SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow)

by Dax Varley

  I nodded.

  Just as we’d descended the last step I asked, “Reverend, have you ever heard of sealing a spirit into its grave?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “And from what I’ve heard, it’s an effective practice.”

  “Have you ever carried out such an act?”

  “I’ve never had the occasion.”

  “But would you, should the occasion arise?”

  His brow dipped and his eyes narrowed. “Katrina, it’s already been suggested. You’re forgetting, we have no personal effects of The Horseman with which to seal him.”

  I sighed. “Of course. Good day, Reverend.”

  “God be with you, dear.”

  * * *

  I chatted with a few parishioners on Sunday morning, my eyes occasionally glancing to the door. Mostly, I was asked about my first week as teacher, how I found the children’s behavior, and if I was looking forward to the new week. In other words, they were forcing me to lie in church. I waited for a lightning bolt.

  I was not watching the door, but I knew when he’d come in. There was a scuffle of feet as several men pushed in together. I turned to find him crowded next to Van Ripper and the Magistrate. He didn’t bother to lower his voice as he shrugged them away. “Gentlemen, I am in church. I doubt The Horseman will follow me in.”

  The two backed off, letting a new swarm of people overtake him. I casually made my way over.

  Our eyes met, and he did not hold back his smile. Just as I reached him, Elise stepped beside me.

  “Ichabod, I’ve been so worried about you,” she fawned. “I hope you are being well taken care of.”

  “Too well,” he replied. It came out as a jest, but I knew how miserable he’d been. He was much too free-spirited to be kept under lock and key.

  “You’re definitely safe for now,” she continued. “Father is working diligently with the Council to find a solution. The children need their schoolmaster back.”

  Ichabod nodded politely. “I hope for a speedy return as well.”

  Still batting her flaxen lashes she said, “My brothers are absolutely miserable. And so are the other students, I hear. They don’t seem to be gaining what’s needed for their education.”

  How could so much venom be hidden in such a sugary tone?

  Ichabod lifted a hand. “I assure you, Elise, their lessons are prepared by me. And I’ll always see that they get the proper assignments.”

  Elise sighed. “It’s just a shame that you’re not there to instruct them fittingly.”

  And she claims I’m rotten?

  “I’ve seen their progress,” he said. “They’re doing quite well.”

  Before she opened her mouth again, he turned to me. “Which reminds me, Katrina, I need to speak with you about some of the lessons I’m preparing for next week. Is there a place where we can talk?”

  “Of course.” Then to Elise, “Excuse us.”

  Her eyes turned to ice as I led him away.

  We settled into a pew, facing each other, yet keeping a respectable distance. Father was making no effort to hide his disapproving glances.

  “This is excruciating,” Ichabod said, his voice low.

  “What is?”

  “Not touching you.” His eyes gleamed with affection, and a yearning for him ripped through my chest.

  “It’s agonizing for me too.”

  He risked leaning a bit closer. “In case I don’t get a chance to say it later…I love you.”

  Hearing him speak it lifted me to the rafters. “I love you too. More than I could ever express.”

  I looked back at the Magistrate then to Ichabod. “They seem to value you as much as I.”

  He sputtered a laugh. “Katrina, they care nothing for me. It’s only themselves they’re worried about. And the other citizens of Sleepy Hollow. Remember, as long as I am marked, The Horseman will leave the rest of the Hollow alone.”

  “You owe them nothing, Ichabod. At the first opportunity, hop on your horse and flee. Go back to Connecticut. I’ll sneak away and meet you there.”

  “Believe me, nothing sounds more enticing, but what if I don’t make it? Didn’t your friend, Garritt try to escape too?”

  Garritt. Had The Horseman known of his plans to run?

  I sank back against the pew, disheartened. “If someone doesn’t find a solution soon, I’ll go insane.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  It was then that the parishioners began taking their seats. Though it had always been my custom to sit with Father, I did not make an effort to move. Instead Ichabod and I pushed in a little closer and faced forward. We had just over an hour to be together. And even though we could not touch, the warmth of his closeness filled my senses.

