Crane (12 page)

S
weet smelling steam wafted from the tea pot as Ireland poured a cup of freshly brewed ginger tea into a cup for herself and one for Rip. Her gaze flicked from the flowing russet liquid to the old man rousing on the floor. He rolled to his side, off the throw pillow she’d stuffed under his head, rising up on legs that wobbled under his slight weight. Rip didn’t make eye contact or utter a sound when he accepted the offered mug, but turned and shuffled into the front room. Ireland brought the mug to her lips and slammed it back—much to the displeasure of her then scorched gullet—before she deposited it in the sink and followed him. Mentally, she tried to prepare herself for the gush of lunacy she knew was coming. Unfortunately, a little voice in the back of her mind warned that even if her head could flip back like a garbage can lid she
still
wouldn’t be open-minded enough for what she was about to take in.

The man
, now seated on her couch, was no longer the bumbling wacko she’d come to know Rip as. His entire demeanor had changed, grown noticeably somber; the severe and forlorn look in his eye giving away that this was a man who had seen more than he cared to admit. His slack posture stiffened, the firm set of his jaw causing his bushy beard to bulge off his face like steel wool.

“Ichabod Crane was a real man,
” he began, “not just a character in a fable. I knew him well enough to say, with absolute certainty, that he never deserved the fate that befell him—of being known as a victim of the Headless Horseman and nothing more. He was as good a man as any person could ever hope to meet.”

Ireland eased herself to the floor across from him,
crossing her legs at the ankle in front of her. “No offense, but I read the book—many times, actually. Ichabod Crane was a money-hungry hound dog that set his sights on Katrina Van Tassel because her daddy had money. He only gave up on that because a fabricated myth ran him from town like the coward he was.”

“No!”
Fiery passion ignited in Rip, sharpening his grey eyes to pure steel. “That was … a misunderstanding. Irving
had
to write it that way.”

“Irving? As in Washington Irving?
” Ireland tried, unsuccessfully, to hide the amusement in her tone. “You mean the author you stole your name from?”

“One and the same.
However, I didn’t steal my name from him. I
am
Rip Van Winkle.”

Ireland nodded slowly,
allowing herself time to choose her words careful. “At the end of that book, Rip Van Winkle gets so mad he rips himself in two. In that same situation you would take a nap.”

  
Nose hairs waved in the breeze as Rip snorted a humorless laugh. “Aye, we came up with that after
way
too much ale. It seemed more …
menacing
than the reality.” He stared down at his dirty trousers, a fresh wave of sadness furrowing his brow. “Irv and I fought alongside Ichabod during the Revolutionary War.”

Something in his desolate tone clamped down the claim of
shenanigans that danced on the tip of Ireland’s tongue. If this was his delusion, one he believed in quite adamantly, who was she to rob him of it?

“That’s where I saw the true heroism of that man for the first time.” Rip star
ed out the window into the setting sun, as if his memories were playing across the sky in a private viewing just for him. “He saved not just my life, or Irving’s, but our entire battalion. Just under a dozen of us that had been sent to march north in search of shelter and aid for more of our men. Winter was at her harshest, and we lacked the resources to combat her fury. So, we walked. Through the wind, through the snow, through the pain, leaning on each other to draw strength when our own was tapped. When we saw the glow of the farm house, with its home fires burning, it beckoned to us like the most alluring of mirages. Thankfully, the old couple inside welcomed us. The old man made his living as a large animal vet, his wife his constant aid. They used what training and experience they had to care for each of us; tending to our wounds, warming our chilled bones and filling our starved bellies. We were so close to death, we didn’t even think about our footprints in the snow. They led the enemy right to us. They surrounded the house, threatening to kill us all. The couple informed us of another way out—a storm cellar under the house. It was a ten pace sprint to the outhouse, then fifteen more to the tree line and safety. Together, we reached the decision that it was too dangerous to all go at once. It would draw far too much attention. Ichabod volunteered to stay behind, shouting taunts at the enemy and generally making a ruckus in the house to create a diversion. It was he who timed it out, releasing us one by one. Irv and I hung back to help until Ichabod practically forced us out. It was me that tripped, making everything that followed
my
fault. My foot found an exposed tree root and I went down, loud enough to draw attention from the nearest enemy soldiers. Ichabod had no choice but to run if he stood any chance at escape. A soldier gave chase and stabbed Ichabod in the shoulder with his bayonet. Ichabod gained control of the weapon, pulling it from his hemorrhaging wound and turning it on his attacker. Irv and I came back for him and dragged him to safety from the rain of musket fire.” Rip craned his neck to catch Ireland’s gaze, a rush of tears filling his eyes. “He was the bravest, most kind-hearted man I have ever known. If you truly do share his blood, you should consider yourself blessed.”

“It’s a pretty common name,” Ireland said as she awkwardly picked a fuzzy off
the yoga pants she’d changed into. “I have to ask, if he was such a stand-up guy, why the smear campaign after he died?”

