now a dark shell. The Horseman had seen to that. His mark upon Garritt’s window
must serve as a constant reminder. I felt I should say something, but didn’t
want to betray his trust.

Then word came
that Ichabod Crane had arrived. Two days afterward, Father suggested that Elise
and I go to the schoolhouse to welcome him. We were to put on our brightest
smiles, be cordial, and act as though nothing were amiss. I happily obliged.
It’s hard not to smile when you’re finally given a reprieve.

Placing a basket
of apples, plums, and blackberry muffins into the buggy, we rode lazily to the
school.

“Hmmm…” Elise
said, stretching her chin up toward the delft-blue sky. “I bet he’s a warty
toothless old toad with bulging eyes and a croaking voice.”

I gave her a
sidelong glance. “With a name like Ichabod, would you expect anything less?”

Her face soured.
After some thought she added, “Though I do expect he’ll be better dressed than
Mr. Devenpeck.”

How could he not?
“Well, he is from Connecticut. And Father says he’s a scholar.”

“That would mean
no drooping wig, faded gabardine or shoe buckles.”

I shook my head.
“Oh, believe me, if he’s as ancient as he sounds, there
will
be shoe
buckles.”

Elise sputtered a
giggle.

My thoughts went
to poor Nikolass, who’d always seemed so innocent and quiet. “But it’s sad when
you think about it. Mr. Devenpeck was pleasant and kind. And aside from his
dreadful clothing, he was a fairly nice looking man.”

“Ah!” She pointed
a finger at my face. “You did have eyes for him.”

“No.” I twisted
her finger, shoving it away. “Ugh. The man was well into his thirties.”

“And so were his
breeches,” she added.

“Elise! You’re
shameless.” Our eyes met, and we both broke into a fit of laughter.

Thankfully, God
didn’t smite us for speaking ill of the dead, and we soon arrived at our
destination.

“Remember,” Elise
said, her voice low, “we’re going to give him this fruit basket, make some nice
remarks about the weather, politely warn him about Henny, then excuse ourselves
and go.”

It sounded like a
fair plan. But before stepping down I said, “Wait.” I removed a napkin and set
aside two of the blackberry muffins. “Afterward we’ll ride down to the river.
We can sit for a while and watch the boats.” I planned to hold on to my freedom
as long as I could.

She tilted her
head toward me. “The boats or those brawny young dock workers unloading cargo?”

I quirked a brow.
“Can you think of a better pastime?”

She snatched up
the basket. “Come on, let’s hurry.”

We breezed into
the open schoolhouse and…empty. There were indications that someone had been
rearranging desks, patching holes, and stacking firewood. A cozy contrast to
the original state of the quarters.

The school had
once been the home of Bartholomeus Smedt, a troll of a man with no kith or kin.
He shied away from society, preferring the life of a hermit. I heard many a
wild story about old Bartholomeus while growing up. When he died two years ago,
the Council took over his property. Inside the weathered one-room house they
found only a straw pallet, some crockery, and an iron stove. But it was what
they found in his earthen root cellar that proved most interesting. It served
as a repository for all manner of weapons. He’d stockpiled a vast number of
muskets and pistols, and a considerable amount of gunpowder. It was determined
that he had not been a soldier, but a scavenger of war – stealing weapons from
the dead. The munitions were cleared away, and when Mr. Devenpeck arrived, he
quickly learned to keep the cellar doors locked as it proved a favorite hideout
for truant children.

Pushing aside a
stack of books on the desk, I set the basket down. I pointed to a coat, draped
over the back of a chair. “Where do you suppose he is?”

Elise shrugged.
“Maybe he just stepped out.”

“Stepped out
where?”

We walked around
the schoolyard to the old birch near the brook. Then I saw him, ambling toward
us. My heart danced like never before. This young man was eons from the warty
old toad we’d imagined. He couldn’t have been more than three years older than
us. And with his waistcoat unfastened and white cambric shirt rolled at the
cuffs, he hardly seemed the teacher sort. Though he did carry what looked like
a small journal and a lead pencil in his hand.

As we grew closer,
his mouth curved into an endearing smile. “Good afternoon,” he called to us.

“Good afternoon,”
we returned.

Up close proved
even better. His dark hair fell in wisps, framing his angelic face. His smiling
lips accentuated the dimple on his cheek. And his eyes –
Those eyes!
–
as green as our meadow, shimmering with morning dew.

Elise practically
stumbled, pushing in front of me. “You must be Ichabod Crane. I’m Elise Jansen.
We, uh, looked for you inside, but you weren’t there, so we came here, so here
you are, and here we are and...” She rushed and bungled every word. I might’ve
come to her rescue if I hadn’t been so absorbed in him myself.

“I’m sorry I
wasn’t there. It’s just that” – he pointed back toward the brook– “there’s a
comfortable patch of clover near the water. It’s an excellent spot to relax and
think.” He tucked the small book and pencil into his pocket, and turned those
fabulous eyes to me. “And you must be…”

I blinked away my
awe. “Katrina…Van Tassel.”