  Eyes were on us, but I didn’t care. The sphere of the church extended no farther than the small space we shared.

  Reverend Bushnell took to the pulpit, his Bible opened and flapping like a bird. When we rose for song, I always sat back down just an inch closer to Ichabod. I ached to touch him.

  After the last prayer had been uttered, the Council descended upon us. There would be no private goodbye.

  Van Ripper clapped Ichabod on the back. “Come on, Crane. Baked ham and gooseberry pudding await.”

  Ichabod took my hand in his. “Katrina, I just want to tell you again, you’re doing a wonderful job in my absence. The children are blessed to have you.”

  “Thank you, Ichabod,” I said, cordially. My heart broke when he released me and walked out of the church.

  * * *

  The usual students entered class the next morning. But their disheveled hair, yawns, and grimaces indicated I should start easy. The beginning of a work week is always an unfavorable time, and having read over Ichabod’s lessons, I could see that he had taken this into account. Experience is everything.

  We were starting with something Ichabod felt was both educational and stimulating. I was to read a vocabulary word, and ask the students if they could tell me something they’d heard, seen, or experienced that would put that word into place. The first one was attempt.

  “Any form of the word,” I instructed.

  After a moment, two children raised their hands.

  I called on Devlin who related something about attempting to eat a worm on a dare. I only heard a bit of what he said because the word, attempt, sparked a flurry of thoughts.

  When he finished I gazed down at the next word, batch, but I barely saw it. I hadn’t realized the long silence until Carver said, “Miss Van Tassel? What’s the next word?”

  I snapped to. “Oh, it’s…” My eyes blurred on the word, then, “Never mind this. I’ve a better idea.” I set the word sheet aside. “Vincent, tell us about your Father sealing in the trapper’s ghost.”

  His brows dipped as confusion clouded his face.

  “And expound,” I added.

  “Expound?”

  “Give us details.”

  His mouth twitched and he shrugged. I could see this would take some goading. “Why was the trapper troubling your father?”

  “Cause Papa had made some leg traps for him, and when they found the trapper dead, he was caught in one of them. I guess he wasn’t able to open it before he bled out. He must’ve thought Papa made a faulty trap.”

  His father, Clive Van Helt, was our local blacksmith. He was never known to make anything faulty.

  “Did you see the ghost?” I asked.

  “No, but Papa did a bunch of times. He said the old coot meant to skin him alive.”

  By now the class was filled with wide eyes and slack jaws.

  “How did your father go about sealing him in? How did he get the trapper’s knife?”

  “Papa had made the knife too. He got it back along with the other traps.”

  That certainly made it easy. “And was the trapper buried here in the Hollow?”

  “They buried him in the mountains, next to his camp. No one barely knew him anyway.”

  “And your father trekked ther
e to seal him in?’

  Vincent’s mouth twitched again. “That’s the only way he could do it.”

  “Did he relay any details?” I had to know.

  His mind seemed to be churning, and I hoped any fabrication of the story would be part of his father’s telling, not his.

  “When Papa set out for that camp, he carried the leg trap with him, hidden under a blanket. The old banshee figured out that Papa aimed to seal him in, and he came at him like a wild-eyed wolf. So Papa threw back that cover and showed him the trap. That was like showing him a key to Hell. That trapper stayed clear of Papa the rest of the journey.”

  If that part were true, it was most intriguing. “So the very thing that killed the trapper is what kept him at bay?”

  “That’s what Papa said.”

  If only I had that fatal cannonball. “Then what happened?’

  Another shrug. “He took the trapper’s knife and stabbed it in the grave. And he dug it in real deep so the rain wouldn’t wash it away.”

  “And he’s not been plagued by the spirit since?” I asked.

  Vincent shook his head. “Nope.”

