by Ranae Rose
The sun was still shining brightly, and the air had warmed a little. As the sunlight bathed his face, people began to spill out of the church’s entrance and the sound of quiet but excited chatter filled the air; the service had only been the first act in what promised to be a long day of unprecedented entertainment.
“Master Crane.”
John turned to see Joshua descending the stairs and loping toward him, his carefully combed hair quickly unfurling into unruly waves.
“Yes?”
“May I walk with you to Mr. Van Tassel’s house?” His face shone with expectation.
“You’d better ask your parents’ permission,” John replied, stifling the urge to automatically agree. Things were strained enough between him and Mr. Jansen.
Joshua skipped back into the church and returned in record time. “They said yes!” He beamed, displaying the prominent gap he’d taken to showing off since he’d lost his first tooth.
“Very well then.” People were beginning to make their way down the road, enjoying the sunshine as they drifted in the direction of the Van Tassel farm. He joined them after one look at Brom and Katrina, who had been waylaid by well-wishers as soon as the service had ended, and were obligated to make their way toward the farm surrounded by them on all sides. John didn’t have the heart to struggle through the crowd to offer his congratulations again; being forced to fight for their attention, to make polite conversation like any of the other villagers… That would have driven home his loss like nothing else. He wasn’t ready to take that blow in public – he’d have to find a quiet moment at the party during which to wish them well.
The Jansens had emerged from the church shortly after Joshua and walked close behind him and John. Close enough that they could keep an eye on their son and intervene should he start shouting anything about the headless horseman, yet far enough away not to be obligated to converse with John.
Joshua, no doubt having been forbidden by his father to ask John about his encounter with the horseman, chattered about other things. John nodded and made comments at the right times, glad of the boy’s company, but too distracted to give him his undivided attention. It was a surprise when they reached the Van Tassel property and Joshua tucked his small fist into John’s hand. “Here,” he whispered, pressing something against John’s palm. “I can’t let father catch me with this. You take it.” With that he was gone, having disappeared into the queuing crowd that had gathered in front of the farmhouse.
John glanced furtively over his shoulder, relieved that Mr. Jansen seemed to be deep in conversation with another one of the village men. If Mrs. Jansen had seen anything, she was now looking resolutely away, smoothing her skirts. John peered down into his cupped palm, where a crucifix necklace lay, crudely bound with horsehair, but precious nonetheless.
CHAPTER 8
Dirck Acker was not a pleasant man at the best of times. Having overindulged in the punch provided for the festivities, he was unbearable. John stood on the opposite side of the room from Dirck, taking a modest sip of the same beverage, but it was impossible not to hear the man’s every word as he play-acted a ridiculous version of John’s encounter with the headless horseman for the benefit of half a dozen other men. They bawled with laughter as Dirck seized his own throat and made exaggerated choking sounds, letting his tongue hang grotesquely from the corner of his mouth.
Some other partygoers were watching more discreetly, hiding their smiles by taking sips from their cups, while some pretended not to hear at all. A few wore tight-lipped expressions of disapproval, and one elderly woman muttered “speak of the devil and he doth appear” loud enough for John to hear. The only people who didn’t appear to be paying any attention to Dirck’s spectacle were Mr. Van Tassel and the Van Antwerp widow, who were flirting enthusiastically in one corner of the room.
Regardless of their opinions on the prudence of Dirck’s charade, virtually all of the partygoers darted occasional glances in John’s direction. John’s face was hotter than the warm room accounted for, and he did his best to imagine himself outside with a cool wind blowing…the beginning of a blizzard, perhaps. A blizzard, yes, with lots of terribly wet snow, so cold that it drove everything else from his mind.
