by Dax Varley
He hastened to the kettle resting on the iron heater. “Hot tea will get your blood moving.”
“No, thank you, Reverend. Really, I don’t have time.”
He looked at me for a moment, then gestured to a pew. “Sit.”
I did…reluctantly. He approached with that “sermon” look about him. I’d rather go home and face Father.
He dropped down next to me, a smile beaming on his face. “You must be relieved now that Ichabod is free.”
“Yes, but for his sake.”
“Katrina, you must understand. We did what we had to do.”
“I find that a poor excuse, Reverend. Locking Ichabod away proved nothing.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek, contemplating. “That’s the curious part. Don’t you find it strange that the Horseman suddenly transferred his objective?”
“We don’t know that it was sudden,” I said.
“But you have to admit, it certainly puts a new standpoint on his predictability. We were certain that he had it in for Crane, then suddenly, he murders the Piers boy.”
I see. Instead of warming my nose, I was brought in for questioning. “Reverend, are you asking me if I have some theory on all this?”
“Do you?” he asked, as he continued chewing inside his lip.
Why had I agreed to come inside?
“My theory, for what it’s worth, is that you kept Ichabod secluded well out of The Horseman’s reach. And since the Hessian thrives on carnage, Marten’s murder was a form of retaliation.” Not bad for a “pulled from thin air” reply.
His mouth twitched as he chewed the other side. He’d not met my gaze since we sat down. “That makes the most sense, but if he was retaliating out of anger – and I know this is a harsh assumption – it seems that you would have been a more likely victim.”
“That is a harsh assumption,” I snapped, “but then, I would expect no less during an interrogation.” I popped up from the pew. “I must go.”
“Oh, dear,” he said, fumbling upward. “That was not my intent. I just thought your insight could help the Council solve this, that’s all.”
I clenched my gloved fists. “Then how’s this for a theory? The cannonball that took The Horseman’s head took his brain as well. He was simply confused.”
His eyes finally crossed to mine. “You do not believe that.”
“And I also don’t believe you invited me in out of sheer courtesy.” I pushed by him and went to the door.
“Katrina,” he called. I turned. “As your pastor, I feel I should inform you that there is much speculation about your presence at the pier that morning.”
“Didn’t my father inform the Council that I was merely there to say goodbye?”
He came over, hands clasped behind his back. “Indeed, he did.”
“If you don’t believe that excuse then maybe you should ask Henny. I’m sure she’s contrived a wonderful story of my secret tryst with Marten, and how we were going to sail off together.”
His regarded me with hooded eyes. “But that story makes no sense either. Were you planning to run away with the boy, you would have at least packed some clothes.” He then dared to lean close, whispering, “Or wore something suitable.”
The church hadn’t warmed me nearly as much as my rising blood. My teeth ground together. “Good day, Reverend.”
He stepped back, allowing me space. “Trust me, dear, you would do well to speak with the Council.”
I took a calming breath and sighed. “All right. If it’s that important, I’ll find time next week.” If they can find me.
“And whose life might be struck down before then?” he asked.
A cold air blast stung us as I opened the door. “Please do not try persuading me with guilt. I do not control The Horseman. For all I know, his next victim could be me.”
* * *
On Thursday the sun made a welcome appearance. It warmed the air a little and my heart even more. I hadn’t heard from Ichabod, which surely meant he’d secured our means of escape. He’d have sent word, otherwise.
Just one more day.
I checked the portmanteau three times that morning, worried I’d overlooked something. My addled nerves would not let me alone. I checked it again. The clock had never ticked so slowly. But the excitement of being with Ichabod filled me.
I sat at the breakfast table, my gaze fixed on my teacup. I don’t know where my mind was at the moment. Simon came forward and poured some tea.
“You’ve mended real good, Miss Katrina. It makes me happy to see you so cheerful.”
It’s that obvious? Was I smiling? “It was the smell of your delicious honey cakes that cheered me.”
