The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel

by Alyssa Palombo

  “The weather is not too harsh today,” I commented. The sun was shining, and the temperature was above freezing, a rare treat. “Perhaps we might venture into the woods today.”

  “Are you sure that is wise, in your condition?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I am with child, not an invalid,” I said. “And I am in need of some exercise. My mother and Brom do nothing but extort me to rest. I am quite tired of resting.”

  “I do not speak of the exercise overtaxing you,” she said slowly. “For as you say, it will be good for you. But rather…” She hesitated. “What if we discover something that upsets you? That would not be good for the child.”

  I had not thought of this. After everything I had done for the child, I could not endanger her now. Yet I refused to be dissuaded. I feared if I did not start at that very moment, I might not want to start again. “As you said, we likely will not find anything,” I said at last. “I just want to look, so I know we at least tried.”

  “If you are sure,” Charlotte said. “But if at any point you begin to feel unwell, or upset, you’ll tell me, won’t you? You’ll tell me and I’ll bring you right back home.”

  “Of course,” I said, already rising to get my cloak.

  Dressing ourselves warmly against the cold, we left the cottage and began to walk toward the church, Nox trotting at our side. We made our way through the burial ground and into the woods behind the church, the portion of the forest nearest where the only traces of Ichabod had been found.

  “Gunpowder was never found, either, was he?” Charlotte asked from behind me as we made our way single file along the narrow paths through the trees. Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed silence of the winter woods.

  “No,” I said. “So that would support the likelihood that Ichabod simply left.”

  Charlotte did not respond, and I knew that we were likely thinking the same thing: or the Horseman had spirited Ichabod and Gunpowder both away to the netherworld.

  “Have you heard of the new schoolmaster?” Charlotte asked as we walked on, eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary: more shards of a pumpkin, or hoof prints, or fabric caught in the branches.

  “Smith is his name, is it not?” I asked. Ichabod’s replacement had arrived in Sleepy Hollow a month after his disappearance. Occupied with my upcoming wedding to Brom, I had scarcely paid the talk of the new schoolmaster any attention. “He has been here for some time already. What of it?”

  “He is moving the schoolhouse,” she said.

  I stopped and turned to face her. “What? Moving it? What do you mean?”

  “Not physically moving it, of course,” Charlotte said. “But the old schoolhouse—the one Ichabod taught in—is to be abandoned, and lessons will henceforth be taught in a new building nearer the Albany Post Road.”

  This news disturbed me more than it ought, for reasons I could not quite identify. “But why?”

  Charlotte looked away uncomfortably. “They—Master Smith, the children, and some of the villagers—they say the schoolhouse is haunted.”

  “Haunted?” I demanded. A chill breeze swirled around us, whistling through the bare tree branches. “By whom? Surely Sleepy Hollow has more than enough ghosts to be getting on with.”

  “By … well, by the ghost of Ichabod Crane.”

  I spun away from her so that she might not see the look on my face and continued walking. “I thought you did not wish me to be upset,” I said.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I should not have brought it up. I thought you must have heard.”

  “I had not,” I said. I sighed. “Though I suppose better that I hear it from you.”

  “Yes, well,” Charlotte said, still sounding sheepish. “As you know, the commonly accepted explanation in the village for Ichabod’s disappearance is that the Headless Horseman carried him off.” A shiver went down my spine. “And so they say his ghost has returned to haunt the schoolhouse. Supposedly they hear him whistling, as he did when he would walk along the road. Other times they hear him singing.”

  It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be. For surely if Ichabod was dead, if he had gone over to the other side and was capable of haunting the schoolhouse, why would he not haunt me? Why would he not bring me some message from beyond the veil?

  “Anyway,” Charlotte said, “that is what they say.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “They say a great many things in the village.”

  Just then, Nox barked suddenly and ran ahead down the path.

  “Nox, come back!” I called. We hastened after him until we arrived at the edge of a large, round clearing in the trees.

