SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3)

by Gleaves, Richard

  I must think on this.

  September 10th, 1849

  I took the skull and rusted lantern back to the inn and muttered incantations over it. “Rise headless and ride,” I whispered, but nothing happened. I felt abandoned, just as I had been abandoned by Hermanus, who had finally been arrested in New York and would now be sent to a Tory prison in Connecticut, perhaps for good.

  “Please come back to me!” I cried, holding my horseman’s skull. “I have such need of you.”

  I went to Beekman Manor, prepared to kill Cornelia myself, yet as I stood on the knoll of the churchyard, in surveillance of the manor house, I saw Cornelia walking hand in hand with her daughter Anna. Anna was a beastly girl who threw rocks at the geese, but on that day she was a lovely child of twelve. In that vignette, I did not see my hated rival and her goose-killing spawn. I saw my mother and I, and I gave up thoughts of murder. I have regretted that weakness for almost seventy years. I was a fool.

  A fool twice over, for I returned to the inn to find my five-year-old son parading my horseman’s skull before a group of travelers and boasting that it had belonged to a British soldier he’d killed bare-fisted on the road. He spun quite a fireside tale, full of bluster and posing, producing great merriment. I seized the skull, told the group that we carried the bones of some kinsman destined for the churchyard, and dragged my boy upstairs. No harm was done, but that, incidentally, is why my Abraham was thereafter known as “Little Brom Bones.”

  Once in our room, I screamed at him and slapped him, drawing a trickle of blood from a split lip. I regretted my anger and dabbed at him with a kerchief. A drop of his blood dripped on the skull, held between us, and the skull began to glow. Brom thought it a trick of mine, though I never performed witchcraft in his presence for fear of cursing him. I sent him out to empty our chamber pot so that I could study this new magic in privacy.

  Once alone, I whispered, “Rise headless and ride,” and the glow intensified. I could feel the spirit growing aware. I opened the vial of brook-water and drank it. “Rise headless and ride!” I whispered again. I gave it my own blood, and I felt it ask for a name. I would have given it Cornelia’s, if not for my foolish sentimentality. But another name sprang to mind.

  “Luc Fontaine.”

  Fontaine owned the land just north of Cornelia’s manor. I knew that she desired the parcel, but the Fontaines refused to sell to anyone. Mrs. Fontaine had been a stout loyalist, and if they ever did sell, it would be to a fellow Tory.

  When Fontaine turned up headless the next day, I went to Mrs. Fontaine, with bouquets of condolences, and offered to buy her farm. We made a deal shortly after the funeral. I had beaten Cornelia at last! Mrs. Fontaine assured me that her land would yield the biggest crops Tarrytown had ever seen.

  I was never suspected in Fontaine’s death. That honor fell to “the Headless Horseman,” whose legend had grown in the seven years since tow-headed Thomas the gravedigger had started it going. In my absence, the Horseman had become as famous as the White Lady herself. All the spider-bit housewives had added him to their repertoire. This amused and delighted me, for it ensured that no decapitations would ever be laid at my feet.

  September 17th, 1849

  I have much to report today, my Dylan! I have made momentous discoveries! And I have you to thank. With each skull you procure, my knowledge increases. I am peering into the nature of death itself, glimpsing the threads that bind the material and spiritual, learning how they mingle and feed, as leeches feed on their host, pulsing with each other. Blood connects them, like a scarlet thread tethering a balloon to a bone. I believe the iron in blood binds our spirits, that the salt in blood shackles our souls within us. Oh, I am close. I can feel how close I am! I can hardly hold my hand steady to write.

  Six glorious days ago, Archbishop Hughes visited us and, after dinner, produced the reliquaries of St. Patrick to be placed beneath the altar of the new cathedral on Fifth Avenue. I gazed at those little gold boxes with their scarlet pillows, at the slivers of bone inside, and I remembered that moment I have written of, when I withdrew my horseman from his lantern and his flesh crumbled to dust.