He placed some dishes in the washing tub. “Don’t try to fool old Simon. I’ve known you since you were no bigger than a lamb. Something’s got you lit up. And whatever it is, I’m glad for it.” He turned, his eyes glowing with fatherly love. “No matter what, I always want you to be this happy.”
God, I’ll miss him so much. I crossed over and gave him a big hug. “It’s a promise.”
A promise I could not keep.
About four that afternoon, Henny rode up in her carriage. I could tell right away she was bringing more than gossip. She hitched her skirts and waddled quickly to our door, wheezing out of breath when I opened it to let in her in.
“Katrina,” she gasped. “Oh my dear.”
Father came out of his study. “What’s going on?”
Henny fanned herself with her hand. “I was just in town and overheard. The Council is on their way here.”
Coming here?
“What the devil for?” Father demanded. “And this better not be one of your lies.”
“It’s no lie, Baltus. They should be here very soon. That’s why I must hurry.” She placed her palm to her heart, heaving. “Katrina, they’re on their way for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes wide. “They are naming you a witch.”
My breath left me and my knees buckled. I grasped the sofa for support. Was this punishment for defying the Councilmen?
“That’s preposterous,” Father bellowed.
“It’s the truth,” Henny said. “I swear it. And now I must go before they find me here.”
Father’s fists clenched into hard balls. “Henny, if this is one of your lies, I’ll see to it that you’re the one tried as a witch.”
“Baltus, I do not play you false. And Katrina, my dear, you may do well to hide.” She spun and scurried out the door. “God be with you,” she called back before shambling away.
My mind reeled and my heart thundered. “Father?”
He peered out the window. “If it’s true, they won’t step one foot into this house.”
“They’ll hang me,” I murmured, quaking to the bone.
“Nonsense. They will not take my daughter.”
I rubbed my hands along my arms, trying to piece together thoughts. “What will we do?’
“Stand our ground,” he said.
Stand our ground? Against the Council?
“Henny’s right. I should hide.” Just till morning.
Father took my chin in his hand and lifted my face to his. “I will straighten this out. They have no grounds to arrest you.”
He meant every word, but…could he? Before I could make a decision, I heard their horses tramping into our yard. Then came a fierce rapping at the door – hard and quick like the knocking of a cane.
It is too late to flee.
The rapping turned into pounding.
Father, keeping a slow pace, opened the door, wearing an air of superiority. “Magistrate, I assume you’re here on some legal business?”
What I’d thought was a cane was actually a staff.
“Step back, Baltus. I have an arrest warrant.” He held a document up to Father’s nose.
Father’s jaw tightened as he guarded the door. “You’re making a mistake, Harding.” He had no choice but to step away as Cas
par Jansen and Peter Bottoms pushed their way in.
How had Caspar found his way back onto the Council?
Peter’s eyes narrowed to slits when he saw me. His lips curled over his knobby teeth.
The Magistrate made a royal entrance, followed by Notary de Graff and Reverend Bushnell. He held the warrant up again so that I may see it closely. “Katrina Van Tassel, you are under arrest for the murders of Garritt de Graff and Marten Piers.”
Murder? I still gripped the sofa, but kept my chin high. My time for hiding had passed.
Father strode forward and ripped the warrant from the Magistrate’s hand. “You have the audacity to come here with these ravings of madness! You’ve all seen The Horseman. You were here when he ravaged my home. How can you stand there and accuse my daughter of crimes most assuredly committed by this ruthless ghost?”
Harding turned on Father, spittle flying from his lips. “Baltus, she is a witch!”
“How dare you?” Father struck the Magistrate with the back of his hand. With the quickness of wild hares, Peter and Caspar lunged at Father, restraining him.
The Reverend bustled forward in panic. “Gentleman, let’s keep our wits. This does not need to end in a physical altercation.”
“Keep your wits?” I cried, no longer able to stand by. “You’ve obviously lost yours long before you came here. On what grounds are you accusing me?”