  My breath caught in my throat. This was it. The fabled, haunted clearing where the Hessian rider was said to have met his end. Beside me, Nox growled low in his throat.

  I shivered again, more violently this time. Had this been where I’d intended to go all along? Or had some other force compelled me to this Godforsaken place?

  Glancing upward, I saw that dark clouds now obscured the sun. Had not the sky been clear when we’d set out from Charlotte’s cottage? Surely not. I must have been mistaken. Even in winter, clouds could not come up this quickly.

  I glanced over at Charlotte, who was studying the clearing with apprehension. “So this is it,” she said softly, as though wary of disturbing whoever—or whatever—might be lingering here.

  “Have you been here before?” I asked.

  “Once,” she said. “As a girl. I was wandering the woods and got lost. Then as now, I…” She shuddered. “I do not know if the stories are true, but something evil happened here. I can feel it. There is a power, an energy, in the ground, the very air.”

  Nox growled again.

  “I … I think I know what you mean,” I said uneasily.

  We stayed poised uncertainly at the edge of the clearing for a moment longer before Charlotte took a step forward. “Well, now that we are here, we may as well have a look around.”

  “Is it safe, do you think?” I asked.

  “Safe enough, I should think,” she said vaguely.

  I was not at all reassured by that answer, but I stepped into the clearing nonetheless. Nox followed us most reluctantly.

  If I was expecting some magical wind to rise up and sweep us into its vortex as soon as we set foot into the clearing, though, I was mistaken. We wandered the perimeter, searching the ground and trees for clues, but we did not see or hear anything. There was only that same, continuous, oppressive feeling of weight, as though the air here was somehow heavier. There were no birds in the nearby trees, nor squirrels nor rabbits nor any other kind of wildlife. Many of them were no doubt hibernating for the winter, but not to hear any sort of animal at all was … eerie.

  The ground was hard from the recent frost, and it looked disturbed, churned up in places, frozen into tiny peaks and valleys. This did not necessarily mean anything; only that a herd of deer had passed through, or a horse had ridden across the clearing. I shuddered at the thought of a horse and rider.

  It felt as though we scoured every inch of the clearing but aside from the disturbed ground, did not find anything out of the ordinary. And signs of Ichabod’s flight—or mishap—might be found anywhere in the woods surrounding Sleepy Hollow. Charlotte and I could not possibly search it all.

  This was fruitless. As hopeful and optimistic as I was when we’d left Charlotte’s cottage, so glad to be taking action, I now felt defeated. What had I expected? The apparition of the Headless Horseman himself, waiting patiently so I might inquire of him? Excuse me, demonic specter, but did you spirit away my lover to the underworld? Of course, I understand that you cannot speak, being not possessed of a head; simply incline your torso for yes, if you would be so kind. A peal of near hysterical laughter escaped me at the thought.

  “We should go, Charlotte,” I said, my voice ringing out loudly in the silence. “There is nothing for us to find here.” When she didn’t answer, I turned to face her. “Charlotte?”

  She stood
toward the center of the clearing, staring off into the empty air above her as if looking at a picture I could not see. And maybe she was. “Charlotte?” I called a little bit louder. Still she did not turn. I approached her slowly, fearfully, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Charlotte?”

  She jumped. “Katrina!” she gasped, pressing a hand to her breast. “I … you startled me.”

  “I was calling your name,” I said. “Are you all right, Charlotte? Did you … did you see something?”

  “See something?” she repeated. “I … no. I was lost in thought, is all. I apologize.” She shivered and drew her cloak more tightly around herself.

  I studied her for a moment. She had appeared to be in the trancelike state I had witnessed before, when she was seeing some vision of the future. Yet surely if she had seen anything of relevance, she would tell me. Besides, it was not the future I was interested in now, but the past that had yet to reveal itself to me. But perhaps she was telling the truth. This strange clearing certainly seemed capable of casting a spell over any who dared linger. “Let’s go,” I said. “There is nothing to find here, and I am cold. Nox!” I called. He was at the edge of the clearing, sniffing determinedly around a tree trunk—no doubt in pursuit of some animal that had lately been there. “Nox, come away from there! Let’s go.”

