by Irvine, Alex
[November 3]
I was approached today by a man dressed in colonial garb and festooned with buttons signifying his allegiance to various candidates standing in tomorrow’s election. After the recent Halloween celebration, I had grown used to seeing people in costume on the streets of Sleepy Hollow. I was not prepared, however, for his boisterous proclamation that he was a member of the Tea Party. Since I was present at the original event of that name and did not recognize him as a fellow visitor from the past—one never knows these days—I inquired what in fact his Tea Party might be. He returned that it was a conservative group, allied with but not beholden to the Republican Party. I then asked what that might be—for the Founding Fathers, Washington in particular, were mortally opposed to political parties and envisioned the political structure of the new republic in a way expressly intended to avoid their institution. It seems their efforts were in vain, for now there are Democrats and Republicans, and no candidate refusing affiliation with one of those stands any chance of election … with, apparently, rare exceptions at which my Tea Party interlocutor scoffed with great vigor.
The history of this so-called Tea Party stems from frustration over taxation. Plus ça change! Yet this Tea Partier appeared most concerned with the intrusion of government into his private life. This is a worry most certainly shared by the Founding Fathers, but I’m not sure that they ever could have imagined the world we now live in.…
Tomorrow is Election Day. I am drinking coffee in a shop devoted to that divine bean—at two dollars per cup!—and listening to people make entreaties to people just outside. However, many display no interest. How can this be? In a land where everyone may shout his opinion on the street, what possible reason could there be for not seizing the opportunity to make that opinion known by secret ballot? One that so many of my brothers and I died on the battlefield for?
Abigail’s answer to this question was succinct and, I fear, cynical: She shrugged and said most people did not believe their votes made any difference. Astonishing! What else can make a difference? I shall never understand Americans.
That said, the Tea Partier’s tricorn hat was quite dignified. Not all men can wear them well. Katrina used to prefer me in less formal haberdashery.
The Spanish influence on this country is quite extraordinary. I knew little of it when I was present in the Colonies, beyond an understanding that Spanish missionaries were active in the Floridas and in the west beyond the Mississippi River. But to look at a map of this country is to see the Hispanophone influence writ large: Tejas now Texas, Colorado, Nevada, Arizona, Montana, New Mexico (!)—and the burgeoning cities of Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Diego, San Antonio. How holy this vision of the Spanish America must have been … although from what I understand of Las Vegas, the piety of the missionary Franciscans has been replaced by quite a different way of life.
We hold these truths to be self-evident:
– That “leftenant” is an intrinsically superior pronunciation;
– That buttons are in all cases superior to zippers;
– That cotton and wool are in all cases superior to artificial fabrics;
– That books should be composed of pages which can be turned rather than screens to be swiped;
– That it is no dishonor to be termed “old-fashioned”;
– That contemporary modes of feminine dress are to be saluted, and those of male dress to be eyed skeptically;
– That urban life in these United States would be much improved by the re-introduction of horses;
– That it was a grave error on the part of the Framers to omit privacy from their enumerated list of natural rights;
– That it was a yet graver error on their part to make no clear provision eliminating chattel slavery;
– That despite that and other errors, the founding documents of this country are marvels of vision and endurance;
– That this future is good and I consider myself quite privileged to experience it.
[November 7]
I continue to be fascinated by Sheriff Corbin’s meticulous files, which yield countless curiosities …
[November 16]
A word about this upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. Several words, in fact.
The colonies proclaimed a day of thanksgiving so frequently that one might encounter a feast at any moment wherever one went. A good harvest, a return from a dangerous voyage, a stretch of fine weather after a storm, or a welcome rain after a drought—all of these at various times provided the impetus for a day of feasting and prayer.
I myself carried a draft of a Thanksgiving declaration to the town of York, Pennsylvania, in 1777 while the British occupied Philadelphia and the Continental Congress was forced to a temporary home. Samuel Adams drafted it. It read in part:
It is therefore recommended to the legislative or executive Powers of these United States to set apart Thursday, the eighteenth Day of December next, for Solemn Thanksgiving and Praise: That at one Time and with one Voice, the good People may express the grateful Feelings of their Hearts, and consecrate themselves to the Service of their Divine Benefactor; and that, together with their sincere Acknowledgments and Offerings, they may join the penitent Confession of their manifold Sins, whereby they had forfeited every Favor; and their humble and earnest Supplication that it may please God through the Merits of Jesus Christ, mercifully to forgive and blot them out of Remembrance …
[I redact some, for Adams was quite verbose at times—this is ever the vice of the politician, is it not?]
And it is further recommended, That servile Labor, and such Recreation, as, though at other Times innocent, may be unbecoming the Purpose of this Appointment, be omitted on so solemn an Occasion.
I gather Washington issued another proclamation in 1789—this from the Internet, which, God save me, I am beginning to turn to as a useful source of information on the two centuries I passed in enchanted slumber. But this was the first national proclamation of which I am aware, and I must say it contrasts quite violently with the spectacle of Thanksgiving as seen today.