The Magistrate scowled, his cheek flaming red. “Oh Katrina,” – A vicious smile spread across his face – “you tend to leave an untidy trail.”
“So I’m to assume you have some false evidence to present?” I was sure he could hear the banging of my heart.
He put his hand to the sting of his cheek. “Not false.” Then he turned to the Notary and motioned him forward.
De Graff raised his weary eyes, then dangled Simon’s talisman from his fingers.
How could he betray me this way?
The Magistrate tapped his staff. “Did you not give this to the de Graff boy before he was killed?”
I struggled to control my labored breathing. “It was intended as protection.”
His beady eyes flattened. “And yet it provided none.”
“So you’re accusing me of murder because a small charm failed to work?”
The Magistrate scoffed. “Do you think we’re so ignorant that we’d arrest you on that alone?” He nodded to Peter.
Peter loosened his grip on Father, then opened his fist. “I believe this belongs to you?”
In the center of his palm was something resembling a burnt seed.
“The other rose. Where did you find it?”
“Inside the hearth at the schoolhouse,” the Magistrate said. “It was buried under a mass of stiff and stinking birds. Some ritual of yours, I presume.”
“That was not me.”
“Then who? Who else would create such desecration?”
I dared not betray Elise. Would they even believe me if I did?
Father shrugged away from Caspar and rushed forward. The Magistrate held up his staff to prevent being struck again.
“You’re all raving mad!” Father spat. “How can intelligent men such as yourselves possibly believe these trinkets are harbingers of magic?”
The Reverend intervened, holding up his Bible as though it would calm the room. “Katrina, there is more to this than magical charms and dead birds. It was you who ran that sword into The Horseman’s grave.”
“For the greater good.”
The Magistrate blast a sharp laugh. “The greater good? It was a selfish act to fool us into releasing Crane.” His lip twitched. “I should no doubt add fornication to your list of offenses.”
Father lunged, but Peter and Caspar clutched his coat and dragged him away from Harding’s throat.
“You know it was not witchcraft,” I argued. “I only meant to seal the ghost in.”
“There is more,” the Reverend said. “A witness saw you defile the grave.”
A chill coursed through me, but I did not waver. “Who?”
The Reverend shook his head. “For his own safety we won’t reveal it. But he intends to testify. He watched you shatter and pick at every bone. And he claims you did it with calm determination.”
It could only have been the cemetery caretaker.
“You don’t understand,” I defended.
“Katrina,” Father barked. “Say nothing more.”
The Magistrate raised a hand. “It doesn’t matter. We saw the condition of the grave. Even before Crane tried to cover it for you.”
“He tried to cover it?” He had not told me.
“Katrina!” Father ordered. “They’re spinning lies.”
They weren’t. My head swam as the seriousness of my situation overcame me.
Peter rolled my tiny rose between his fingers. “It’s easy to control The Horseman when you have his bones. Bring him up from Hell to murder Marten.”
Father slapped the rose from Peter’s hand. “Why would she do that? She cared for the boy. She wished him no harm.”
“Unless…” Peter said, dragging the word. “It was the only way she could see fit to release her lover.”
“Peter, please,” the Reverend warned.
But the tavern owner gritted his teeth. “You’d sacrifice anyone to be with the schoolmaster. I bet you’d serve up the bones of your dead mother.”
When Father pounced again, Harding struck him with the staff. Then he pounded it twice upon the floor. “We’ve said enough. Come along, Katrina. Don’t force us to bind you.”
“You’ll have to kill me first,” Father said.
Caspar withdrew a small pistol and leveled it at Father’s nose. “If need be.”
I flung myself forward. “No! I’ll go! Please don’t hurt him.”
Father’s breath was quick and ragged. “Do not take her.”
“She did what she did,” Peter snarled. “Now she has to face the consequences.” He clasped my arms, pulling me away.
