The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel

by Alyssa Palombo

  Yet this time I heard his voice, calling out for me.

  “Katrina!” His usually warm voice rang with terror. “Katrina!”

  At once I began to run to him, even though doing so meant also running toward the Horseman. I ran toward him anyway, even as every thought, every inch of muscle and skin and bone in my body screamed for me to turn and run the other way.

  As I drew nearer, somehow Ichabod’s voice began to fade, growing more distant as if slowly being taken from me. “Katrina! Katrina!”

  Heart in my throat, I had nearly reached the Horseman when he turned away from me and galloped deeper into the woods, in pursuit of Ichabod. And in that instant I realized Ichabod had not been calling for help—he had been warning me away.

  “No!” I cried, as I watched the Horseman ride toward Ichabod.

  “No!” I cried, my eyes flying open as I bolted upright.

  In that first hazy instant upon waking, the deep darkness of the forest surrounded me, the black outlines of the trees nearly indiscernible against the dark sky. I screamed, certain it had been no dream at all, but that the forest had swallowed me whole in my quest to find Ichabod, to save him from the Horseman. Fear flooded me as I realized I must be too late.

  Ichabod’s arms found me, as he sat up and drew me against him, rocking me slowly. “Shhh, Katrina,” he whispered against my hair. “All is well. I am here.”

  “Ichabod?” I said, my voice thick and unwieldy as it forced its way up through my throat. “Is it you? You are here?”

  “Yes, my love,” he said soothingly.

  “But … where…” I drew away from him and frantically searched the forest around us. “He must be here as well … the Horseman … I saw him, he cannot be far…”

  “Shhh,” he hushed me again, holding me tighter. “Do not fret, Katrina. I swear to you, all is well. No one else is here. You have had a nightmare, that is all.”

  “A nightmare…” I shuddered and threaded my arms around his back, burying my face in his shoulder, blocking out the darkness around us. No doubt he was right; I had dreamed of the Horseman enough times before. Yet never had I woken to find myself deep in the very forest he was said to inhabit.

  As I awoke more fully, I began to recall the dream in greater detail. This dream had been different from the others. Never before had Ichabod called my name; never before had I moved, let alone run toward the Horseman. And never had I dreamt of that clearing. I shuddered again, recalling the fear in Ichabod’s voice as he cried out for me, the moment of crushing uncertainty just before I woke, when I had been unsure whether he was calling for me to help him, or warning me to flee.

  “Do you want to tell me what you dreamt?” Ichabod asked, stroking my hair. “The Horseman, you said it was?”

  “No,” I said. “I mean, yes … I saw him, in the dream. But … it is nonsense. Eerie nonsense, perhaps, but…”

  “I am not surprised,” he said, his voice hard. “When we come out into this haunted wood to meet, where anyone and anything could be watching…”

  I shivered. “Do not say such things, I pray you.”

  “I am sorry. It is just…” He loosened his grip so he could see me, regret etched on his face. “This is not right. It is not worthy of you. How I wish I had a home of my own, a proper bed that I could take you to…”

  “I wish it, too, but for the time we have no choice,” I said. “It is either the woods, or we do not see each other alone.”

  He was silent, and I knew he was thinking the same thing as I: how could we bear to be apart, for any length of time? To give up such meetings, as imperfect as they were? Despite the dangers, the fears …

  “Soon, my love,” I whispered before he could ask. “Soon we will speak to my father. I must have a little time first, to convince my father that Brom and I will never make a match.”

  “You should not have to,” Ichabod said. “Your choice should be enough. That there is a man who loves you, and whom you love, should be all that is needed.”

  I shook my head. “It should, but I have known Brom all my life, and my father has always fancied the two of us would wed. I must have time to bring him around.” I suppressed another shiver as the tarot cards, and my premonition, flashed through my mind. Of these tidings, Ichabod could know nothing.

  Ichabod sighed again, frustrated. “If you say so, Katrina,” he said. “You know the situation and players far better than I.”