  The archbishop explained the nature and purpose of the Catholic reliquary. The reliquary is much more than a mere display box. It is a vessel, an earthly apartment for the spirit of the saint. Just as God is said to abide within the Ark of the Covenant when he is on earth, St. Patrick would abide in his reliquaries. A holy reliquary gathers the spirit of its occupant, so that he may more readily answer prayers.

  Oh, curse the Dutch Reformed Church, Dylan. Had I been raised on these mysteries as the Catholics are, I might have been a necromancer seventy years ago. One can find reliquaries all over Europe, I am told. Amputated limbs on embroidered pillows, vials of Christ’s blood or the Virgin’s milk, splinters of the cross and skull fragments of the crusaders. Little dead girls in blue satin, and more severed heads than my horseman could reap in a century. The faithful come with flowers and prayer. They whisper to those bones, just as I whisper to mine. They pray for intercessions on their behalf, just as I pray to mine. In ancient times they gave blood sacrifices, just as I give to mine. Oh, the Catholics are devoted to their dead things.

  The archbishop, after a few brandies, told me of a peasant girl who made a pilgrimage to see the corpse of St. Thomas of Aquinas. She bent as if in prayer and bit a toe off the foot, carrying it from the church in her mouth. She thought the toe would bless her home village, and so she made of her mouth a reliquary. Is old Agathe really so mad, by comparison? Am I truly evil, or merely the worshiper of a different god? Is not all religion the worship of holy necromancy?

  I now see how my horseman’s resurrection might be achieved, for the archbishop spoke of other corpses, much adored, that do not rot or turn to dust. These are the Incorruptibles, exhumed after beatification and found without blemish, just as my horseman had none. The skin of the dead is reported creamy-white and shining, the eyes limpid, the hands supple and not waxen.

  Why do I learn these things only now, when I am ninety and the reaper knocks at my door? My error is obvious to me now. All these years I’ve believed that I’d bewitched my horseman’s head by some unknown means. Now I see that I bewitched his lantern as well. That night in the dormitories, when I called to him to save me from Grenauld, I bound him to this earth and provided an apartment for his soul, all at once. I beatified him. I made him my saint on that All Saints’ Day, and tied a bow around his soul with a fine thread of blood when I made my vow to Schacath.

  Oh, my blood was not the only thread, was it? Did not dozens of soldiers die that Halloween night, when the brook ran with gore? The river pulsed with blood just as—oh, Dylan—just as it pulses with the blood of Ann Underhill, sacrificed centuries ago to curse the land.

  I am a fool. For fifteen years my Horseman refused my summons! After the death of Luc Fontaine his power fled from me entirely. And now I know why. I separated him from his lantern, and he had diminished. Oh, my head is swimming. I will return to my tale shortly, but there is so much work to do. Thank all the gods that I have safekeeped the lantern, here in my pantry. It is rusted and ruined, but the magic may still be in it. We will resurrect it, Dylan, you and I. We will gild it and engrave it and make it glorious, as glorious as the imp inside. We will make for my Horseman a treasure, and see what he can do, once seated upon such a majestic throne.

  November 1st, 1849

  I cannot write without weeping, Dylan, for my joy is great. Last night, you and I completed our Horseman’s Treasure, our lantern for the devil. I sealed it with wax and you were given the great honor of inaugurating it. I hope you will realize, once you’ve read these pages, what an act of love that was on my part, to allow you to bleed into the reliquary first. If I die, you must continue my work, and so I must be sure that the imp will answer to you. That is why you were given your first kill, and why I allowed you to murder your former mistress, Elise Van Wart.

  I was stunned at the magnitude of ou
r success. The engraving on the lantern glowed, the skull poured forth its light again. And he spoke, Dylan! MY HORSEMAN SPOKE! “Elise Van Wart! Elise Van Wart!” I must bleed him myself soon and see if he will speak for me. Who shall I kill? I will pick one of my quarrymen. A fast runner, to test the gallop of the ghost-steed.

  That steed itself is an interesting question. They say that a Hessian and his animal become one flesh. They died together, did they not? When the horse fell and crushed my horseman’s legs, its blood mingled with his. Perhaps a thread of horse-blood and horse-soul joined the unholy braid by which he was snared. Does my horseman still hold the reins of that dead animal? I have seen my monster animate leaves and sticks to create a horse-form. Perhaps when he is drawn back into flesh, his horse shall be too, if a body may be found for it. The animal soul is still a mystery to me.