“Aaaugh!” Dirck cried, interrupting John’s unsuccessful attempt at mentally removing himself from the situation. The floorboards began to tremble, and John turned to face Dirck, who’d thrown himself down and was rolling to and fro, drumming his heels on the floor as he continued to pretend to choke himself. When he called out, beseeching his mother for help, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Enduring rumors and taunts for the past week had been trying, and with every step John took toward Dirck, he relished the idea of what he was about to do a little more. Blood roared in his ears, and he envisioned his fists connecting with Dirck’s flapping jaw. He elbowed his way through Dirck’s friends. “Get up, you fool,” he said, staring coldly down at Dirck, who still lay on his back like an overturned beetle.
Dirck’s eyes narrowed and the malicious merriment drained from his face to be replaced by a sneer. “A fool, am I?” he asked, jumping to his feet and wobblingly slightly, evidencing his inebriation. “I’m not the one telling everyone I was strangled by a ghost!” He laughed, forcedly and derisively, and his friends echoed him, chuckling in unison.
John’s temples throbbed with the pressure of his anger. What could he say that wouldn’t sound utterly ridiculous?
“What, nothing to say?” Dirck crowed, and pressed his hand to his throat again, making choking sounds and a ridiculous face. That alone was enough to make John’s blood broil, and then Dirck pulled his hand from his own throat and reached out toward John’s, as if to touch the hand-shaped bruise that shadowed his neck.
Laughter filled John’s ears, and as Dirck’s fingertips brushed his throat, something inside him snapped. He hit Dirck’s hand away, hard, and the resulting smack was the only sound to be heard in the entire room; everyone had gone silent.
For a moment, Dirck stared stupidly at his hand, as if unable to piece together what had just happened. Then he curled his thick fingers into a fist, raising his eyes to glare maliciously at John. Though it was early in the afternoon, Dirck’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and he reeked of drink and body odor. Despite the disgusting smells, John stood his ground, meeting Dirck’s stare. His own hands seemed to want to curl into fists of their own accord. He let them.
Dirck moved with surprising speed for someone who stunk like a stray dog doused in liquor, swinging one large fist at John’s head in a vicious hook.
John ducked and weaved, managing to avoid the worst of the blow. Dirck’s knuckles clipped his right ear, but the force wasn’t enough to keep him from retaliating. He struck out at Dirck with a straight punch that hit him squarely in the jaw, then followed up with another to his gut.
Dirck stood frozen for half a moment, his eyes bulging slightly and his jaw gone slack. Then he collapsed onto the floorboards in a puff of drink-and-sweat scented stink.
A vicious sort of satisfaction welled up inside John, lessened slightly by surprise – and perhaps a bit of disappointment – that it had been so simple to defeat Dirck. He’d expected more of a struggle; his pulse pounded in his ears, and his muscles were still tense, ready to fight. But when Dirck simply lay on the floor, clutching his stomach and looking as if he might vomit up the considerable amount of punch he’d imbibed, John had no choice but to walk away. “Who’s the fool now?” he asked quietly, unable to resist as he turned on his heel and began to take long strides. He wasn’t sure exactly where he meant to go – somewhere he couldn’t smell Dirck, at least.
He’d only made it a few steps when something – no, someone – rammed hard against his shoulder, sending him flying in the opposite direction. He stumbled as he struggled not to fall, but he was still reeling when a pair of calloused male hands reached out and shoved him brutally. He caught a whiff of drink and stale sweat – the scent of one of Di
rck’s companions – and then he was grunting as he hit the floor, jarred by the impact.
The floorboards creaked beneath John, and a wide shadow slid over him – Dirck’s shadow. The man had finally managed to rise to his knees and had wasted no time in throwing himself toward John. He used his considerable weight to pin John to the floor, and before John could do more than twist his hips, trying unsuccessfully to throw Dirck off of him, Dirck drove his fist into John’s cheek with all the force of a hammer, and stars burst forth before his eyes.
