Jason kicks his horse and breaks line. The smell of gunpowder falls away. He and the horse thunder through the weeds, pitching and dipping together, one flesh, one will. Jason tears the fur hat from his head and rides, laughing, straight at the enemy. The air whistles with lead balls. A figure leaps from the bushes ahead. The man twists to run, looking over his shoulder and brimming with womanly terror. Jason fires at his eye and the coward falls, spraying the grass with gore.
Gunfire erupts to either side. Jason’s fellows have followed his lead, believing an order to charge has been given. Jason brings his saber to hand, slashing at throats, reaping the seed pods. The enemy falls, man by man. The remaining combatants surrender to terror and disappear into the forest. Jason turns to follow but the lead rider blocks his charge with the body of his own horse. The commander’s eyes are narrowed with anger. Jason has been insubordinate, but they will not speak of it. The battle is won, after all. The enemy lies dead. The commander hands Jason his hat. Jason buckles it under his chin, laughing inside. He should command, not this fool. He is a man and the fields of the Earth are his.
Lightning strikes in the distance. The storm has come, drawn to the blood. Thunder rattles the orange woods, the red grass, and the jubilant riders in blue.
The heavens open and rain falls on fallen men.
The thunder is the firing of cannon. A grey-blue haze of gunpowder veils the field. He rides no horse. He is on foot with the infantry, as punishment for his earlier initiative. His commanders are fools. He stands shoulder to shoulder in a line of men, muskets at the ready. The others are smaller than he, weaker. He should not be among them. But he does what he must. He falls to one knee, bracing himself in the mud. Men step in behind him as well. Rifles lower at either side of his head.
Jason is the first to fire. He drops an enemy with his musket-ball. The weapons to either side crack and deafen him. Sparks splash both his cheeks. The sparks feel good, like two hard slaps. He reloads, stabbing the barrel of his musket with a rod, determined to get off a second shot before the knife-work begins. The enemy breaks through the haze, into full color, waving a red flag with LIBERTY emblazoned at center. Jason finds this puzzling. His coat is blue. He’s not a Britisher. But he is not Jason, either. He is the warrior, the primal animal.
He opens the cheek of an enemy with his next shot. He finishes the job with an upward thrust of his bayonet through the man’s chin. He stands, lifting the dying man into the air. The man kicks and dangles at the end of Jason’s bayonet. He tosses the corpse aside and charges. His thirsty saber comes to hand, ready to drink its fill of blood.
For bravery in the field, his commanders have returned his horse. He can feel it beneath him, part of him, and he vows not to relinquish its reins again. The animal is called Mitternacht, for it is sleek and black. Ideal for stealth and cunning work. It has eyes for night and can see through the deepest shadows. They ride confidently together, even in total darkness when other riders fall blind.
Twilight is on the company. Trees and outgrowth cut black shapes from the ice-blue sky. Insects sing a three-note song. The ground is rising. The riders climb a hill. Jason looks back and sees a sea of white tents on the valley floor, lanterns lit within and campfires burning. A hive of fireflies.
Jason is cold and wet but determined to complete his mission. His last mission. If only he could remember what it was…
The company gains the hill. They ride silently down the throat of the forest. They wear dark capes pulled tight around their bodies. They ride without speaking. Jason’s eyes adjust to starlight. His night vision, too, is excellent. The face of the rider to his right swims into focus.
Joey? Joey can’t be here.
His friend wears an absurd handlebar moustache. His skull has been sawed away above the eyebrows—no, that is merely a trick of the light. Joey wears a black fur hat similar to Jason’s own.
Kate rides to his left. She wears a man’s uniform but no cape. She wears her hair in a braid down the back of her neck. Jason’s fingers test the back of his own head. He wears the long braid as well. All the men do. The tails of the horses are braided and ribboned.
They ride for a long time, he and his two friends. He is heartened by their presence. They will support each other, fight for each other, die together if they must.
A sound trickles through the darkness. The splashing of a brook. Mitternacht sees the slope and turns. Joey’s own horse slips slightly and heaves air. Kate mutters something and points. They will follow the brook. The sounds of the insects disappear behind the sounds of water, which mix with the sounds of bridle and hoof.
