SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow)

by Dax Varley

  “Katrina,” he whispered, his voice grave. “I know how you think. Please don’t do anything to endanger yourself.”

  “If you know how I think, then you know I’ll stop at nothing.”

  “Just promise me you’ll not do anything rash. You’ve taken a huge risk for me already.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling his warm breath on my face.

  “Katrina…promise me.”

  I could not. “I can only promise that I will find a way to end this.”

  He sighed, concern glistening in his eyes. “Whatever will I do with you?”

  We held each other as best we could. How unfair – the victim being jailed. And though it was risky for me to linger, I could not tear myself away.

  It wasn’t long before the courthouse door opened and we heard mumbling through the wall.

  We still held hands as Magistrate Harding stepped into the jail room. He looked neither angry nor disappointed. He simply gazed, blank-faced. “Does your father know you’re here?”

  “No,” I answered, trying to keep my voice calm. “Are you going to tell him?”

  He didn’t answer directly, but his expression showed that he would not.

  Ichabod leaned against the bars, arms crossed. “I’m assuming by your lax demeanor that the Council is still baffled as ever?”

  The Magistrate pointed a finger. “Don’t test me, Crane.”

  Ichabod ignored it. “I’d like to see the minutes of the meeting, being that I am the reason it was called.”

  “The Horseman is the reason,” he countered.

  “And?” I urged. “Did you come up with anything?”

  He ran the back of his hand across forehead, then paused and scratched his nose – like delaying the answer would make the question go away. Finally, “There was talk of bringing in more clergy.”

  “Oh goody,” Ichabod said. “More religious wit. Always the answer.”

  The Magistrate scowled. “I should’ve let the mob toss you.”

  I stamped my foot. “And they are the ones who should be locked up!”

  “Katrina,” he barked, “I will not discuss this with you.”

  “You cannot keep him caged like this.”

  “I can do whatever is best for the Hollow. Now visitation is up. Go home.”

  On the Magistrate’s orders, I had no other choice.

  Ichabod brought my hand to his lips, kissing it gently. Then he whispered, “On second thought, bring all of them cider.”

  I couldn’t find the strength to smile. “How can you jest at a time like this?”

  His eyes soften. “Because I prefer it to the alternative.”

  The Magistrate motioned for me. “Come, Katrina.”

  Ichabod hesitantly released my hand. As I trudged away, he called, “Katrina.”

  The Magistrate and I both turned.

  He still leaned against the bars, an endearing smile on his face. “I love you.”

  I returned the smile, though weak and thin. “I love you too.”

  * * *

  My thoughts spun as I rode home. There was a simpler way to solve this. I could point a musket at Fallon’s face, demand the keys and kidnap Ichabod, taking him so far from here they would never find him. I smiled, thinking how Ichabod would be enchanted by this plan. But if the Magistrate was right, I’d be saving Ichabod, but sentencing everyone else to death. The simpler way would not work.

  I remembered the story of Dora Hindricks. How the Council had used her children to give her peace. But the only peace offering for the Hessian would be his severed head, which was probably picked clean by buzzards and piled in a mass grave somewhere.

  There was still one solution that seemed the most logical to me. Remove his blasted bones. Yes, the Reverend viewed it as desecration, but could it be more unholy than what the ghost had enacted upon us? I would not be so cruel as to inter them in another vicinity. If his ghost did follow his body, then he needed to be buried some place far from human reach or sent washing out to sea.

  Washing out to sea.

  I could risk it.

  There is no sacrilege. No maelstrom. No suffering will follow.

  It would take some careful contriving.

  I can do this.

  A detailed plan of execution.

  I’ve been to his grave once already.

  There is no reason I couldn’t carry it out.

  I lay awake that night, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. Beware, you old maggot. I’m coming for you.

  * * *

  Patience. Something I had little of, but was forced to endure. I could not falter.