Half-blind, John threw as vicious a punch as he could muster, aiming for Dirck’s ear. It landed, and Dirck blinked, momentarily stunned. Taking advantage of the precious second or two he’d bought himself, John did his best to escape. But Dirck was too heavy – struggle as he might, John was pinned to the floorboards, and Dirck was rapidly regaining what little sense he’d had in the first place. Bright starbursts danced in front of John’s eyes again when Dirck struck him in the face, and as he watched the blurry shape of the other man’s fist pull back again, he braced himself for the devastating crunch of breaking bone.
It never came. Instead, Dirck’s weight was suddenly gone from John’s body. A jarring thump followed this revelation, and then the floorboards shook violently, rattling John’s teeth. He rolled onto his side instinctively, turning toward the noise.
Dirck lay in a heap against the nearest wall, a stunned expression on his face. His head lolled against his shoulder, and Brom stood over him, his face red with rage. He must have torn Dirck off of John and thrown him against the wall. John had never seen a more effective end put to a fight. Dirck only moaned, making no attempt at movement as his wife rushed to his side. A collective hush had fallen over the room, and she was the first to break it, urging her husband to stand. After staring aghast at Dirck for a sufficient amount of time, the observers began to shift their gazes to John.
Brom looked to John too, and turned his back on Dirck, moving toward John with deliberate strides. The observers shied away from him, taking unnecessary steps backward as he passed by. No one said a word; Brom’s footsteps seemed especially loud, and each one seemed to fall in time with John’s pulse and the blood that was still rushing in his ears, a leftover of the fight. When Brom reached John he extended a hand, his mouth set in a grim line as their eyes met.
John took his hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. His knees felt disconcertingly weak, but the firm grip and rough texture of Brom’s hand steadied him. Brom held his hand for an infinitesimally longer moment than was strictly necessary, and then relinquished his hold. Whether he remained nearby, John couldn’t have said – his thoughts and vision were jumbled, and it was difficult to focus on anything.
So he stood mutely, his head spinning and throbbing, afraid that if he tried to walk away, he’d fall over. “You’re bleeding,” a voice said, sounding faraway. He looked down, where a crimson puddle had formed between his feet and was rapidly expanding. Was the blood his? He touched his face, and a feeling of shock settled over him when his fingers came away red and dripping wet. “Come with me…” A hand settled on his elbow, anchoring him to reality, and he felt himself being tugged in the direction of the kitchen. Stumbling a little, he followed, the faces and voices blurring around him, each indiscernible from the others. Bright patches of color danced in front of his eyes, making it difficult to see where he was going.
When the world came back into focus, he was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, surrounded by the sounds of concerned feminine voices. “Is anything broken, do you think?” That was Mrs. Jansen’s voice – she stood to his right, her face lined with worry as she stared intently.
“His nose is still straight,” Katrina said, pressing a wet cloth to the feature in question and squeezing it so that water streamed down his face and dripped from his chin. “I can’t see whether any of his teeth are missing, and his cheeks are too swollen to tell.”
John ran his tongue over his teeth, taking a quick inventory. “All there,” he said, and was rewarded with a mouthful of blood and water for his efforts.
“Oh, good,” Katrina said, meeting his gaze. “You have lovely teeth; it would have been a shame if you’d lost any of them.” Her rosebud mouth quirked in a smile, and she cupped John’s jaw gently, turning his face so that she could scrutinize his cheek. “Can you tell if anything is broken, John?”
“I don’t think anything is,” he said, though in truth, he couldn’t be sure. The edge was wearing off of his shock, and his face was beginning to ache fiercely. His nose and teeth were still intact though, and that was something to be grateful for. After Dirck had pinned him to the floor and hit him in the face the first time, he’d given up hope of coming out of the confrontation with any of his facial bones unbroken. Thank God for Brom. His gut twisted at the memory of Brom towering over Dirck, looking like a berserker ready to do murder. John had the distinct feeling that if Dirck would have risen after being knocked down, Brom would have brutalized him.
“Still, the bruises will be terrible,” Mrs. Jansen said. “John, you look as if you’ve been kicked by a horse on either side of your face.”