  I cannot write more. My emotions are too raw, yet. Today, upon inspection, I found a blood vessel growing on his skull. He is weaving new flesh for himself. Incorruptible flesh. Immortal flesh. He will be handsome again. Mine again. Forever. But how shall I kiss his lips if he is imprisoned behind glass? How shall I have my satisfaction, if he crumbles back to dust when removed? I must find a body for my monster and make him fully a man.

  While I am thinking of it, I must conceive of some way to make myself fully a woman, for my body, my soul’s container, has gone to rust. I am ninety years old and toothless. I am horrid. He must not see me this way. If I hope to be desired when he returns, I must gild this decrepit old carcass as well.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “Agathe’s Tale ~ Part Eight”

  April 9th, 1850

  Young men today are disgusting and inconsiderate. This afternoon my ledger-keeping at the quarry office was interrupted by the buffoonery of three drunken louts fresh from the tavern, Irishmen who thought it amusing to bathe naked in the quarry pit, which needs draining again due to the heavy rains this spring. I confronted them and they greeted me discourteously, with calls of “What are you going to do, old bat?”

  I will let you imagine my response. I do regret my actions, as some of the better stone is now scorched, but on the brighter side I’m spared the expense of draining the pit, as all the water is happily boiled away.

  I will miss my quarry when I am dead. It is the only monument to the Van Brunts now, and it was the guiding obsession of my adult years.

  After Fontaine’s death, I was Cornelia’s neighbor. My parcel lay just to the north of hers. It was rather sunken and wet, gathering water from Cold Spring, which trickles down from the hills. It was this stream that drew me to the land. It crossed the Post Road at the eastern end of my property, flowing down into my marsh. The Beekmans kept a water trough at the nearby mile marker, with a ladle for thirsty travelers. Once I had drunk of the Cold Spring, I knew that I must have the Fontaine land. The spring bore only a trickle of the magic from Spook Rock, but I could feel it. If I could not own the ancient Philipse millpond and its concentrated power, I might harness Cold Spring in similar fashion. I would dig a pond of my own, and concentrate those waters.

  I much desired power, for my horseman had abandoned me. I did not then know how to raise him up and keep him strong. He was merely a skull in a dusty iron box, while his lantern foolishly sat on my mantel, occasionally serving as holder for some bouquet young Brom had picked.

  My Brom was my pride. I had feared for him, growing up with no father. Hermanus would not be released until my son was a man. Brom and I visited the Tory prison in Connecticut quite often, but Hermanus and I had little to say to one another. Brom hardly knew who the man was.

  My son had been born in New York City, but he took to the fields of Sleepy Hollow as I had, coming home muddy and sunburnt and chapped. Unlike my mother, I never reprimanded him. All boys are outdoor boys, else they are merely women with peculiar plumbing. By the time he was ten, he was a foot taller than any rascal in the neighborhood, perpetually trailing followers as I had trailed fireflies, for strength is a magic too. He built a tree fort at the crest of the hill that is now the crown of our cemetery. He called it his crow’s nest, as if our village was his ship and he planned to be first to sight the new world. How I loved him, and still do. How I fear that he will discover my secrets one day. Of all my nightmares, that is the greatest. Only he knows how to open my pantry, though he has sworn never to enter without leave. What if he were to find my skulls, or the women I’ve been experimenting upon? I should hate to disappoint my sunny boy. I know how he idolizes me.

  I set to work on my magic pond as soon as the sale was settled. Brom and I started the ditch-work ourselves, setting out with shovels to dig up the marsh. We struck rock everywhere. I brought in a small crew, turning vast amounts of earth. They found even more rock. Hard grey stone that bent shovels. I had been cheated. I would have no pond, and my land could never be a rich farm.

  But it could be a quarry.

  I resolved to make my fortune in stone-works, for the rock beneath my fields was hard as adamant. I could see a glorious future ahead. A new country requires new building. The fields inside the Old Loop had already been staked off in lots for new construction. Besides, I liked the idea of explosions forever ruining Cornelia’s sleep.