  But my plan was not failsafe. Even if the ghost is drowned at sea, how could I prove this to the Council? How long would it take them to realize that The Horseman would no longer rise? It was a problem I’d contend with when necessary. And if The Horseman was truly banished, there’d be no pending danger to the villagers should I level Father’s musket at the jailer and steal Ichabod away.

  I carefully thought out which tools I would need, then secretly gathered them. The largest cloth bag I could find would in no way carry the intact spine and ribcage of a human skeleton. But this devil had been in his grave for some time. Surely his bones were brittle enough to shatter. I placed a hammer among the shovel, lantern, and knife I’d buried under the hay in Dewdrop’s stall. I hid canvas and rope as well.

  Completely absorbed with the matter, I could think on nothing else. I relived my previous time at his grave, and what strength it took to drive in the sword. There had been little rainfall since that time, so I could only count on the burrowing field animals to have done more work for me.

  By Tuesday, my plan was set. I saw it over and over in my mind, contemplating the worst of situations.

  I must keep my head.

  When I retired that evening, I did not make down my bed. Instead I sat at my window, watching the skeletal limbs of the trees reaching to each other. Ashen gray clouds sailed lazily across the sky, and my newest worry was that they may hide the glow of the waning moon, which I was counting on for additional light.

  Near four in the morning I dressed, wearing no stays or petticoats to hinder my work. I slipped into a shift, then a simple woolen dress. Both could easily be knotted at the hem. I put on two pairs of wool stockings for warmth, and instead of ribbon, tied my hair back with twine. My slippers would get me as far as the stables, where I’d placed a pair of Father’s sturdy boots. To fit, I’d tucked rolled linen into the toes. My cloaks kept me sufficiently warm, but their hems caught easily on my heels. So I took one of Father’s overcoats too.

  I lit a small lantern in the stable, then quietly saddled my horse. “I am asking much of you, Dewdrop. Forgive me.”

  I’d put what I could in a saddle pack, then strapped the shovel on. I blew out the lantern, mounted and rode.

  As it turned out, those ashen clouds cast a glow, lighting my way. I kept low in the saddle, determined, my heart beating with each pound of Dewdrop’s hooves.

  The grave looked the same as I’d left it. The sword still buried to the hilt. Again, instinct told me that this was the true sword.

  Why had it not kept you down?

  I gripped it and tugged. After some heaving and shifting, I managed to raise it and cast it aside.

  I removed what I needed, shrugged out of Father’s coat, and dug. At first I could only manage the smaller, looser clods. But I soon realized that hopping onto the shoulder of the shovel’s blade upturned deeper, larger fills.

  The two pairs of gloves I wore were cumbersome, but kept my grip solid. Yet each thrust was a struggle. And though I repeatedly grunted and squawked, I stayed committed.

  The one thing lacking was fear. My knees trembled, but from labor not fright. A few scurries among the weeds startled me, but I gritted my teeth and continued. I had no reason to be afraid.

  I am not the one marked.

  After a while, my right shoulder ached – a miserable pang that twisted the muscle and pinched my neck.
A reminder that I had lived a life of wealth, not labor. A short time later, the ache coursed its way to my wrist. I winced with each jab of the spade.

  I had misjudged the depth of the grave. I’d assumed the person who’d dug it had only meant to cover the scoundrel and go. But perhaps the gravedigger had a more personal vendetta, digging with great ferocity. I couldn’t imagine that his grievance was greater than mine.

  Though the pre-dawn air held a raw cold, my tortured body perspired. I began to wonder if there was anyone buried here at all.

  Is that why the sword hadn’t worked?

  But just when my struggle seemed bleakest, I hit something other than soil. A leather boot.

  I stumbled back, letting out a triumphant sigh. Where there’s one, there must be another. I rooted around with the shovel till I found it. They were the only clothing that had endured the grave. Then, with renewed vigor, I unearthed the skeleton that wore them.

  I crawled from the pit, lit the lantern, then held it over my find. The Hessian lay face down – or chest down, in this case – likely shoved or booted into the hole.