Kate raises a fingertip. The company has reached a lonely hut built of fieldstones and thatch. Jason smells something fragrant and pleasing—a mixture of spearmint and geranium and rose-leaf. He has ridden into an herb garden. He fills his lungs with the aroma. Much better than the stink of horses and men.
The shutters of the hut fly open and a face appears. An old woman, hollow-eyed and shawl-draped, with rolled sleeves. A splash of red sparks. A cracking sound. Joey’s horse rears and cries out. Joey leaps from his saddle and rolls. His horse falls, kicking among the herbs. Mitternacht spins in a circle. Jason raises a pistol and fires at the old woman, but she has closed her shutters. Something crackles above. The figures of men appear on the roof of the hut, emerging from the thatch. Others appear from behind the building, from behind trees. Other flashes of light. Other cries of pain from Jason’s company. The party has been ambushed. He and Joey and Kate and the others are surrounded. They circle their horses.
And the Monster comes, hatchet in hand.
Kate dies in the next volley of musket fire. The ball strikes her temple. The Monster is on her immediately. The man’s face catches a splash of blood. He throws her body into the brook. He strikes backhanded and deals a fatal chop to one of the horses. He follows it with an upswing, burying his blade in the animal’s belly. Its rider jumps away. It is Owen, Jason’s friend from Cony High. Chubby Owen who wore suspenders and carried his books across his chest. The Monster deals with him as well. Owen goes face-down into the brook to float alongside Kate.
The old woman appears at the window of the hut and fires again. Pain blossoms in Jason’s shoulder. He fires and a hole opens in her chest. He kicks Mitternacht’s flanks and leaps the brook, putting distance between himself and the fray. Other enemy wait there. His saber comes to hand. He stabs the first he sees, then a second, then a third. On the opposite shore all his friends are falling dead. Shane Beaulieu from middle school. Svein Nyberg from Camp Wallahoo. Sally Beck, his first kiss. They fall, bleeding out into the water. The water of…
The Gory Brook, Jason realizes. The Battle of Gory Brook. I am William Crane, the hero of this battle. The Monster has killed my friends.
He sees Joey die. The Monster clips Joey’s neck with his blade. The black hat goes flying. Joey’s eyes are blank. He crumples to his knees, falls forward, and his face strikes the stones of the gulley.
Jason has killed all the soldiers on this side of the brook. He has saved the day. Stopped the enemy. Only two combatants remain. They stare at each other over the river of gore. The Monster leaps onto Kate’s horse and rides away. Rage overtakes Jason.
The Monster has killed my friends. Now I will kill the Monster.
Jason sees motion in the black wood and pursues it. He and his horse are one again. They ride through the night, ducking limbs and leaping logs. His cape whips madly behind. Sweat steals the warmth from his cheeks, evaporating in the heat of the moonlight. The brook comes to its end. It spills its gore into a wider vein. He’s come to an embankment, the shoulder of some river. A shelf of grey stone protrudes into the water. William Crane may be lost, but Jason knows the spot. He experimented with his Gift in this place. He lost his green felt dragon, precious token of his childhood, to this roaring foam.
Now Jason has lost another Monster, the murderer of his friends.
But he has found someone else.
&
nbsp; A woman kneels on the shelf of rock, twisting a length of fabric, wringing water from it. She hears his approach and rises. She is young, beautiful, and naked. She covers herself. Jason feels a sudden hunger for her. She would be a perfect outlet for the adrenaline that still roars through his veins. An enemy woman he can take in token of revenge.
She lowers her hands and uncovers herself. He senses a hunger in her, too, and an invitation.
He takes off his jacket and throws it to her. She tosses it aside, remaining defiantly naked. She is so lovely and young. And familiar somehow…
The sound of hooves passes behind, from right to left. The Monster is riding. Jason has no time to think of this woman. They exchange one more glance. Jason kicks his horse. He is the Hero of the Gory Brook, and his saber is thirsty again. He follows the enemy, gaining on him. They reach the outskirts of a town. The Monster finds a road, doubles back along the shore, racing towards a bridge in the distance. Dirt and leaves fly into the air. Jason is gaining on the man. He will catch him before he reaches that bridge.
