By this time, I was sobbing, and Charlotte held me until I was through.
* * *
That night, I dreamed of the Horseman for the last time. I saw him sitting atop his horse at the entrance to the forest path behind the church, the one that led to the clearing. He sat there, facing in my direction at some distance, as he always had. The flaming pumpkin was in one hand, and his sword and axe were sheathed at his side, as always. Then, he bowed to me from his saddle, inclining his shoulders to where I stood, before wheeling his horse around and riding away.
61
Let It Die
There was a funeral held for Brom in the church, of course. They buried his headless corpse, for as hard as the men of the village looked, his head could not be found. This surprised precisely none of the old Dutch farmwives. “You’ll not find it,” Mevrouw Douw was heard to say. “It’s not to be found. It was taken by the Headless Horseman. Perhaps now that he has the schoolteacher and Brom Bones, he shall be satisfied and leave us in peace at long last.”
As Brom’s widow I was in the first pew of the church and first at his graveside. I did not know if anyone noticed the lack of tears beneath my black veil, and I did not care if they did. Nor did I cry during the funeral feast that followed, where I welcomed our close friends and family into my house and served luncheon and the doot koekjes, the huge biscuits always prepared for funerals.
I mourned Brom in my own way, though. I mourned the man he might have become, if fear and bitterness and jealousy had not warped that boy who was my friend into what he became. I mourned the life we had been slowly, hesitantly, starting to build together; the genuine love that had been growing between us. His father had much blame to bear, in my mind, for never finding his son good enough or manly enough. Meneer Van Brunt had never had much interest in Anneke, and never sought to see her after his son’s death. I was happy to keep it that way.
Yet ultimately Brom had chosen his own path. It had been his hand that plunged the dagger into Ichabod Crane, and none other. And he had suffered for it.
I wondered, sometimes, if the Headless Horseman had somehow heard Brom’s boast that night. There is no Headless Horseman. I am what haunted those woods on All Hallows’ Eve. I am the Headless Horseman. Perhaps the Hessian had taken exception to this, to Brom doing violence in his name. And so he had taken Brom Bones’s head. Perhaps that was the price that had needed to be paid. And so Charlotte’s prophecy was fulfilled more completely than I had ever thought possible.
I see blood in your future, Brom Van Brunt. Blood and death. The Headless Horseman is your fate. The Headless Horseman is your end.
I thought it had come to pass the night that I confronted him. But it seemed Charlotte’s prediction had not been quite done with Brom then, not yet.
Days passed, then weeks turned to months. Autumn gave way to winter, as it always does, and what a dark winter it was. I spent all the time I could with Anneke, and with Charlotte, and with Nancy. For any time I was alone was time spent in sorrow and anguish and rage and bloody memory and regret.
I was not the same woman I had been before I learned the truth, and I knew it. And the women around me knew it as well. But I could not go back to being who I was before I learned of Ichabod’s death, before I had seen it. And I wondered, every day, why I had thought that knowing the truth would allow me to move on. I had thought that, once I knew, my life would somehow change for the better, would become more satisfying, full of meaning. Why had I not listened to Nancy and Charlotte, who had so warned me?
Do you feel better now that you know the truth, Katrina Van Tassel? Do you feel at peace?
“Ichabod would not want you to go on this way, Katrina,” Charlotte said to me gently, one day in February. “He would want you to live life to the fullest. He loved you. He would want you to be happy, with or without him.”
I knew she was right; knew that happiness was exactly what Ichabod had always wanted for me. His death would not have changed that. But knowing it and living it are two very different things, I found.
Her words did inspire me to do one thing, though. That very day, I went home and pulled out both my old notebook and a new one, one that my father had procured for me in New York at my request.
In the last few remaining pages of the old book, I finally wrote down the first story I had ever told Ichabod: the legend of the Headless Horseman.
When that was done, I opened the new notebook. And I began to write down the story—the true story, in all its passionate and joyous and tragic and bloody detail—of Ichabod Crane and Katrina Van Tassel.
* * *
In the early spring of that year, I had a dream.
In it, Ichabod and I were sitting out in the garden of my house, the one I had shared with Brom and now lived in with Anneke and Nancy. We were on a blanket spread out on the grass, his arm around my shoulders as I nestled against him. The sun was warm on my skin, a soft, sensual caress. We sat quietly, peacefully, not speaking; then Anneke came running out into the garden.
“Mama! Papa!” she cried, tumbling onto the blanket between us.
Ichabod smiled down at her and ruffled her curls. Then he turned to look at me. “She is beautiful, our daughter,” he said.
I returned his smile. “Yes, she is. And so you will have to beat the suitors away with a stick someday, after all.”
“I once promised that I would, did I not?” he said, squeezing me to him, and we both laughed.
Then his face sobered. “We will not have another, Katrina.”
My smile faded as I looked up into his eyes.
“No,” I said slowly. “We will not.”
He turned to me and took my face in his hands, his forehead resting against mine. “Take care of her for me,” he said softly. “Take care of her, and teach her all you know, with that powerful mind of yours. It has always been what I love best about you.” He paused. “And teach her how to be happy.”