  Quarries are not founded overnight, however, and I’d foolishly been digging when I should have been planting. We almost lost the land that year. I brought Hans in to run the place. Brom and I shared our home with him and his young wife, a horse-faced thing called Nell. I disapproved of her, and she of me. She never gave Hans any children, for I laid a barrenness curse upon her. I could not bear the thought of sharing my home with her ugly brood.

  I needed money before excavations could begin. I waited patiently for my quarry until the spring of 1799, when word came that Hermanus’s father, the first Abraham, had died in London. My husband would be coming into his fortune at last.

  Or so I thought.

  April 13th, 1850

  Have you ever heard the term “primogeniture,” Dylan? I had not. It is the British custom of giving all the father’s property to the eldest son, leaving nothing to the widow, daughters, or younger brothers. Every penny of old Abraham’s ill-gotten wealth went to James, the elder brother, the one I didn’t choose. This was my final reward for marrying a Tory loyalist.

  I traveled to Connecticut, with the intention of slipping my husband some poisoned wine. Brom stayed behind. He was eighteen and busy with his horses and tavern-friends—his “Sleepy Hollow Boys,” though his most constant companion in those days was an Indian girl whose name I could never pronounce, let alone spell for you. Hermanus refused to give me an audience, preferring his cell to my wrath, so I left the prison and set to work on my other errand: to find my horseman’s murderer. I’d brought my beloved’s skull with me, in the hope that the presence of his enemy would be sufficient to stir him back to life.

  Over the years, Cornelia had begrudgingly accepted me into her circle (though she charged me double for use of her dock). She still kept the famous hatchet on her mantelpiece but had added a letter, under glass, from the supposed Hero of Gory Brook. I memorized the Bridgeport address.

  When I reached Bridgeport, I learned that William Crane had died. The neighbor woman, a furrier, told me the story. A farmer named Schultz insisted that Crane had been creeping into his fields at night to kill his animals, leaving mutilated corpses behind. No one believed him. The killer must have been some wolf, they said, for Crane had been the most admirable of men, so tenderhearted, so heartbroken when his poor wife died, mauled by that bear in the woods, right in front of him. Schultz took matters into his own hands and killed Crane by gunshot. Crane had left a son, a smart young lad recently graduated from Yale. Young Crane still idolized his father, for William had been a great hero of the revolution. I was thrilled by this news, for the Bible teaches us that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the sons, even unto the seventh generation. The proximity of Crane’s heir might yet rouse my horseman, I thought. I thanked the w
oman and bought a little fox-tailed cap from her as a gift to Brom.

  I whispered the name of Crane’s son to my horseman’s skull. “Your enemy is near! Why won’t you wake?” But nothing happened. I had overestimated my monster’s range, for Bridgeport was too distant to reach in the course of a single night. On my return trip I brooded in my carriage, watching the branches claw at the stars, wondering how I might entice young Ichabod Crane to Sleepy Hollow.

  April 17th, 1850

  Cornelia gave me the answer. She was a busybody, taking it upon herself to guide the poor peasants all around her, as if she were a Philipse and we her tenant farmers.

  We were far too Dutch, she declared. This was probably true. After the war our community had retreated into Dutch-ness, searching for our identity in this new America. The ridiculous old customs crept back into our lives, the ridiculous fashions and attitudes of our grandfathers. (No wonder young Washington Irving was so amused by us when he came here as a boy.) Cornelia thought Tarrytown should learn better English. If we could not speak the tongue of our countrymen, we would never be their bankers or lawyers or congressmen!

  I am fiercely devoted to my language, and I usually disagreed with Cornelia on principle. I had opened my mouth to say something harsh when my eye fell upon the hatchet and an idea fell upon me. “William Crane has a son,” I said. “Recently graduated from Yale. We could offer him a position as schoolmaster here, in gratitude for his father’s heroism.”

  Cornelia and the others were stunned, for they’d not expected this from me. They proclaimed mine a wonderful idea. We would repay the father by helping the son.