  He obeyed, and Charlotte followed me back to the path from which we had come. “I am not so certain there is nothing to find,” I thought I heard her say, but when I glanced back, she merely eyed me inquisitively. I faced forward again, certain that I had imagined it and not heard any such thing at all.

  42

  The Spellbook

  After our trip to the clearing that day, I did not bring up the search for Ichabod again for some time. The truth was I did not know what else to do. Or, rather, I had some ideas—consulting the tarot cards again being one of them—but I did not feel ready. Every so often of a winter evening, I would find myself staring into the fire in the hearth, hoping and fearing that another vision would come to me in the flames. A part of me did not want to feel that suffocating terror again, but another part felt it would be worth it, if there was a chance it would give me answers.

  Yet as my pregnancy progressed, I was often tired and irritable, and heeded Charlotte’s wisdom that I not risk harming the child. That meant my search for answers was postponed until after the child’s birth. This self-imposed restriction at times brought feelings of both relief and frustration.

  Winter melted into spring, and I continued to run the house efficiently. When Brom was home, he slept in the guest room to ensure that the child and I benefited from a full night of rest. I was grateful for his absence from my bed, but I could not help but be touched by his obvious concern and solicitousness.

  He was gone most days, in New York or occasionally Boston, and I found I did not relish being alone, not as I once had when I was a girl. There was too much in my mind that I wanted to escape, to forget, and the empty silence of the house meant that memories could more easily find me. I did not wish for Brom’s presence, but some days I could not help but feel that the more people who were in the house, the better.

  Nancy was always about, of course, and she and I grew closer than ever. We dined together most nights, when she was not out visiting friends, and of many a cold evening we would sit together by the fire, gossiping and laughing.

  I visited with Charlotte often, as always, and invited her to my house whenever Brom was gone. We shared many a meal together when we could, on those days and nights when she was not needed to assist her mother.

  And whenever I felt as though I could not stave off the memories, I would go to my desk, seize my quill, and continue writing my stories. Some took days to write out in full, with all the detail and embellishment that I could give them. It gave me joy and purpose in a way I hadn’t anticipated, and I soon found myself longing for those free, quiet moments when I could sit with only pen and paper for company. As spring ripened and the air got warmer, I would go into the woods—not far, not deep—to a new secluded spot I found where I could sit and read or write without being disturbed.

  The one story I found myself unable to commit to paper, however, was the very first one I had told Ichabod: the legend of the Headless Horseman. I felt rather superstitious about writing it down. This was ridiculous, of course, and I told myself that I could not summon such a specter with my words, yet still I did not write it down.

  One day, I flipped to the blank pages at the back of the book and started a new, very different entry. I wrote a date at the top of the page, then the following:

  Walked with Charlotte to the clearing where the Headless Horseman is said to have lost his life in battle. Air was heavy and oppressive, somehow. We searched the whole perimeter of the clearing, but other than some disturbance of the ground did not find anything of note.

  I went on to detail the fast-changing weather that day, the thoughts I’d had as we searched, Charlotte’s strange moment of deep thought, before I laid down my quill, satisfied. I would record it all here, along with my stories. Everything I found—or did not find—in my quest for the truth. It would be a book of truths, stories, and spells.

  For are not truths, stories, and spells all the same thing, in the end?

  43

  The Body in the Hudson

  One fine day in early May I was at the market with Charlotte. It was my excuse to get out into the fresh air; Brom was so adamant I rest when he was home—and even Nancy was being slightly over-solicitous—such that I thought if I was forced to rest for an hour more I might scream.

  “A bit of exercise is good for you, and for the babe,” Charlotte told me, and I needed no further convincing.

  So I wandered about the market idly, trailing behind Charlotte as she examined fruit and vegetables, and purchased a new set of glass jars for her remedies. I was simply enjoying the sun on my face when I first heard the whispers.