  I relaxed, placing my hands in my lap. “Thank you, Vincent. That was an intriguing story.” Quite intriguing.

  Dirk crossed his arms and clucked. “But I didn’t hear a single vocabulary word in the whole thing.”

  The children broke into laughter. For once I wanted to hug Dirk for bringing us all back around to our lessons.

  * * *

  On the carriage ride home my mind churned.

  “The only way to rid the town of a ghost is by sealing it into its grave.”

  “…it is an effective practice.”

  “We have no personal effects with which to seal his grave.”

  But what if we did?

  * * *

  At dinner that night, Father sat like a rock, moving slowly as he took small bites. He reminded me of a clock winding down to its final minutes. His weariness weighed on guilt, even though I had kept all the accounting up to date. But I now had plans to take rid us of The Horseman, which would leave Father with only the worries of the farm.

  “Tell me,” I started, knowing I had to tread carefully, “how is the search for a new overseer?”

  He grazed his eyes to me like he’d only just realized I was in the room. “Done. And coming to us next week from Chappaqua.” He slurped a sip of wine. “Though I did have to offer a higher wage.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder where Brom, who’d lived here all his life, had gone. Wherever he was, he, no doubt, was having a good laugh.

  “I hope he works out well,” I said.

  Father shuffled his diced potatoes before spearing them with his fork. “How was your day with the children?”

  That caught me by surprise. In all this time, he’d never once asked. “Better. But it’ll still take some adjusting.”

  He snorted. “You know as well as I that nothing comes easy.”

  Too well.

  I was careful in selecting my next words. “It’ll be nice when they can meet at the school again. Proper desks and all.” Tread carefully. “And hopefully that cellar can still be converted into a shelter.”

  Father scowled as he chewed his beef. “Put that cellar out of your mind.”

  “It’s just a shame,” I said. Tread carefully. “Now it will never be anything more than a root cellar.”

  “A marked root cellar,” he reminded.

  “Better a marked root cellar than a weapons repository, I guess.”

  His face actually brightened at that remark. There was even a trace of a smile. “Old Smedt wasn’t storing turnips down there, that’s for sure.”

  I feigned a chuckle. “Whatever happened to all those weapons anyway?”

  He shrugged. “Most were sold at public auction.”

  My heart sank. “And the rest?”

  He ran his napkin across his mouth. “Stored them in the courthouse basement, I believe.” He paused, thoughtful. “I should remind the Magistrate of it. If there’s any decent metal left, it could be forged into something useful.”

  That, I did not account for. It was imperative that I didn’t waste time. So as not to cast suspicion, I made a few comments about the farm then, “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll retire. I must be mindful and alert each morning.”

  “Teaching,” he huffed. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  I looked on him softly. “Believe me, Father, I’m only doing what needs to be done.”

  * * *

  There is no other feeling like the anxiety of waiting alone in the dark. Among the shadows you have only your thoughts to occupy you. And it is then that you learn who you are, what you’re capable of…and to what extreme.

  While it’s true that I have done a few immoral things in my life, tonight’s endeavor would be illegal.

  Who would be hurt?

  No one.

  Who would be saved?

  Everyone.

  This is what I’d become. Someone capable of going to the extreme.

  I waited until Father turned in – till all was still and quiet – then, with only the waxing moon for light, I slipped down the stairs and crept to the stables.

  My heart nearly drummed out of my chest, but I forced myself on. I quietly saddled Dewdrop and, petting her soft gray muzzle, led her out. “Shhh.” It was only after guiding her to the road that I mounted.

  I glanced over my shoulder toward the hill, expecting The Horseman to be waiting. Tonight it stood empty.

  Where are you hiding?

  At first I was inclined to spur my horse on, race toward town. But a clandestine endeavor such as this requires silence. And no one would likely be roused by the gentle clip-clomp of Dewdrop’s hoofbeats. With my cloak and hood to conceal me, I pressed on.

