SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (17 page)

There was a moment
of awed silence before Dirk burst into laughter. “The Horseman would lop off
your head before you could even touch his boot.”

It was time to
take control. The mischief-makers were frightening many of the students, who
cowered with wide eyes.

“Enough of this
now – ”

Vincent cut me
off. “You don’t know anything, Dirk. The only way to rid the town of a ghost is
by sealing it into in its grave. Just ask my father. He once sealed the specter
of a fur trapper by stabbing the grave with the dirty swine’s own skinning
knife.”

I held up the
papers. “Enough, Vincent. If we finish our lessons on time, perhaps then you
could share that tale.”

His brow crinkled.
“I just did. Weren’t you listening?”

“Then let me put
it this way. If we finish our lessons quickly you may be dismissed early. But I
will keep you all here until they are done.”

You could’ve heard
a pin drop.

When class ended,
I sat at the table, writing my report. I wrote no comments about the children’s
daily rebellion for attention. Nor did I include hidden messages expressing my
love. I simply ended the correspondence with:
Thank you so much for guiding
me with these excellent lesson plans. They have been invaluable to me. I look
forward to seeing you in church on Sunday. Until then I send my sincerest
regards. – Katrina

I slipped
everything in and buckled the satchel. Sunday. I longed for it. For him.

Reverend Bushnell
appeared at the door. “And what are you smiling about, my fair Katrina?”

“That the school
week has ended,” I answered.

“I would imagine
this first week was an adjustment.”

“Adjustment? More
of a reformation.”

He laughed. “Well,
Simon is waiting. Time you head home and recuperate.”

“I won’t argue
with that.”

He took up the
satchel, and I walked with him out.

“I’ll see you at
Worship on Sunday,” he said.

I nodded.

Just as we’d
descended the last step I asked, “Reverend, have you ever heard of sealing a
spirit into its grave?”

“Yes,” he
answered. “And from what I’ve heard, it’s an effective practice.”

“Have you ever
carried out such an act?”

“I’ve never had
the occasion.”

“But would you,
should the occasion arise?”

His brow dipped
and his eyes narrowed. “Katrina, it’s already been suggested. You’re
forgetting, we have no personal effects of The Horseman with which to seal
him.”

I sighed. “Of
course. Good day, Reverend.”

“God be with you,
dear.”

* *
*

I chatted with a few parishioners
on Sunday morning, my eyes occasionally glancing to the door. Mostly, I was
asked about my first week as teacher, how I found the children’s behavior, and
if I was looking forward to the new week. In other words, they were forcing me
to lie in church. I waited for a lightning bolt.

I was not watching
the door, but I knew when he’d come in. There was a scuffle of feet as several
men pushed in together. I turned to find him crowded next to Van Ripper and the
Magistrate. He didn’t bother to lower his voice as he shrugged them away.
“Gentlemen, I am in church. I doubt The Horseman will follow me in.”

The two backed
off, letting a new swarm of people overtake him. I casually made my way over.

Our eyes met, and
he did not hold back his smile. Just as I reached him, Elise stepped beside me.

“Ichabod, I’ve
been so worried about you,” she fawned. “I hope you are being well taken care
of.”

“Too well,” he
replied. It came out as a jest, but I knew how miserable he’d been. He was much
too free-spirited to be kept under lock and key.

“You’re definitely
safe for now,” she continued. “Father is working diligently with the Council to
find a solution. The children need their schoolmaster back.”

Ichabod nodded
politely. “I hope for a speedy return as well.”

Still batting her
flaxen lashes she said, “My brothers are absolutely miserable. And so are the
other students, I hear. They don’t seem to be gaining what’s needed for their
education.”

How could so much
venom be hidden in such a sugary tone?

Ichabod lifted a
hand. “I assure you, Elise, their lessons are prepared by me. And I’ll always
see that they get the proper assignments.”

Elise sighed.
“It’s just a shame that you’re not there to instruct them fittingly.”

And she claims
I’m rotten?

“I’ve seen their
progress,” he said. “They’re doing quite well.”