The Monster gains the bridge, turns, and fires a pistol. Mitternacht convulses and collapses. Jason hits the ground hard, mere feet from the bridge. He slides, and his shoulders hit the water. Above, the horse thrashes, its knees buckle, and it falls, the great bulk of it blacking out the sky and stars and—
Jason screams in agony. His leg bones snap.
No. No. God. No. This is the end of the Nightmare. The terrible end. Again. But this time it is far more vivid. The pain more terrible, the sounds more piercing, the water colder and death far more frightening.
His legs break into shards of glass. He thrashes in black water. His weeping legs are ashore, higher than his body. Ichabod’s bridge looms above. And his leg bones are grinding. Grinding to flour. Jason tries to heave himself up, out of the water, but can’t. He falls back. The Pocantico invades his lungs and stomach. It claps his ears.
Oh, yes, he has been here before. Many times. But he has never felt this depth of despair, this sense of failure. The faces of his dead friends swim before his eyes. Their agony, their blood. He is about to die. To join them. At least he killed his enemies. All his enemies but one.
Who survives to memorialize his deeds? He is the Hero of Gory Brook. Isn’t he? Who will remember and chronicle the day? Who is the witness?
The Monster is on him again. The hatchet takes two fingers from his right hand. It notches his forearm. It pulls free, swings wild, and hacks his belly, going deep, pushing blood and pain and nausea into Jason’s throat. It rips flesh from his ribcage, skin from his shoulder. It falls into frenzy, striking his arms, his hip, his groin.
The cold water drinks Jason’s blood. It laps at him, suckles at him. The Monster is screaming now. Jason can’t hear the words. He is under the surface, through the looking glass, halfway swallowed by death already. But the ripples clear. A cloud unveils the moon. And in that moment before the final blow—the final, beheading chop—the face of his murderer swims into focus…
Jason has never seen this face before.
It is a horrible mask of blood spatter and anger and vicious glee. A stranger’s face, thin and angular and wild.
The blade strikes his throat, just below the Adam’s apple. He feels the stock pass through, the blade slamming into the water. Jason’s head separates from the rest of him, gathered by the current. He rolls, floating face down. Just a head. Not a man any longer. His strong body is lost. All his great energies gone. The fields of the Earth are denied him forever.
He feels a sharp pinch at the back of his scalp. The Monster has caught the long, ribboned braid at the back of Jason’s head, reeling him in by it like a pumpkin on a vine. His severed head is lifted. He and the Monster stare at each other. The Monster shouts something… something about… a bridge?
Jason is flung through the air, hitting water.
He is tumbling along, striking boulders on his way, spun by eddies.
All goes still. His head floats into the calm waters of a pond. He sees a wheel. A millpond, then. A church rises on a hill in the distance. It will be the last thing he sees. He sinks. He is sinking. He is drowning…
Sie sterben an der Brücke…
Sie sterben an der Brücke…!
Sie sterben an der Brücke…!!
This is how the Nightmare begins.
The Nightmare begins like rot in the roots of the forest, on some afternoon of Indian summer tens of thousands of days ago. Jason rides slowly, eyes scanning distant hills that blaze with orange beneath a gathering band of green thunderous sky. A storm is coming.
He grips the reins of Mitternacht and turns a blade of grass with his tongue…
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“The Wannabe”
Eddie Martinez smashed his fist through the glass of the school trophy case. His hand bled afterward but he didn’t notice. He grabbed the jersey on display there—his winning number twenty-five jersey from junior year—and ripped it from its backing. Glass continued to fall, striking the tile of the atrium.
“Eddie, are you nuts?” shouted Jimmy Puleo.
Eddie ignored him. He grabbed a photo of the team, all the Sleepy Hollow Horsemen in three rows with himself at center and Coach Konat grinning to one side.
