SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (5 page)

“Really?” he said,
his confidence returning.

Before she could
open her mouth again, I quickly nudged her foot. “Ichabod, I’m sure you’ll hear
all kinds of wild tales. The people here are quite superstitious.”

He set the apple
down and dusted his hands. “All based on intriguing lore, I’m sure.”

Don’t be too
sure.

I sensed more
damaging words bubbling from Elise, so I quickly hooked my arm though hers. “I
fear we’ve taken up too much of your time. We should let you get back to work.”

His eyes settled
on mine and held. “Not at all. It’s been a pleasant distraction.” I swear, his
enticing gaze could melt bronze.

“Enjoy the
treats.” I still held Elise close, urging her toward the door.

 “Wait,” she said,
slipping her arm free. Once again, she batted those lashes as she addressed
him. “My family would like you to dine with us this evening. You can meet my
two brothers. They’ll be students of yours when the school reopens.”

“I’d love to,” he answered,
his voice soft. “And you can tell me more about the legends of Sleepy Hollow.”

She trembled with
glee. “Come at six. We’re the farm closest to Van Ripper’s.”

“I’m looking
forward to it. And thank you again. It was a pleasure meeting you both.”

Though he’d
addressed the pair of us, his eyes locked with mine.
My God, you’re amazing.
It took every ounce of strength I had to walk out that door.

* *
*

“And we thought he’d be an old
toad,” Elise said as we rode away from the school. She leaned back and took one
of the muffins I’d set aside.

“Wait…” – I
reached for it – “Aren’t those for our trip to the river?”

She giggled like a
giddy child. “Kat, really. After seeing Ichabod? Do you really want to spoil
that image by staring at those boys on the dock?”

I answered by
grabbing the other muffin.

“I can’t believe
it,” she said, gazing dreamily at the azure sky. “His every feature was
perfection. Hair, eyes, mouth, and…” She placed her hand to her heart. “…that
charming smile.”

Captivating is the
word I’d use.

She sighed so
heavily loose crumbs huffed onto her skirt. “I really must thank your father
for bringing us such a delicious schoolmaster.”

I laughed. “I’m
sure delicious was not a requirement.” Though it was a benefit.

Her head was so
far in the clouds, I don’t think she even heard me. “I have to get home and
pick out a dress for dinner.”

A spike of
jealously stung me. It was my father who’d hired Ichabod. Why weren’t we the
first to invite him?

“But I’m sick of
all my plain old frocks.” She swept the crumbs from her dress as she pouted.
Then she whipped toward me. “Kat, you have a beautiful wardrobe. May I please
borrow one of yours?” She leaned close, her hands in prayer position.
“Pleeeeease?”

That spike of
jealousy became a spear. But then I wondered,
why should I even care?
My
sights were on the open Atlantic and wherever Marten steers us.

“You don’t have to
beg,” I told her.

Her face lit once
again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

While I didn’t
want to dump ash on her glowing passion, I couldn’t help but be curious. “How’d
you feel about that book?”

She turned back to
me, eyebrows knit. “Which book?”

“That book of
witchcraft. He’d read it cover to cover…
many
times. Like he has an
obsession.”

She waved it away.
“
Interest
, not obsession.”

“He grew strangely
uncomfortable when the subject came up.”

Elise’s smile
returned. “Then tonight, I’ll make sure it doesn’t come up. There will only be
laughter and enjoyment.”

In a village
threatened by a murdering ghost, I hoped that would be so.

* *
*

It was in church on Sunday when I
saw Ichabod again. The pews were filled and he sat just on the edge of the
second row, hymnal and Bible both resting on his lap.

Well, Ichabod,
you haven’t burst into flames.
Maybe I’d misjudged your interest in witchcraft.

I searched about
for Garritt, but he was not there. I thought surely he’d find refuge in the
church. His father sat among the elders, and though his brown suit was pressed
and proper, his face had more wrinkles than an old hound. I vowed no matter
what, I’d visit the de Graff home this afternoon and speak with Garritt myself.
I ached to know how he was doing.

Reverend Bushnell
preached a lengthy sermon, but I barely noticed. My eyes were on Ichabod. When
he rose to sing, his fingers traced along the words in the hymnal. And with
each hymn his voice grew louder. Either he was trying to fit in or out sing
Mrs. Twiggs, who, in spite of the hymnal, always got the words wrong.