  The Magistrate’s court sat squarely in the middle of town, but I skirted around the main road to avoid The River Song. Though fear of The Horseman had most town folk shut in, the tavern dwellers would always take risk for a drink.

  Save for a few lighted windows, the streets were dark and vacant. I dismounted and led Dewdrop to a foul smelling neglected alley between the butcher shop and the courthouse. An overgrowth of walnut trees blocked the moonlight, and though I stumbled in the darkness, I was thankful for the cloak of blackness to shield me.

  I tried the backdoor – please open – of course it was locked. My only other option was to climb through a window. Fortune was with me as one in the back slid easily open. Checking left and right, I clambered up and slipped inside.

  The room in which I found myself was spacious and wide. An elaborate oak desk with block and shell carving sat in the center, surrounded by three walls of shelves. With trembling hands, I lit one of the candles on the desk. Holding it high, I circled, then came to the realization that this highly wrought office could only belong to one person…the Magistrate. And that meant somewhere within that desk would be a precious set of keys. I combed through two of the drawers before I found them. With the candle to guide me, I stepped out and into the court chamber. I then took the short stairwell that led to the basement.

  It descended into a corridor with three doors. Three doors and seven keys.

  Quickly.

  My heart sounded in my ears as I chose the smallest door under the stairs. And after trying two of the keys, the lock quietly clicked open.

  I stepped inside and Dear God! This room had surely been forgotten. Dust. Cobwebs. Clutter. A graveyard of broken furniture, rusted lanterns, and trunks. What a mess!

  I scratched my nose, stifling a sneeze.

  Tracing through the maze of disorder, I spotted a large pine box against a wall. It had no lock, but several crates were stored on top.

  Please let them be moveable.

  I managed two, but the other was like lugging a stubborn mule. I shifted it back and forth. It inched closer and closer to the edge, then dropped off with a thud. My chest heaved from the effort, and I took a moment to c
atch my breath – which was already shallow from fear.

  The pine box had no hinges, so I shoved the top off. Then lifting the candle, I peered inside. There they were – the remaining weapons – broken, rusted or taken apart. Among them were a few muskets and pistols. Some bayonets. The swords had settled to the bottom. When I lifted one of the guns the entire mass shifted, sending a racket of clanking iron echoing through the room.

  I scrabbled back and froze, holding in a yelp. Surely the entire Hollow had heard that. I waited, hand to my heart. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, but there was no other noise.

  No one heard. Now hurry.

  I removed sword after sword, laying them out for inspection. Some were still sheathed in their scabbards. Most appeared to be standard military swords, used by the patriots who fought and died here. There were daggers, cutlasses, sabers. This was idiocy. Even if the Hessian’s sword were here, how would I know which was his?

  But then…

  I gingerly took out one incomparable to the rest. A grim sword with a single-edge jagged blade. The hilt looked carved from an antler. The yellowed grip was worn and speckled, but it was the pommel I found most repulsive. On each side, were the carved faces of tortured men, their mouths frozen in silent shrieks.

  This was his.

  On further inspection, I noticed the grip felt too dense and smooth to have been shaped from an antler. Realization seized me. Holy God in Heaven! This hilt was crafted from bone.

  Human bone.

  Bile rose to by throat, and I took gasping breaths to suppress it.

  I loathed the thought of touching this evil weapon, but… This is why you came. With quaking hands, I sheathed it in one of the scabbards, then replaced everything as best I could – except the heavy box I couldn’t lift. I tucked the sword under my cloak and cautiously crept out, locking the basement tight. I exited through the backdoor, mounted Dewdrop, and wasted not a second fleeing the scene of my crime.

  My heart thundered as I bolted home.

  Is he waiting? Wanting? I’m carrying what is rightfully his.

  The closer I got to our farm, the more anxious I became.

  So close. So close.

  When I made the final turn onto our road, my eyes cut to the hillock. Empty. The Horseman was not there. Thank God. I rode straight to the stables and quietly led Dewdrop to her stall.