The Sleepy Hollow Boys had made a half-circle around the trophy case. Some looked embarrassed, some defiant. They were all afraid of him to some degree. Good. He took a step forward and they flinched. Eddie stuck the picture in his armpit.
He turned and grabbed last year’s championship trophy. “This is mine too.”
A redheaded kid stepped forward. Number ten. Decent catch but a whiny little bitch when he got a boo-boo. “Put it back. That’s the team’s trophy!”
“Some team. You guys don’t know shit about loyalty.” He brandished it. “I earned this. You assholes just shined my helmet.”
“Eddie. Come on,” said Puleo. “We’re your team, man.”
“What team?” barked Eddie. “I don’t see a team. All we had to do was hang together.” He made a fist. “You’re just a bunch of backstabbing pussies.”
“They were going to expel us!” said number ten.
Number twenty-seven nodded. “It went too far. He almost died.”
“So you just screw me? I’m your captain. Not one of you was willing to take the hit for me.” The boys looked at their shoes. Eddie turned, swung the trophy, and knocked out the rest of the glass. “If we were still in season you’d have had my back. Huh? If you needed me? Yeah, but as soon as I win everything for you, you let them expel my ass. Nice. Real nice.” He picked up another photo. The Headless Horseman entertaining at halftime, Zef in his mascot costume. He threw it against the wall. More glass shattered.
Eddie turned, took the team photo from under his arm and raised it. “Something to remember you assholes by.” He crunched over the fallen glass, trophy in his fist. “Sleep well tonight, girls.”
The half-circle parted. Eddie stomped across the tile, across the face of the great Rorschach blot of a Horseman logo. He turned—only long enough to shoot the finger at his Boys—and left, slamming the double doors of Sleepy Hollow High.
Valerie’s grey BMW turned off Broadway, onto College Avenue, and skirted Patriots Park. She frowned when she saw her house. Part of the fence had fallen down and a chunk of ice protruded from one side of the foundation. A pipe must have burst. She sighed. She couldn’t let the place sit vacant, not if she intended to put it up for sale.
She’d made the decision after hearing about the attack on Stone Barns. That had been the last straw. Of course that had been Hadewych. Of course it had been the Horseman. And she’d decided to sell her Sleepy Hollow home at once. She was more afraid of the Horseman than she was of her Salem relations, if by a surprisingly slim margin. She would sell, move Mother to some Boston facility, and go home.
But the house wouldn’t sell itself, not without a little work. And it would help to have the rental unit occupied; the upstairs apartment had
sat empty since Hadewych moved out. He’d left it a mess, but it was finally ready to rent again.
A cheap hatchback sat in the drive. Her new tenant had beaten her here. Valerie pulled in behind. The car wasn’t promising. The woman’s credit score had been unimpressive as well. But she’d paid six months in advance, and at least the car was clean.
The woman met her at the foot of the stairs. Pretty. Blonde. They toured the apartment. Valerie tried not to think of the nights she’d spent watching movies here with her little family, playing board games or cards with Zef, watching him grow up. She didn’t go into the bedroom. Sex with Hadewych was not something she wanted to remember. Not because it had been bad, but because he had been—if only she’d known.
“When can I move in?” the woman asked.
Valerie engaged her valve. “The fifteenth?”
“Fantastic!”
They signed the lease. Valerie admired the woman as she bent to sign her name. Not a scar on her. Just the type men go for. Valerie felt a stab of jealousy. Who could she ever hope to attract, disfigured as she was? No, that part of her life was past. Probably forever. She folded the signed lease and put it in her purse.
The blonde followed her down the steps. “Can I ask a favor, Val? Could you show me around a little?”
Valerie checked her watch. “I guess I—have time. Grand tour?”
“Well, not the Legend places—I don’t go for that stuff.”
“I don’t either.”
“Just, you know, the Laundromat and grocery store.”
“Hop in.”
“I would love to hear the local gossip, too.” They slipped into the BMW and closed the doors. “Frankly, I could use a girlfriend. I’m going through a messy divorce. So if you ever want to rant about the men in your life, I’m all ears.”
Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones Page 35