Before she opened
her mouth again, he turned to me. “Which reminds me, Katrina, I need to speak
with you about some of the lessons I’m preparing for next week. Is there a
place where we can talk?”

“Of course.” Then
to Elise, “Excuse us.”

Her eyes turned to
ice as I led him away.

We settled into a
pew, facing each other, yet keeping a respectable distance. Father was making
no effort to hide his disapproving glances.

“This is
excruciating,” Ichabod said, his voice low.

“What is?”

“Not touching
you.” His eyes gleamed with affection, and a yearning for him ripped through my
chest.

“It’s agonizing
for me too.”

He risked leaning
a bit closer. “In case I don’t get a chance to say it later…I love you.”

Hearing him speak
it lifted me to the rafters. “I love you too. More than I could ever express.”

I looked back at
the Magistrate then to Ichabod. “They seem to value you as much as I.”

He sputtered a
laugh. “Katrina, they care nothing for me. It’s only themselves they’re worried
about. And the other citizens of Sleepy Hollow. Remember, as long as I am
marked, The Horseman will leave the rest of the Hollow alone.”

“You owe them
nothing, Ichabod. At the first opportunity, hop on your horse and flee. Go back
to Connecticut. I’ll sneak away and meet you there.”

“Believe me,
nothing sounds more enticing, but what if I don’t make it? Didn’t your friend,
Garritt try to escape too?”

Garritt. Had
The Horseman known of his plans to run?

I sank back
against the pew, disheartened. “If someone doesn’t find a solution soon, I’ll
go insane.”

“That makes two of
us.”

It was then that
the parishioners began taking their seats. Though it had always been my custom
to sit with Father, I did not make an effort to move. Instead Ichabod and I
pushed in a little closer and faced forward. We had just over an hour to be
together. And even though we could not touch, the warmth of his closeness
filled my senses.

Eyes were on us,
but I didn’t care. The sphere of the church extended no farther than the small
space we shared.

Reverend Bushnell
took to the pulpit, his Bible opened and flapping like a bird. When we rose for
song, I always sat back down just an inch closer to Ichabod. I ached to touch
him.

After the last
prayer had been uttered, the Council descended upon us. There would be no
private goodbye.

Van Ripper clapped
Ichabod on the back. “Come on, Crane. Baked ham and gooseberry pudding await.”

Ichabod took my
hand in his. “Katrina, I just want to tell you again, you’re doing a wonderful
job in my absence. The children are blessed to have you.”

“Thank you,
Ichabod,” I said, cordially. My heart broke when he released me and walked out
of the church.

* *
*

The usual students entered class
the next morning. But their disheveled hair, yawns, and grimaces indicated I
should start easy. The beginning of a work week is always an unfavorable time,
and having read over Ichabod’s lessons, I could see that he had taken this into
account. Experience is everything.

We were starting
with something Ichabod felt was both educational and stimulating. I was to read
a vocabulary word, and ask the students if they could tell me something they’d
heard, seen, or experienced that would put that word into place. The first one
was
attempt
.

“Any form of the word,”
I instructed.

After a moment,
two children raised their hands.

I called on Devlin
who related something about attempting to eat a worm on a dare. I only heard a
bit of what he said because the word,
attempt
, sparked a flurry of
thoughts.

When he finished I
gazed down at the next word,
batch
, but I barely saw it. I hadn’t
realized the long silence until Carver said, “Miss Van Tassel? What’s the next
word?”

I snapped to. “Oh,
it’s…” My eyes blurred on the word, then, “Never mind this. I’ve a better idea.”
I set the word sheet aside. “Vincent, tell us about your Father sealing in the
trapper’s ghost.”

His brows dipped
as confusion clouded his face.

“And expound,” I
added.

“Expound?”

“Give us details.”

His mouth twitched
and he shrugged. I could see this would take some goading. “Why was the trapper
troubling your father?”

“Cause Papa had
made some leg traps for him, and when they found the trapper dead, he was
caught in one of them. I guess he wasn’t able to open it before he bled out. He
must’ve thought Papa made a faulty trap.”

His father, Clive
Van Helt, was our local blacksmith. He was never known to make anything faulty.