“I’m riding in,” Father said. “You’ll all pay for this.”
The Magistrate raised his staff. “Do not attempt to interfere, Baltus. If you want to help your daughter, you’ll have to seek other means.”
“I intend to.” Father pointed a threatening finger. “When this trial proceeds, she’ll be represented by the best lawyer in New York.”
“She going to need him,” the Magistrate said. He pounded his staff to the floor again. “Let’s hasten.”
Even though I didn’t resist, Peter shoved me out the door. A black carriage waited. He waggled an eyebrow and flashed his tiny teeth. “I’ll ride inside with the prisoner.”
“No, please,” I begged, clutching the Reverend.
Reverend Bushnell handed me his Bible. “I’ll ride with her. She is in much need of prayer.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “Then perhaps I can comfort her once she’s in her cell.”
I swayed with fear.
All that is Holy, what will become of me now?
* * *
The Reverend did pray as we rode to the jail. Silently with his head down. His inability to meet my eye reeked of guilt and shame.
I should’ve been filled with dread, but we were going to the courthouse. I remembered…
Ichabod resides in the file room. Surely he’s returned by now.
When the carriage finally came to a stop, the Reverend took one arm while de Graff took the other, guiding me inside. Peter and Caspar followed. As did the Magistrate, prodding me with his staff. He wore an air of superiority, probably from smelling my fear.
We pushed through the doors, into the sullen courtroom. Fallon waited by the jail, grinning like a bridegroom.
I then lashed out, fighting against them.
“Ichabod!” Is he back? Can he hear me?
“Ichabod!”
The Magistrate rammed the staff hard into my back, knocking the wind out of me. “Stop your screeching.”
Peter strode up and grabbed my bodice, clutching
it so his hand rubbed against my breast. “I’ve got her.”
My flesh crawled with repulsion.
He tugged, practically dragging me out of the men’s holds.
Do something. Quickly. I suddenly went limp, wilting within his arms.
“Get up,” he spat. When he jerked me upward, I pounced, sinking my teeth into his wounded shoulder.
He yelped like a sick dog, prying me off. “You filthy wench!”
He reached for my throat, but the Magistrate struck him with the staff. “You’re no longer needed here, Peter. Go tend to your tavern.”
Peter leered at me, his eyes brewing with hate. “I’ll go gather some sturdy rope.” He held his hand to his shoulder as he loped off.
The Magistrate handed me over to Fallon. “Lock her up.”
“Ichabod! Ichabod!”
“He ain’t here,” Fallon said, grabbing my arm and twisting it behind my back. I hissed in pain, feeling that it may pop off like a cork.
“Have you seen him at all today?” I moaned between winces.
Fallon tossed me into the cell. “I hadn’t seen him in a while.” His mouth screwed into a brassy smirk. “I’ll wager he’s got a mistress somewhere.”
He hasn’t returned?
“But don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll turn up after he’s done with her.” The click of the lock echoed through the chamber, dashing my hopes of escape.
Fallon placed his taut face to the bars. “Mealtime’s passed. I’ll bring you some bread and water in the morning.” Then he paused, his eyes lighting. “Or maybe not. A witch like you could conjure up a hearty feast, I bet.”
I curled my lip at him. “If I were a witch, I’d boil up a poison inside your weak bladder, and you’d burn from the inside out.”
He sneered like a hungry hound. “Watch yourself, girl, or I’ll have Peter serve your meals instead.”
He cut away, slinking out of the jail room, locking the door behind him.
I sank back, observing my surroundings. Ichabod’s cozy furniture had been removed and I was left with little comfort. The cell held a rickety blue chair, stippled with the wax of guttered candles - the only usable candle left lay on its side, next to a tinderbox. In a corner sat an empty pitcher, veined with gray cracks. Beside it, a tainted chamber pot. And should I tire, I was provided a cornhusk mattress, along with a coarse green blanket, blotched with oily stains.