Tears were streaming down my face. “Yes,” I said, my voice thick. “I will. I promise.”
He kissed me once on the lips, gently at first, then with more passion. “Love her for me,” he whispered. “And know your love was the greatest gift of my life. Never forget that I love you. Always.”
I was still crying when I woke up. And I thanked God and whatever powers existed that I lived in Sleepy Hollow, where such magic was possible.
* * *
That day turned out to be marvelous and sunny, the first truly warm day of the spring. After I had broken my fast, I asked Nancy if she would watch Anneke for a time. “I am going to go for a walk.”
Nancy smiled encouragingly. “You do that, Katrina. It is a fine day.”
“I will take Anneke out into the garden with me when I return,” I said, donning my cloak and stepping outside.
I walked past the Jansen cottage, not seeking Charlotte’s company that day. She was likely not home, anyway. Giles had bought a plot of land along the Albany Post Road, and construction had just started on their new house. It would be modest to start with, but they could always add on to it later, if and when his new tavern became as successful as he predicted. They planned to marry in the fall, once construction was finished.
Charlotte had asked my permission to tell Giles the truth of Ichabod’s fate, and I had granted it. We would leave it to him how, and whether, Ichabod’s mother should be told. Furthermore, with Brom dead, there was no reason Giles should not also know that Anneke was Ichabod’s daughter, so long as he kept the matter to himself. She was, after all, his cousin by blood. And so Charlotte and I would soon be related, in a fashion.
I walked down the Albany Post Road, seeing a few people I knew but not stopping to greet them. When I reached the Van Tassel property, I turned left and walked down the path through the forest toward what had once been my favorite spot to read, and then my and Ichabod’s lovers’ nest.
Before I set foot in that small clearing by the stream, I froze, my breath catching in my throat. I had not been h
ere for years now. But nothing had changed. It seemed no one else had discovered this spot and sought to claim it as their own, and for that I was glad.
I lowered myself onto the bank of the stream, spreading my skirts around me. I listened to the water trickling over rocks and branches, reminding me of Ichabod’s guitar playing. I listened to the birds in the trees above me, exultant at the coming of another spring, and to the light breeze rustling the leaves of the trees, finally feeling the first measure of true peace I had known in a long time.
I thought about how, just last month, John Adams had been sworn in as the second president of the United States of America, the same man who was a longtime patriot and revolutionary and had been George Washington’s vice president. A man who knew how the government worked, and what to expect, and what we as a country needed. The nation was, in fact, moving on. And perhaps so must I. Perhaps it was time to move ahead with my life, to revisit those dreams I had as a carefree girl, of seeing more of the world than just my ghostly little corner of it, of sailing to London and seeing a play in Master Shakespeare’s theatre. I could take Anneke. Charlotte would be happy to accompany us.
I would never cease to be sad or enraged at Ichabod’s death, nor the manner of it. I would never rest easy with it. But I could accept it, and lay the past to rest. I could let it die.
I began to hum, softly at first, then louder. It was the song about the willow tree and the lotus flower and the lovers, the one I was sure Ichabod had written for me. For us. Then I began to sing aloud, at full voice. But unlike the time I had sung it here before, when I had tried to bid goodbye to my memories, my voice was full of joy and hope, not sorrow. The lovers in the song were star-crossed, and separated, but it was not forever. I had my memories, and I would no longer try to push them away. I would cherish them. And someday Ichabod and I would meet again, on the other side.
As I finished singing, a white crane rose from behind a tree along the bank and soared up into the sky. And I smiled.
Author’s Note
Washington Irving’s short story “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” is one of the best-known works in the American literary canon. His characters—Katrina Van Tassel, Ichabod Crane, Brom Bones, and perhaps especially, the Headless Horseman—have traveled down through the centuries, and still make appearances in today’s popular culture, through movies, TV shows, cartoons, and more.
And, now, this novel.
I suppose I should have been intimidated when I sat down to write a feminist retelling of one of America’s most famous literary works—and I was, later on—but when I first started writing, all that mattered was Katrina’s voice and the story that she was urgently telling me. As a lover of all things spooky and creepy, especially Halloween, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” has always been one of my favorite stories. Yet Katrina, the one significant female character, is portrayed in a rather flat and, frankly, sexist way. There is a line where Irving’s narrator even laments, “Oh, these women, these women!” And so I wondered what Katrina’s side of the story was. And boy, did she tell me.
I have, of course, departed from Irving’s original tale in many ways; I have incorporated some aspects of the story while leaving out others, and added in much of my own invention. A retelling, to me, should be built on the bones of the original tale while bringing in something new and different to become a fulfilling story all its own. It is my hope that Katrina’s story will resonate with both those who love the original legend, as I do, and those who have not encountered it before.
One of my goals in this novel was to bring historical context to Irving’s tale; nowhere in the story is the year definitively stated, though it is certainly after the American Revolution. So I chose a span of a few years that seemed to suit the story best. I wanted to add historical texture and detail to the life of the people in the Hudson River Valley at that time and further flesh out Irving’s tale. So while historical accuracy was, of course, extremely important to me, my editor and I agreed early on that of equal importance was establishing Sleepy Hollow as something of an otherworldly place, much as Irving does in the original story. As such, I have taken a few liberties in creating this story and its world.