“Did you see the
ghost?” I asked.

“No, but Papa did
a bunch of times. He said the old coot meant to skin him alive.”

By now the class
was filled with wide eyes and slack jaws.

“How did your
father go about sealing him in? How did he get the trapper’s knife?”

“Papa had made the
knife too. He got it back along with the other traps.”

That certainly
made it easy. “And was the trapper buried here in the Hollow?”

“They buried him
in the mountains, next to his camp. No one barely knew him anyway.”

“And your father
trekked there to seal him in?’

Vincent’s mouth
twitched again. “That’s the only way he could do it.”

“Did he relay any
details?” I had to know.

His mind seemed to
be churning, and I hoped any fabrication of the story would be part of his
father’s telling, not his.

“When Papa set out
for that camp, he carried the leg trap with him, hidden under a blanket. The
old banshee figured out that Papa aimed to seal him in, and he came at him like
a wild-eyed wolf. So Papa threw back that cover and showed him the trap. That
was like showing him a key to Hell. That trapper stayed clear of Papa the rest
of the journey.”

If that part were
true, it was most intriguing. “So the very thing that killed the trapper is
what kept him at bay?”

“That’s what Papa
said.”

If only I had that
fatal cannonball. “Then what happened?’

Another shrug. “He
took the trapper’s knife and stabbed it in the grave. And he dug it in real
deep so the rain wouldn’t wash it away.”

“And he’s not been
plagued by the spirit since?” I asked.

Vincent shook his
head. “Nope.”

I relaxed, placing
my hands in my lap. “Thank you, Vincent. That was an intriguing story.”
Quite
intriguing.

Dirk crossed his
arms and clucked. “But I didn’t hear a single vocabulary word in the whole
thing.”

The children broke
into laughter. For once I wanted to hug Dirk for bringing us all back around to
our lessons.

* *
*

On the carriage ride home my mind churned.

“
The only way
to rid the town of a ghost is by sealing it into its grave.”

“…it is an
effective practice.”

“We have no
personal effects with which to seal his grave.”

But what if we did?

* *
*

At dinner that night, Father sat
like a rock, moving slowly as he took small bites. He reminded me of a clock
winding down to its final minutes. His weariness weighed on guilt, even though
I had kept all the accounting up to date. But I now had plans to take rid us of
The Horseman, which would leave Father with only the worries of the farm.

“Tell me,” I
started, knowing I had to tread carefully, “how is the search for a new
overseer?”

He grazed his eyes
to me like he’d only just realized I was in the room. “Done. And coming to us
next week from Chappaqua.” He slurped a sip of wine. “Though I did have to
offer a higher wage.”

I couldn’t help
but wonder where Brom, who’d lived here all his life, had gone. Wherever he
was, he, no doubt, was having a good laugh.

“I hope he works
out well,” I said.

Father shuffled his
diced potatoes before spearing them with his fork. “How was your day with the
children?”

That caught me by
surprise. In all this time, he’d never once asked. “Better. But it’ll still
take some adjusting.”

He snorted. “You
know as well as I that nothing comes easy.”

Too well.

I was careful in
selecting my next words. “It’ll be nice when they can meet at the school again.
Proper desks and all.”
Tread carefully.
“And hopefully that cellar can
still be converted into a shelter.”

Father scowled as
he chewed his beef. “Put that cellar out of your mind.”

“It’s just a
shame,” I said.
Tread carefully.
“Now it will never be anything more
than a root cellar.”

“A marked root
cellar,” he reminded.

“Better a marked
root cellar than a weapons repository, I guess.”

His face actually
brightened at that remark. There was even a trace of a smile. “Old Smedt wasn’t
storing turnips down there, that’s for sure.”

I feigned a
chuckle. “Whatever happened to all those weapons anyway?”

He shrugged. “Most
were sold at public auction.”

My heart sank.
“And
the rest?”

He ran his napkin
across his mouth. “Stored them in the courthouse basement, I believe.” He
paused, thoughtful. “I should remind the Magistrate of it. If there’s any
decent metal left, it could be forged into something useful.”