  I cupped his face in my hands. “We will be together, Ichabod,” I said firmly. “We will be husband and wife. Do not doubt it.”

  He turned his head and kissed my palm. “I never have,” he said.

  * * *

  That night, as I rode in front of Ichabod on Gunpowder’s saddle, I could not seem to quiet my fears. Even with Ichabod there, solid behind me, I trembled with fear at all the shadows in which an ill-meaning spirit could hide. Ichabod wrapped an arm protectively around my waist. “There is nothing to fear,” he whispered in my ear. “You are safe.”

  I wished that I could believe him.

  He drew Gunpowder to a halt just before the road, and reluctantly I slid from the saddle. “Will you be all right the rest of the way?” he asked.

  I nodded, still unsure.

  “I can take you to the door, if you wish.”

  “And run the risk of someone hearing us, or seeing you? No,” I said. “We cannot chance it.”

  Ichabod dismounted and took my face in his hands. “Your safety and peace of mind are the most important things by far,” he said. He kissed me.

  I returned his kiss, wishing he did not need to leave me. Oh, that we might both climb back onto Gunpowder’s back and spur the noble old beast onward, into the night; that we might ride fast and far from Sleepy Hollow, far from the Headless Horseman and witchcraft and nightmares and ill omens. We could ride to New York City and lose ourselves in the crowds; to Boston and its Puritan churches; to the wilderness of Maine. Or we could ride west, and keep riding, until we were somewhere that no one would know us or find us, somewhere too far ever to return to this haunted place.

  Reluctantly, I stepped back. “I will be fine,” I said, trying to reassure him, even if I could not reassure myself. “It is not far.”

  “Very well,” he said. “If you are sure.” He swung back up into the saddle.

  I nodded. “Good night, my love. I will see you soon.”

  With that, I turned toward my house, resisting at every step the urge to turn and look back at him. I was too afraid I might turn around only to find my nightmare come to life.

  * * *

  The next morning, I found myself feeling rather foolish at my nervousness the night before. As I looked out my window toward the small stand of woods at the side of the house, sunshine gilding the tree leaves, I shook my head in impatience with myself. For the first time I thought it was lucky Ichabod was of a somewhat superstitious mind; if he was not, he would think me quite mad.

  * * *

  The next few weeks passed unremarkably. I helped my mother and Nancy with chores, visited with Charlotte—each time, we studiously avoided talk of tarot cards or visions or the Sight—and I endured Brom’s company only when I had to. I was polite, but distant at every turn. Even as he grew frustrated with me, it was plain he did not know what else to do. I felt my father frowning at my reticence on the few occasions when Brom dined with us, but I ignored him. Let him see for himself that I had no desire to marry Brom Van Brunt, no matter how he might wish it.

  Ichabod came for my voice lessons, and we arranged nights to meet in the woods. I tried not to betray to him again how uneasy the forest made me, for my dreams of the Horseman had not ceased. He would put a halt to our trysts, thinking it in my best interests. So I pushed my fears aside, living for the time I spent in his arms, when nothing else mattered. And each time, I drank my herbs faithfully.

  What he and I did not speak of was the fact that the end of summer was upon us. Soon the weather would cool and freeze and the woods would no
longer be an option. We would need some other, hopefully permanent, arrangement. We would need to speak to my father, come what may, or endure many months apart.

  I pushed away the tarot cards, and my own vision of doom, let them grow faint in my memory. I had no reason to trust in such things.

  Instead I trusted the love in Ichabod’s eyes, so present that I did not know how the whole village did not see it. It was there, always, visible and tangible, and I clung to it when we were apart, as I waited for the string of nights to come when he would always be beside me.

  24

  The Challenge

  “I have a new song for you to learn,” Ichabod said, one day in mid-September. Preparations for the harvest were in full swing around us, and my help could certainly have been used about the household, but my father allowed me to continue my lessons uninterrupted.

  “Oh?” I asked with a smile.