Firstly, anyone who has ever attempted to hunt a wild turkey with such firearms as the Plymouth colonists possessed will know that success in that endeavor is entirely dependent on the will of the Great Architect of the Universe, those weapons being so inaccurate that one might well miss a turkey while it peered down the barrel. A feast for the entire population could hardly have depended on the presence of adequate turkey. The meal would have been venison, and cod, and eels, and other more easily taken birds, such as doves and partridges. If the colonists had any chickens, they certainly would have found their way to the table as well. There would have been corn and some grains. If anyone had solved the mystery of making cranberries palatable, perhaps there would have been a sauce of cranberries, as I understand is now traditional. But the occasion would not have marked harmony with the Indians, although they were certainly invited to that legendary feast.
Secondly, the Thanksgiving proclamation of Adams expressly disavowed servile labor and frivolous recreation. So what does one do on Thanksgiving now, in 2013? One eats to stupefaction while watching so-called football—the most frivolous of recreations—while one is bombarded by television advertisements for discounted commercial goods, in preparation for shopping excursions that would not be possible without servile labor. Arrant madness.
And what is this Black Friday? They speak of shopping as if it is a dark ritual, a holy occasion whose observance far outstrips the more homely imperatives of sharing food and drink with those one loves. At midnight they stream to their shopping malls, like congregants at a Church of Commerce, taking the communion of sales. I confess a contrary impulse to buy nothing, to remain in my own clothes, patching and mending them as necessary, solely that I might not be converted to quasi-religious madness. Yet even in the midst of my private jeremiad, I also find myself infernally attracted to the spectacle!
But Abigail is here. Perhaps she will take me shopping … although I fea
r that once we have entered a mall, she will be relentless in imploring me to change my comfortable clothes for contemporary styles. More anon.
[November 24]
An eventful day yesterday. Once again I returned to a location I knew well from my previous life, and once again that return had unexpected consequences. On this occasion the location was Fredericks Manor, a house I knew as a result of my friendship with Lachlan Fredericks. A grand man, Lachlan. Irish to the core, a lover of food and drink and humanity. His house was a way station and refuge for all in need of shelter and protection, whatever their creed or color. Abigail and I were called to Fredericks Manor to investigate the disappearance of its new owner, a billionaire—one woman with a billion dollars! The colonies’ collective wealth in 1780 did not amount to so much!—by the name of Lena Gilbert, who bought the now-decrepit house because she was a descendant of Lachlan’s and wished to restore the property. I was saddened to see its state and remembered it in its former glory. Katrina and I visited Lachlan on several occasions and I considered him a friend—as did General Washington—and she continued to visit after my interment in the cave. But I get ahead of myself.
Lena Gilbert had apparently disappeared shortly after arriving at the house, and Captain Irving contacted Abigail immediately because her representatives sent information to him that included a mention of Katrina’s name. We arrived at the house to discover the mutilated body of Lena’s bodyguard, and numerous signs of a supernatural presence. Abigail, interestingly, was quite fearful. I had not thought her able to evince timidity, but she confessed to me a deep fright of haunted houses—and such Fredericks Manor clearly was. We immediately observed claw marks on the floor and every door in the house slammed shut, trapping us therein. Abigail saw a ghost and pursued it; I, who could not perceive it, found my way to the library, where my gaze fell upon an edition of Gulliver’s Travels contemporary with my last visit to Fredericks Manor. It was out of place, displaying none of the dust that had settled over the rest of the house. As one unconsciously does, I riffled the pages and discovered a letter—and not any letter, but one I had written to Katrina; more incredibly, the letter I wrote and left in the care of Samuel Adams, to be delivered to her in the event of my death.
My beloved Katrina,
If you are reading this letter, I have perished at the hands of forces allied with the Crown. There are things you must know. It may be that I have fallen to a musket ball or tomahawk, or the diseases which have ravaged the camps of soldiers since time immemorial. I must be quick, and restrain myself from all but the plain facts, the most pressing of which is this: You may be in danger.
I would say more, but if this letter falls into the wrong hands upon my death, I would not have it yield useful intelligence to our enemies. You have seen them at their worst, with poor Arthur Bernard; I beg you take precautions, lest a similar fate befall you. If you do not believe this a prudent request, I beg you to act as if you do. What harm is a little pretense if it be your husband’s last request? One thing only I ask of you:
I have given this letter to Samuel Adams. If it is not he who delivers it into your hands, look to your safety. If it is he, make contact at once with General Washington. He will protect you.
We had too few years together, my love. Many a night I spent in dreary soldiers’ camps, dreaming of the life we would have together when the war was over, the colonies free, and we free as well. I dreamed of the children we would have together. I had thought to grow old with you. Now I can only express my sorrow that this dream has been torn from us. I trust we will see each other again, in the afterlife promised to those who believe. I have not always been a devout man, but I believe my soul unstained by evil, and I have tried as best I knew how to do what was right.