His face suddenly
came alive. “A relation to Baltus Van Tassel?”

“Yes. He’s my
father.”

“I have to say,
I’m extremely grateful to him.”

“We’re grateful as
well,” Elise blurted. Her cheeks blushed when she realized she’d said that out
loud. But then, I’d be grateful too if I weren’t planning an escape on Marten’s
ship.

She quickly
regained her composure and slowed her words. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His eyes sparkled
like the glimmer on the brook. “Likewise. Come, let’s go inside.”

The trees were alive
with birdsong as he accompanied us back to the school. Or maybe that was my
heart singing. It took tremendous willpower to keep from staring, while
questions pored through my mind.
What’s it like in Connecticut? Why’d you
trade it for the dullness of Sleepy Hollow? What were you writing in that notebook?
And how did such an adorable creature as yourself end up with a name like Ichabod?
Ugh. There’s not even a suitable nickname for that.

I was hoping Elise
would blurt out some of these for me, but she kept her remarks to the weather.
That was safe territory for her.

Once inside the
school, Ichabod spotted the basket we’d left on his desk. He plucked up one of
the ruby apples and cocked a brow. “An apple for the teacher?”

“Fresh from our
orchard,” Elise bragged. Her flaxen lashes batted like moth wings. I nudged her
foot with mine. She kept a tight smile as she nudged back.

Ichabod polished
the apple on his rolled sleeve, then brought it to his mouth. “Goodness, if
everyone here is this generous, I’ll have no regrets leaving home.” Juicy bits
sputtered as he crunched down.

Elise giggled like
a five-year-old. But his remark brought back that niggling question. “Why did
you leave?” I asked, bluntly. I hadn’t meant to be so forward, but honestly,
why would anyone as young as he want to live here?

Elise, still
keeping that tight smile, lightly nudged me with her elbow. “Kat, maybe we
should let him get settled before we start hurling personal questions.”

He waved it off.
“I don’t mind. The truth is Hartford was closing in on me. I was needing a
little peace and quiet. I’ve found there’s plenty of that. I think I’ll thrive
well here.”

Unless The
Horseman takes a fancy to you.

He sat down on the
corner of his desk and held the basket out. “Would you like to share?”

Elise politely
declined. I, on the other hand, took one of the blackberry muffins. I nicked
off a tiny bite as I glanced about the schoolroom. He certainly appeared
earnest. The rows of desks were uniformly lined, a copybook atop each one. On
his own desk were the stacks of books I’d earlier pushed aside. I stepped by
him and drew two of them toward me.
Gulliver’s Travels
and
Robinson
Crusoe
.

He twisted around
to see. “Those will be part of the studies.”

“I love these
books,” I said, pinching off another taste of my muffin.

“You’ve read
them?” He leaned close enough that I could smell the tang of apple on his
breath. My stomach fluttered faster than Elise’s eyelashes.

“My father has an
extensive library,” I answered, trying to stay focused. “And since I’ve
traveled so little, books have always been my escape.”

“No better
holiday,” he agreed.

I beg to
differ.

Elise nudged
between us and picked up a small book the color of red clay. The title,
imprinted in gold, read:
The Thousand and One Nights: Persian Tales.
Her
face brightened. “I’ve heard of this one.” She ran her hand across the cover.
“The stories are quite exotic.”

“And adventurous,”
he added.

“Adventure,” she
purred.

“Yet hardly
teaching material,” I pointed out.

His face blushed
an adorable pink. “No, that one is part of my own collection.”

I couldn’t think
of one man in Sleepy Hollow who’d own a collection of exotic, adventurous
tales. None that they could display on an open shelf anyway.

Other books on his
desk included
The Iliad, Candide, and Don Quixote.
Impressive. Our new
schoolmaster was indeed well read.

But then another
book caught my eye. This one tattered from use. Clippings of paper bookmarked
many of the pages, and the binding was broken and loose. When I reached for it,
he fumbled, racing to pick it up first. Too late. It was already in my hand.

He dropped back
like I’d done something hurtful.

I held the book
carefully for fear it might fall apart. The cover contained a vile sketch of
horned beings dancing among flickering tongues of fire as slithering snakes
coiled around their naked bodies. The title, stamped in small print read:
New
England Witchcraft
. I instinctively touched Simon’s talisman, still hidden
inside my bodice.

Ichabod squirmed
and I knew this was not a book I was meant to see. “That one too is personal.”

Ah, have I
uncovered an evil secret behind those beautiful eyes?

“You’ve spent a
good deal of time with this book,” I said, handing it to him. “Do you believe
in the black arts?”

He opened a drawer
and quickly slipped the book inside. “Yes. Very much.”

My eyes were drawn
to the pocket of his waistcoat, and the notebook he’d concealed. I was now more
eager than ever to know what things he’d written inside.

Again Elise
stepped between us. “Then you’ll love Sleepy Hollow. It’s always been a place
of specters and spirits and the supernatural.”