  “Pulled him right out of the river, they did … they say he could have been there all winter, no telling when he was dumped in…”

  I froze as the words entered my brain. Immediately my thoughts flashed to the small river that fed into the millpond, where Ichabod’s hat had been found.

  No, I told myself firmly. That river had been searched the day after he’d gone missing.

  I glanced about for Charlotte, ready to put it out of my mind, when another woman joined the two who’d been whispering at the fruit stand.

  “You’ve heard?” she said excitedly. “Not ten miles down the river, they found him. They say he was stabbed, several times.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Mevrouw Van Buren chimed in. “I heard his throat was cut.”

  “I heard he was shot!” cried Mevrouw Van Ripper.

  I was listening unabashedly now, could no longer pretend that I was not.

  “And who is it, then?” Mevrouw Van Buren asked. “Anyone we know? Anyone from around these parts?”

  The woman who’d joined the pair, whose name I thought was Mevrouw Lange, shook her head. “No one knows. Can’t tell, can they? He’s been in the water too long. Even with the winter cold, he’s rotted too much.” She pronounced these last ghastly words with relish. “All they know is he’s of no little height, slender, and a man on the younger side.”

  I stopped breathing.

  “Katrina, you are pale as ice! What…” Charlotte approached and clutched my arm, and I shook my head, inclining my head toward the trio. She frowned and began to listen as well.

  Mevrouw Van Ripper sniffed in derision. “No doubt some young fool who got caught up in a duel or a tavern brawl or some such nonsense, and was tossed in the river so the whole affair might be hidden.”

  Mevrouw Van Buren had a thoughtful look on her face. “A young man, tall and slender?” she asked. She lowered her voice. “You don’t think it could be the schoolteacher, do you?”

  I nearly choked on the air coming into my lungs.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,”
Mevrouw Lange admitted. “I suppose it might be, mightn’t it? He disappeared in what, November?”

  “All Hallows’ Eve, it was,” supplied Mevrouw Van Buren.

  “Excuse me,” Charlotte broke in, stepping into their circle and pulling me with her. She smiled around at all of them; even so, they drew away ever so slightly but did not leave. “But did you say a man has been pulled from the river?”

  Mevrouw Lange nodded importantly, looking wary but still glad, in the manner of all committed gossips, to have a newcomer to whom to tell the story. “About ten miles downriver, out of the Hudson,” she confirmed. “Some violence had been done to him, that’s for sure, though we’re all in disagreement over what kind it was.”

  “And did you say,” I spoke up, surprising myself with my rather even voice, through every word felt about to strangle me, “you think it could be … Ichabod Crane?”

  “Aye,” Mevrouw Van Buren said.

  Mevrouw Van Ripper shook her head. “It would be a terrible shame, that, if it were him. He was a good lad. Well, you know, Juffrouw Van Tassel,” she said to me. “Pardon me, Mevrouw Van Brunt, that is. He stayed with you as well. He was your music teacher, was he not?”

  “Yes,” I managed. “Yes, I was rather fond of him.”

  “Indeed. Well, we shall hope it is not him,” Mevrouw Van Ripper said with a shudder. “I hope he was simply spooked by all the tales and rode off, and nothing more.”

  “Ichabod Crane was carried off by the Headless Horseman,” a scratchy voice spoke up, and they moved aside to reveal Mevrouw Douw. She grinned, the expression all sharp edges. “You’ll not find him in the Hudson. You’ll not find him anywhere at all.”

  The three women glanced warily at each other. Mevrouw Van Buren shivered. “I wouldn’t doubt it,” she said. “Not with the way he disappeared like that, and on All Hallows’ Eve, no less. I wouldn’t wonder that it was the Horseman.”

  “You mark my words,” Mevrouw Douw said. “It was the Horseman.” She looked significantly around at each of us, then nodded. “Good day, ladies,” she said, and walked on.