I am, and remain, in this world and the next,
Forever yours,
Ichabod
This letter’s presence in Fredericks Manor was a mystery. Had Katrina returned here after placing me in the cave? If so, why had she not kept the letter? And how had Lena Gilbert come into possession of it, for surely she was how the copy of the book had come to Fredericks Manor.
Those questions burned in my mind as Abigail and I searched for Lena. I spoke to her of a black woman named Grace Dixon, whom Lachlan had freed and employed—but that term does little justice to her importance in the work of Fredericks Manor. She was its heart and soul, the working hands who made Lachlan’s grand ideas into deeds. We located Lena, bound by animated roots in a parlor closet. I cut her free. The roots discharged a foul dark blood, and shortly after a scarecrow, animated by the demonic forces that had taken root—quite literally—inside the house, attacked us. We evaded it while trying to learn more from Lena, who revealed that Katrina had in fact returned to Fredericks Manor after my death, and shortly before the disappearance of Lachlan Fredericks himself. She had heard rumors that Lachlan was a warlock—and I now suspected this as well, though it had of course never occurred to me when I knew him. Moreover, Lena suspected that some magical purpose was behind Katrina’s final visit to the house.
Lena and I were separated from Abigail while the three of us dodged the scarecrow, which captured Lena again with the aid of a swarm of crows. Fighting off both scarecrow and crows (who, if I may be permitted a moment of grim humor, were not the least put off by the scarecrow’s presence), we located Lena in the house’s root cellar, in the grip of the scarecrow, now somehow united with a monstrous mass of fleshy roots and tendrils. Abigail shot into the roots and the scarecrow released Lena, with the roots’ dark blood befouling all three of us.
I have been avoiding committing a certain thing to paper but can avoid it no longer.
I have learned that Katrina returned to Fredericks Manor because she was friendless, a fugitive … and with child.
My child.
Our child. Our boy.
I am a father.
Not am, but was. I was a father. There was a child I never knew.
I am at a loss. Would that some wisdom, some consolation, would appear to me and vitiate the unbearable pain of this knowledge. To have had a child and lost him is a sorrow that has broken stronger men than I; to have had a child and never known …
Unbearable, yes. All the same, I must bear it. I must.
Can I?
We escaped by virtue of a further apparition of Grace Dixon—for it was she who had appeared to Abigail shortly after our initial entry—pantomiming her assistance in helping Katrina and our newborn son escape Fredericks Manor when this supernatural creature attacked them at the exact moment of my son’s birth. Moloch wanted my child—of course! For is that not his nature? Did not all scholars and demonologists take pains to point out his special interest in children? Had I known … ! He was thwarted only through the sacrifice of Lachlan Fredericks, who died ensuring that my wife and son could escape. This is a debt I can never repay, save by purging the house of its evil and ensuring that I carry on his work. I did the former, returning to the house after Abigail and Lena were safely outside and cutting the creature to pieces with an axe. I lost my temper and gave myself utterly over to rage—yet I do not regret it. Let Moloch’s minions be warned that they threaten those dear to me at peril of their existence.
I slept little last night as I grappled with this new knowledge. Abandoning the quest for sleep well before dawn, I walked from the cabin into the city of Sleepy Hollow and have been reading in the archives. Abigail is here. There is something I must show her.
Abigail is gone to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner with her sister. I begged off, fearing my current state of mind would make me unsuited to the occasion. But before she left, we opened a package from Lena that arrived last night.
It seems she has traced the history of Fredericks Manor with some diligence, and uncovered a trove of information about that notable house’s residents and their descendants. Among those descendants: one Abigail Mills, daughter of Lori Roberts and the several-times great-granddaughter of Grace Dixon. My instinct was correct: We
are bound together, we Two Witnesses, by ancient ties. Grace Dixon delivered my son into this world, and shepherded him to safety from Moloch’s minions; and now, after two centuries, the descendant of Grace Dixon is my irreplaceable ally in the next phase of the war to contain Moloch and prevent him from unleashing the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Again I am staggered by the clockwork nature of it all; wherever one might assume coincidence, there instead one finds plans laid in the eighteenth century and now in the twenty-first beginning to hatch.
Abigail is struggling with the knowledge of her own entanglement in the events of the centuries-long war between dark and light here in Sleepy Hollow. I believe she is also agonized by the realization that she is granted visions of her ancestors, recalling as this does the traumatic moment when she spied Moloch as a child. Her cold, reasoning approach to life is threatened, and I fear she will address the threat in some untoward way. Such a division must naturally be unhealthy for the mind. I will speak to her of this, perhaps, if I can hit upon a conversational gambit that will not seem patronizing to her.
Also unhealthy for the mind: knowing one has had a son, but not knowing what has become of him. My son two hundred years, perhaps, in his own grave. Do I live among his descendants? I should like to examine the Internet for persons surnamed Crane in this area. I should like to see each of them, regard them, discern if possible any trace of myself therein … perhaps then I would feel reconciled to this second life.
What manner of man did he become? Had he a happy life? Were there children? Am I even now surrounded by my own descendants? What do they know of me, if they know aught?