  I slipped back in and crouched. His boots were cracked and crusted and – ugh – smelled like dry-rot. Instinctively, I covered my nose with my sleeve. After a couple of deep breaths, I carried on.

  His right foot was detached, making my task simpler. But when I lifted the left boot, the entire leg bone came up with it. I reached up out of the hole, grabbed the hammer, and with one fierce thwack, severed it at the ankle.

  Logic told me to gather the smaller bones first. After collecting those of his left hand, I reached across for his right. I instantly shuddered back. The fingers were twisted and coiled like a skeletal claw…in an inviting gesture.

  His right hand. The beckoning hand.

  I did not buckle then, and I would not now. I closed my eyes to calm my breathing, then, one…two…three…I gathered my courage and snatched the hand up bit by bit.

  The hipbones and upper torso were much larger than I’d expected. And though my muscles twitched and seized, my rage pushed me. By placing my foot on the lower spine, I was able to smash some of the rib bones into manageable fractions. They plinked like raindrops on a clay roof when I dropped them into the sack.

  I kicked at the soil with the toe of my boot. When I was sure there was nothing left but my tracks, I pulled myself from the grave.

  But there lay his sword, partially covered with the flung dirt.

  Leave no part of him.

  I picked it up and eased it into the bag.

  My lack of sleep and hard labor had caught up with me, so I stopped a moment to breathe. Then wiping back my loose strands of hair, I snuffed the lantern, and tugged everything to my horse.

  Dewdrop stood patiently as I fumbled, packing her down. I heaved myself on, missing my footing only once. Gripping tightly to the reins, I spurred her off toward the Hudson, focusing solely on my goal and not the abomination that I carried.

  After reaching the bank, I tethered her to a low limb. The joints in my fingers had tightened, but I managed to free the bag.

  It’s time for you to go, monster.

  Then dragging it across the rocky ground, I made my way to the river’s edge.

  I waded in and…Merciful Heavens! Even through wool stockings the freezing water bit my flesh. My limbs trembled and my teeth knocked, sending spiking pains firing through my jaws.

  I had chosen this particular area because as a child I was warned not to swim here. The swift undercurrent was strong. But it was that lower tide that I counted on to flush his bones away.

  I continued slogging out, my body shivering like a fevered dog. My boots were now filled with frigid water and the soaked bag lay heavy in my hand.

  Just a bit farther.

  When the river reached thigh deep, I tried opening the bag. The wet rope had tightened and gripped. I tussled with it as the coursing water drove against my legs, threatening to wash me away. I tensed my muscles against the pull, while Father’s boots anchored me to the bottom.

  As I managed the sack, the rushing water clutched it, trying to rip it from my hands. I held on, determined.

  First, I grappled the sword.

  Will the current take it or will it lie on the bottom like a sunken ship?

  Seeing no other choice, I pitched it.

  I then took out the bones one and two at a time, and flung them as far as I could. But with my loss of strength and benumbed limbs, I could only toss them a few feet. I then removed the Hessian’s boots, foot bones within, and sunk them into the current. With no part of him left, I dropped the bag and watched it wash away.

  It was done.

  Walking back was like trudging through tar. The anchors that were Father’s boots now held me. I crossed my shivering arms and pushed forward – my skin prickly, my teeth clicking. Once I reached the shallows, I staggered my way to land.

  Just two steps out, I collapsed, gasping for breath.

  You cannot stop.

  The pain and cold clutched me like I was entombed in ice.

  Move, Katrina, move!

  My body continued to twitch and quake.

  Find warmth or you’ll die.

  I’d left Father’s coat with Dewdrop. Crawling on hands and knees, I urged forward, finally struggling to my feet. I labored, step by step, till I reached the tree where I’d tethered her.

  Dewdrop?

  The limb had snapped. She was gone. What had startled her away?

  I dropped to my knees, helpless. After all that I’d endured, it’d be bitter irony to die now.

  I turned my hammering head and gazed down the shoreline. Boats.

  Marten.

  Self-preservation drove me. How had I not planned for this pain and cutting chill? I pulled myself up and trudged back toward the shoreline where the land was more level to walk.