“If the entire village hadn’t seen the fight, maybe that’s what I’d tell them,” John joked. “Anyone would believe Gunpowder capable.”
Mrs. Jansen smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Perhaps you should—” A shadow fell over her as she spoke, and her smile rapidly disappeared.
Slowly, John turned on his stool, facing the looming form of Mr. Jansen.
“Come along, Matilda,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “We’re leaving.” His tone was so cold, the temperature in the room might have just dropped by several degrees. “And you,” he added, glaring down his nose at John. “I won’t have a liar and a brawler living under my roof as an example to my sons. You’re no longer welcome in my home.” With a sharp gesture toward Mrs. Jansen, he turned on his heel and strode stiffly out of the room. Mrs. Jansen followed reluctantly, shooting a regretful look over her shoulder at John.
A steady pressure had been growing ever-stronger on his hand, and he turned back around to face Katrina, who was clasping it fiercely, frowning after the Jansens.
Seconds later, Brom strode into the kitchen looking surly. He made a beeline for John and tucked a hand under John’s chin, angling his face upward and surveying it with glittering dark eyes. “Nothing’s broken, then?” He shot an enquiring look in Katrina’s direction.
She shrugged, her shapely shoulders rising and falling, causing her cleavage to swell appealingly over the neckline of her bodice. “I don’t think so.”
“Good.” Brom dropped his hand and simply stood there, a vein standing out, thick and throbbing, at the side of his neck.
“How are the guests?” Katrina asked.
“Scandalized,” Brom snorted. “Probably never been happier.”
The buzz of chatter could be heard in the next room, and the general tone of conversation did indeed sound more excited than worried.
“The Jansens left,” Katrina said, dipping her cloth in a basin, where blood blossomed red and vivid in the water, then dispersed, turning it pink. She dabbed the rag against John’s cheek again, and the cool kiss of moisture soothed his bruises. “John won’t be staying with them any longer.”
A look of understanding passed through Brom’s eyes, and his expression darkened. “That’s no matter. There’s plenty of room for him in our home.”
Katrina nodded, and John was mesmerized by the simple motion, by the movement of her lips when she said “plenty”.
“I wouldn’t wish to inconvenience the two of you,” John said, forcing his stiff jaw to cooperate. Oh, but he did wish it, very badly – or a part of him did, anyway. Another part of him feared living under the same roof as Brom and Katrina, a constant observer of the matrimonial bliss he could never be a part of. It would be a bittersweet sort of torture, being so close and so far removed from them at the same time. “I’m sure the family of one of my pup
ils will board me if I ask around.”
Brom shook his head firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ll stay with us.”
* * * * *
Hours later, John finally sat on the edge of a bed in one of the spare rooms in Brom’s house. The celebration at Mr. Van Tassel’s had become a sort of personal Hell after the fight; he’d stayed away from the festivities, mostly, but had nonetheless been the subject of much scrutiny from the other partygoers, who’d regarded him with transparent faces that displayed everything from pity to hostility. No one had dared to lay a hand on him – not after what Brom had done to Dirck. Dirck and his wife had retired from the party early, leaving for home as soon as Dirck had recovered the ability to walk.
John had wanted to depart too, but had been reluctant to abandon Brom and Katrina’s wedding celebration and return to their home alone, feeling like an intruder. So he’d waited until they’d left and traveled home with them under the dusky sky. Some guests had wanted to leave earlier, before dark, and others had wanted to stay much later – dusk had been a compromise, and as the sun had dipped behind the horizon, John had watched vigilantly for the silhouette of a headless rider. They’d made it safely to the farmhouse, but that same tension still coursed through his veins, tying his stomach in knots. When a knock came at his door, he jumped, nearly sliding off the edge of the mattress.
“Brom.” John nodded in Brom’s direction, trying his best to appear calm and at ease.