  “Or, rather, a new song for us to learn,” Ichabod clarified.

  “I can’t wait,” I said, as he handed me the song sheet.

  I had grown much more adept at reading music under Ichabod’s tutelage, and I could already hear the lovely, wistful melody in my head. The lyrics—bittersweet and beautiful—told the story of star-crossed lovers by a willow near a stream. It was so perfect for us—fitting, yet would not attract suspicion if overheard—that I began to wonder if he had written it himself.

  Before I could ask, he took up his guitar. “Perhaps you’d like to warm up with a scale, and then attempt the song?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, reluctantly putting the sheets aside.

  He guided me through some scales, then gestured for me to pick up the song again. “Try to sight-read the lady’s part, if you would,” he said.

  “And you?” I asked. “Have you already learnt the gentleman’s part?”

  His eyes, green as spring moss, held mine. “Oh yes,” he said. “I know it very well.”

  He played the opening bars, then nodded for me to begin. Voice hesitant, then growing in strength, I sang of how a lady waited by the banks of a stream under a willow tree for her lover to come to her. I almost could not sing past the emotion that constricted my throat, but I pushed forward, knowing Ichabod would soon stop me for corrections.

  But he did not. Instead he played on, into the next verse, and began to sing himself. Somehow his voice sounded all the more rich and beautiful and resonant as he sang the gentleman’s response, how he would never be far for his lady love to seek, how he would bring her a rare lotus flower to match her beauty. At the chorus, I joined in again on the melody, and his part switched to the harmony. Still we did not stop.

  The third verse had us singing together, intertwining melody and harmony, passing the parts back and forth. The lovers promised their devotion, come what may. The song then ended with the chorus again, and so deep was I in the emotion of the piece that I almost didn’t notice my melody change slightly at the end. I only just caught it, landing in a wobbly sort of fashion on the correct note.

  Ichabod played the final measures, and then looked up and met my eyes again. Tears threatened to overflow from my eyes. “Where … where did you find this song?” I asked, my voice hushed as though afraid to disturb the holy forces that had come to occupy our space.

  He set his guitar down and rose. “I knew you would like it,” he said.

  “It is perfect,” I whispered.

  He stepped close to me and kissed me, deeply, albeit briefly. When he drew back he stayed close, cradling my face in his hands.

  “And does the teacher have any criticisms for his pupil?” I asked, trying to make my tone light, but the weight of the emotion still in it—still in me—made it waver and crack.

  He kissed me again. “No,” he said, his voice rough. “You were flawless. Exactly as I had dreamed.”

  It wasn’t until later I realized that he had never answered my question about where the song had come from.

  * * *

  We ended our lesson early that day, though for the next few lessons all we did was sing that song together. Ichabod would have me repeat phrases here and there, under the guise of correcting. In reality we savored the repetition of each verse, each word, each note. We sang it together countless times, the duet our own secret form of lovemaking.

  We continued to meet in the forest, as the weather still remained warm enough that we could brave the night air. Yet in each moment we spent at our spot by the stream, I felt the ticking of the clock. Soon we would no longer be able to meet here, and what then?

  Early October favored us with a brilliantly warm and sunny day. After my lesson, I threw caution to the wind. “It is a fine day, Mr. Crane,” I said as we left the music room. “Would you favor me with a stroll?”

  His eyes sparked with both concern and excitement. “It would be my honor, Miss Van Tassel,” he said, offering me his arm as we began to move toward the front door. “As you know, many of my students are not in classes just now for the harvest, so I find myself with an overabundance of time, something to which I am quite unaccustomed.”

  We left the house without anyone seeing, though we sought neither to hide nor advertise our actions. “And how is dear Miss Jansen?” Ichabod asked as we made our way, arm in arm, toward the woods. “She is well, I trust? It has been some time since I have seen her in the village.”

  “Well indeed, though she has been busy,” I said. “She and her mother have much work to do gathering herbs at this time of the year, so they are stocked with everything they might need before winter.”