The area that I refer to as Sleepy Hollow in the novel includes what is today the actual village of Sleepy Hollow (yes, it is a real place), as well as parts of Tarrytown and Irvington. I chose to refer to the entire area that my characters inhabit as Sleepy Hollow, both to simplify things for the reader, and to help create the impression of Katrina’s Sleepy Hollow as a little world unto itself. I hope the residents of this portion of the Hudson River Valley, both past and present, will forgive me. The Albany Post Road, which connected Albany with New York City, did indeed run through this area as I have described; today Route 9 runs where this road once was.
The people of the Hudson River Valley in the late 1700s would not have carved jack-o’-lanterns as decorative pieces in the way that I describe the Van Tassels having done for their harvest feast; the first jack-o’-lantern as we know it today was still many years in the future. However, I could not resist adding in this anachronistic detail as a nod to the original legend’s association with and impact upon our modern holiday of Halloween. Indeed, in Irving’s original story, he does not state that the Horseman’s pumpkin is carved with a jack-o’-lantern face. Yet that has become the familiar image of the Headless Horseman, so of course in my version he had to carry a jack-o’-lantern.
I did a lot of research on herbal remedies over the course of my work on this novel as well, and those described within are remedies made with herbs that would likely have been available to Charlotte and her mother in this time and place. The exception, though, is the mixture Katrina takes to assist her with her visions. This is a potion completely of my own invention (though some of the herbs I included in it, including nutmeg, do have hallucinogenic properties), and I have no idea what its effect would be should it be ingested. This is the standard disclaimer not to try to make it at home!
While writing the scene in which the Death card is drawn, Katrina and I realized at the same time that the figure of Death is, in fact, a horseman. I’m honestly not certain if there were decks at that time that utilized this image—perhaps there were, as the imagery of “death on a pale horse” comes from the Book of Revelation in the Christian bible—but it was such a cool and perfect coincidence that I had to include it in that scene. The tarot deck I referenced while writing this novel is the famous Rider-Waite deck, perhaps one of the most well-known and recognizable tarot decks. That deck dates to the early 1900s, so Charlotte’s cards certainly would not have had that exact artwork. I did base my descriptions of her cards on this deck, though, to keep consistent with the Death card image, and since that is the deck and imagery likely most familiar to readers.
I based the Van Tassel farmhouse upon Washington Irving’s home of Sunnyside, nestled in a gorgeous spot on the banks of the Hudson (and open to the public!). Irving did not live in this house until many years after the writing of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” but the description of the Van Tassel farmhouse’s location in the original story seemed to fit with Sunnyside. And, furthermore, a woman named Eleanor Van Tassel—whom some have speculated was a possible model for Katrina Van Tassel—lived in that very house before Irving bought and remodeled it.
Dutch was indeed still heavily spoken in the Hudson River Valley into the 1800s, and remained the primary language for many, which I have reflected here, as well as the increasing influence of the English language and culture on the area.
In bringing this era to life, I have tried to be as accurate as possible, though I am certain I have made errors. I am so grateful to the wonderful staff, tour guides, and docents at Sunnyside, the Old Dutch Church, Philipsburg Manor, and the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery for the treasure trove of information they impart to visitors, for their commitment to keeping history alive, and for the wonderful local lore and legends they share. My visits to these sites and others really impressed upon m
e—as does Irving’s original tale—that the people of the Hudson River Valley are and always have been storytellers, and so assisted in my development of Katrina’s character as a writer and storyteller herself. I learned so much in the time I spent in Sleepy Hollow and the surrounding area while researching this novel, and I did my best to use this knowledge to bring the novel’s characters and setting to life.
I am indebted to two books in particular that were invaluable to me while writing this novel: Food, Drink, and Celebrations of the Hudson Valley Dutch by Peter G. Rose and Legends and Lore of Sleepy Hollow and the Hudson River Valley by Jonathan Kruk. The former helped me accurately portray what my characters would have been eating and drinking—something that Irving himself is rather concerned with in the original story—as well as providing me with great insight into the Dutch culture of the area. The latter provided me with the wonderful stories that Katrina tells to Ichabod and later writes down in her spellbook. I am extremely grateful to both authors for sharing their knowledge in these works.
For further reading, below are just some of the sources I consulted while writing the novel:
Benjamin, Vernon. The History of the Hudson River Valley from Wilderness to the Civil War. New York: The Overlook Press, 2014.
Chernow, Ron. Alexander Hamilton. New York: Penguin Books, 2004.
Ehrenreich, Barbara, and English, Deirdre. Witches, Midwives, & Nurses: A History of Women Healers. 2nd ed. New York: The Feminist Press at the City University of New York, 2010.
Irving, Washington. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Ed. Henry John Steiner. 1820. Sleepy Hollow: Millstone Productions, 2014.
Kruk, Jonathan. Legends and Lore of Sleepy Hollow and the Hudson River Valley. Charleston: The History Press, 2011.
Lewis, Tom. The Hudson: A History. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005.
The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Page 38