“The truth had to be protected, and
sometimes there’s no better place to hide things than in plain sight. We offered people a legend, laced with fabrications, so the truth would be concealed from those that may use it for harm if they ever discovered the truth.”

“And what truth would that be?
” Ireland asked, her patience audibly wearing thin. “That ghosts are real? That the thing going bump in the night might be there to claim your head?”

Rip’s arthritic finger traced along the rim of his coffee mug. “Far worse. That the
Horseman is a constant. He may find a worthy head, allowing his spirit to be sated and move on, but then his victim shall rise up in his place. Worse yet, the Hessian can be controlled. If that talisman were to fall into the wrong hands, he could be turned into a weapon that could be wielded in the most bloody and horrifying ways imaginable. I was told a Crane would come, and when you did I was meant to teach you how to control him—to take my place. Then, you showed up with that mark.” His gaze flicked to her tattoo, before shaking his head with a pang of distress washing over his face. “You may think it was your own free will that inspired you to add what you thought was a frivolous piece of art to your body, but someone, somewhere had sinister motives and knew all too well the ramifications of branding you with that. Best I can figure now, the two talismans are canceling each other out. Our new goal must be to figure out how to get at least
one
of them working, or many lives will be lost … possibly even your own.”

“So, you’re saying that thing in my yard was
… what? The Headless Horseman come to claim me?”

“I didn’t see it to say.
” Rip shrugged, pressing his chapped lips together in a thin line. “It’s a possibility. The police officers presence could’ve thwarted his advance. If that
is
the case, we should salt the doors and windows to prevent his spirit from entering. Especially since it was most likely
he
that slashed your arm, meaning he’s walked these halls before.”

Ireland expelled a breath she hadn’t
realized she’d been holding, and let her head thump against the wall behind her. “I hate this friggin’ town.”

12

Ichabod

Ichabod crept into the hall, quietly pulling the door to Katrina’s bedroom within the Van Tassel manor shut behind him. “She sleeps now. The poppy seed tea calmed her,” he explained to her anxious looking father.

“Thank y
ou for bringing her home,” Baltus gushed, his hands nervously wringing his handkerchief. “What did you say your name was, young man?”

Ichabod’s mouth opened
, fully intending give the truthful answer, when an image of him being thrown from the premises flashed before his eyes. “Washington Irving, sir,” he lied. “You can call me Irv, as most do.”

Balt
us clapped a grateful hand on Ichabod’s shoulder. “You are an upstanding lad. Although why you choose to associate yourself with the likes of that scoundrel, Ichabod Crane, I shall never know.”

“He is
not all bad,” Ichabod muttered through a tight, forced smile. “I can attest to that.”

“
Humph
,” Baltus snorted, and straightened his ruffled collar with a haughty air. “And what of the body? Were they able to identify it? Peter Van Brunt was beside himself with fear that he may have lost his only son, Brom.”

Ichabod’s gaze fell to the plank wood floor
. The grisly scene replaying, for what seemed to be the millionth time, behind his eyes. “The body belonged to Daniel, the Van Brunt’s stable hand. Why he was targeted or displayed in such a gruesome matter has yet to be uncovered.”

“Such a tragedy.”
The candelabra strung overhead cast a glimmering glow that reflected off of the top of Baltus’s head where the hair had long since receded. “For so long we thought, not that we had bested the ghostly beast, but that we had somehow stumbled on to some sort of accord. It appears we were very much mistaken.”

“You had an agreement with the man known as
the Headless Horseman?”

Balt
us shook his head, the corners of his mouth sinking into a sorrowful frown. “As much as anyone can negotiate with a creature from Hell with nothing to lose.”

Common sense whispered to Ichabod to keep his mouth closed
. Yet, it was his fear for Katrina’s safety that spurred him on, forcing the words passed his lips. “Sir, have you ever considered that this is not a spirit, but a madman with an agenda all his own?”

Balt
us rubbed the back of his head, his gaze forced away by visible guilt. “For reasons you cannot begin to understand, I will simply say no. I know that not to be the case.”

Before Ichabod could protest further
, a hammering at the front door cut him off.

“Th
at must be the house boy,” Baltus explained, his steps already inching him down the hall. “I asked him to fetch more fire wood. Excuse me, please.”

After a brief nod of dismissal from his guest,
Baltus disappeared down the hall in the direction of the foyer. With him gone, Ichabod let desire get the best of him. Easing Katrina’s door open, he stole a peek at the sleeping angel. Her blonde hair fanned across her pillow; her chest rising and falling in a soothing rhythm. Ichabod knew his place. He didn’t belong here; in this home, or this town for that matter. Even so, as he stared at that vision of loveliness, he knew he would not step foot out of Sleepy Hollow until she was safe and her own words bid him leave.

“No!
No!
I beg of you! Show the mercy I
know
you capable of!” Ichabod’s head snapped up to see Baltus edging away from the door, his face ashen with panic.