  Dawn was hiding just behind the hills – its amber light splitting the horizon. It felt like I’d walked for hours, stumbling, determined. I finally reached the piers.

  The predawn fishermen had sailed, leaving somber gaps in the empty moorings. As the sky grew lighter, I grew nearer, but then...

  Dear God! My hand flew to my mouth and tears sprang to my eyes.

  Marten.

  His battered ship lay tilted, the stern sunk into the silt. One mast had snapped and lay cracked across the bow. Raveled nets hung loose, trapping floating debris. Had I not known it to be his, I would’ve guessed it a shipwreck washed ashore.

  Then I saw it. The stygian mark of The Horseman, scored deep along the hull.

  My breath caught. Panic rippled down my spine. With a hoarse and rasping voice, I cried, “Marten!”

  Where is everyone?

  “Marten!”

  I scrambled forward, blinded by tears.

  “Marten!”

  There was no gangplank to aid me, yet maybe I could still climb aboard. But the second I touched the ship, I drew my hand back. Though my fingers were already frozen to the bone, that one touch bit my hand the same way it had on Garritt’s window.

  “Marten! Marten!

  “Katrina?”

  I cut quickly toward his voice.

  “Katrina!”

  He was hurrying down the slope, holding bags and boxes, but when he saw my condition, he dropped them and broke into a run. He’d only scrambled a short distance when his gaze caught on his ship. He slowed. His jaw dropped.

  That’s when I heard it, distant at first – thundering hooves pounding clay. Then he came into view – The Horseman – charging straight at Marten.

  “Oh God, Marten, run! Run!”

  But instead of taking to his heels, he spun around, throwing his arm up to shield his face. The Horseman brought down his scythe, slicing it across Marten’s neck, taking his head and arm in a single blow. Marten’s head flew from his collapsing body, then hit the ground, bouncing and rolling toward me.

  “No! No! No!”

  I scuttled back, but momentum carried it. And in spi
te of my panic and attempt to dodge, his head stopped just inches from my feet – his upturned face frozen in a mask of horror.

  The Horseman sat tall, his scythe resting on his shoulder.

  I sent you away! I sent you away!

  I stared up, afraid to blink. Afraid to breathe.

  He popped the reins and trotted toward me.

  “No!” I gasped, stumbling back – back into the frigid river.

  He stopped at the water’s edge.

  My heart hammered against my ribs. “I sent you away!”

  He remained for only a moment. Then turning, he spurred his horse and raced away from the rising sun.

  I plodded out, sobbing, averting my gaze from Marten’s face.

  Marten.

  My wearied body moved by sheer will, my mind numb with shock. Hot saliva filled my mouth and what bits were left in my stomach forced their way out, spilling to the ground.

  Marten.

  I staggered a little farther, but my senses had now given way. My head swam. The earth blurred. Dark spots bloomed. Then everything went black.

  * * *

  My eyes blinked open – barely – my vision milky. I tried to swallow, but it felt like hot coals had been poured down my throat. I had a sense that someone had bathed me and put me to bed, yet my hair clung to me, sticky and damp. I moaned.

  “Shhh…” The voice belonged to Doctor Goodwine. “Lie still.”

  I had no other choice. Had someone dropped an anchor on my chest? I moaned again.

  He tilted my head and placed a cup to my lips. I gulped the cool water, choking it down.

  Once my eyes cleared, he came into view. “Welcome back.”

  From where?

  Father stood just behind him, looking haggard and gray, yet there was a wash of relief upon his face.

  The doctor placed a wet cloth to my forehead. “You’ve suffered a bad fever.”

  A fever? My thoughts churned, turning over and over. Then the fog parted, and it all came tumbling back. “Marten.”

  “No, no,” the doctor said. “Relax, now. Try not to upset yourself.”

  Try not to upset myself? All I could see was Marten’s severed head at my feet. The silent scream upon his face. How could I ever erase that?

  “The Horseman,” I whimpered.