  “Indeed,” he said. He smiled down at me. “They do good work, the both of them.”

  I beamed at his approval of my friend, almost as much as if he had complimented me. “That they do.”

  As we moved deeper into the trees, our words and actions grew less formal. Ichabod slid an arm around my waist, pulling me closer, so that our hips touched as we walked. My pulse spiked at such an intimate gesture in broad daylight. I pushed aside my uneasiness about the forest—ever-present, now, between the dreams and visions and eerie experiences of the night—and leaned into him, reveling in the simple closeness.

  “Someday,” Ichabod said, “we shall walk close together like this everywhere we go, and those who see us pass will know us for the most loving husband and wife that has ever been.”

  I stopped and kissed him, briefly. “That they will,” I said. “And I do not know how you could have known it, but those were my very thoughts as well.”

  He smiled. “It does not surprise me that we are of one mind, my love.”

  We walked on to our spot by the stream, where Ichabod took me forcefully into his arms, pressing my back against a large tree and kissing me deeply, hungrily. I let out a soft moan myself in feeling.

  His hands wandered down over my waist, and for a moment, I thought he meant to hike up my skirts and have me right up against the tree trunk—and I would surely have let him. But to my dismay, he paused. “We should stop,” he said, his voice low in my ear as he struggled to regain his breath. “We cannot … it is the middle of the day. Anyone might come along.”

  I considered convincing him otherwise. In all the times we had come here, day or night, no one had ever happened upon us. Surely today would be no different? Yet I recognized the wisdom in his words and sighed, mastering my desire. “Yes,” I said, my voice cracking. “You are right.”

  He moved back and I stepped away from the tree, the two of us brushing our clothes and hair back into order. He removed his cloak and spread it on the ground so we could sit. I spread my skirts around me, resting my head on his chest. I could hear his heart was still pounding furiously as he kissed my hair.

  I sighed and looked up at him. “I cannot bear any more of this,” I said. “I know I have said it time and again, but truly I am at my wits’ end now.”

  His arm about my shoulders tightened. “What shall we do, then?” he asked quietly.

  I met his eyes without wavering. “You must ask my father fo
r my hand soon,” I said. “So we need not go on like this much longer. Do you not agree?”

  He kissed me. “Oh, I agree,” he said huskily. “But…” He leaned back, and I could all but see his rational mind take over. “Are you sure, Katrina? Are you sure at last? After all this time, it would not do to misplay our hand.”

  I was not. I had no reason to believe my earlier concerns were any less valid now. I only knew I could no longer abide the waiting and uncertainty. I had to know what our future would be. And if the worst should happen, and my father should refuse Ichabod’s suit, then we would have to decide on some other course of action.

  But I had to believe he would not refuse, not when he saw how truly we loved each other, how happy Ichabod made me. He could not.

  “Yes,” I said. “We have nothing to gain by waiting much longer. Only time together to lose, as it grows colder.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” he conceded. He squeezed me tightly. “And when shall I speak to your father? Shall we march back up to the house so that I may ask him now?”

  “No,” I said, suddenly panicked that my future might be decided within the next hour. “Not today. I…”

  Ichabod chuckled. “I spoke only in jest, Katrina,” he assured me. “I shall need some time to prepare what to say.” He kissed my forehead. “Not that I have not already thought on it a great deal.”

  “Yes,” I said, relieved. “Let it be…” I thought quickly. “Let it be the night of All Hallows’ Eve.”

  He gave me a quizzical look. “All Hallows’ Eve? Hardly an auspicious night, that.”

  I shook my head. “It shall be, I think. My father holds a large party on that night every year, to celebrate the harvest and lift everyone’s spirits going into the dark winter. You will surely be invited. My father will be in a jolly mood, and so as the party comes to an end you shall ask for a word with him.” My voice gained confidence as I spoke. “He will not refuse you. If he has doubts, I shall be there to assuage them, to make certain he knows this is what I want above all else.”