When the last
prayer was finally delivered, I searched for Elise. I had to know more about
his visit at dinner. The only word I’d gotten from her was a note she’d sent by
way of her younger brother, Dirk. It simply said:
Delicious.

I had just reached
her when Henny Van Wart interceded.

“Come, come, come,
come, come,” Henny insisted, herding us to a corner near the front. Elise and I
pushed in next to Sally Groot and Gertie Marris, who cradled her infant son.

Henny fidgeted
like a fly caught in goose grease. “I have such news of our newest resident I
thought I might burst. Had I perished halfway through the sermon, I would have
found a way to resurrect myself so you good ladies would not be kept from this
vital information.”

“Henny…” I
started.

“Shh, shh, shh,
shh, shh,” she blustered. “It turns out our schoolmaster left his native
Connecticut just in the nick of time. Had we not offered him a position here,
Heaven knows where he’d be. Probably tarred and feathered, still dashing away
from an angry mob.”

Gertie’s jaw
dropped. “Why?”

Henny barely took
a breath before continuing. “He hails from Hartford, you see – a city that
circulates several newspapers and periodicals. Using an assumed name, he
published a lewd serial in one of the publications.” She lowered her voice.
“Tales of debauchery.”

Sally and Gertie
gasped. I, on the other hand, was more intrigued than alarmed.

Their amazement
only enlivened Henny. “Each week it featured horrific topics that glorified all
manner of vulgar behavior. When the upstanding citizens of Hartford learned that
it was he, they literally chased him out of town with cudgels and pitchforks. I
dare say he ran all the way here.”

I tried to
visualize a gathering of city folk with pitchforks. Absurd.

Elise bubbled with
anxiety. “What types of things did he publish?”

“Dreadful things,”
Henny answered, placing a hand to her heart. “Tales of smugglers, gamblers,
prostitution…”

“And don’t forget
my favorite,” came a soft voice behind us. I turned to see Ichabod leaning
against the pulpit, his eyes bright with amusement. “A particularly engrossing
piece that involved men dressed in women’s apparel. Quite shocking.”

Henny gasped, her
face turning one shade darker than a turnip. “I dare say!”

“It provided me
extra money while studying at the university. You should consider publishing,
Mrs. Van Wart. I’m sure you could produce a riveting weekly scandal sheet.”

I gulped back my
laughter, and could see Elise suppressing a grin as well.

“I would do
nothing of the sort,” Henny pledged. “I am not one to indulge in such tasteless
behavior.” She hitched her head high, nose in the air. “Come, ladies.” She
turned and stormed away. Sally and Gertie lingered a moment, then awkwardly
followed.

Elise and I
erupted into fits of giggles.

“Sorry,” I
sputtered, covering my mouth with my hand. “It’s just that no one ever stands
up to Henny.”

“Was any of that
true?” Elise asked, her eyes anxious and starry.

“Yes,” he
answered, a little more timid. “I published a lot of stories back home.”

I raised a brow in
question. “Tales of debauchery?”

His playful smile
melted my heart. “That would depend on how you define the word. But no, nothing
like Mrs. Van Wart suggested.” He leaned close. “And none of my heroes would be
caught dead in a corset.”

That conjured an
intriguing image. “So…no pitchforks?”

He looked down at
the seat of his breeches. “Hmmm… No holes. No pitchforks.”

I held up a
finger. “For all we know, you could just be a fast runner.”

He lifted his foot
and looked at the sole of his shoe. “Nope.”

“But what kinds of
stories did you publish?” Elise asked, fawning.

This, he answered
with a fair amount of pride. “Tales of courage, love, adventure – rogues and
risk-takers, rubes and royalty. My mind is overrun with fantasy.”

Elise swooned over
his every word. “Much like those Persian tales?”

“My stories are
quite different. Perhaps I could share one with you the next time I visit your
farm.”

She clutched her
hands together, beaming. “I’d love that. We could have you back before week’s
end.”

“Perfect.” He then
turned to me, his eyes dancing beneath his dark lashes. “There’s one particular
story of mine that might interest you, Katrina. I could bring it this evening.”

“This evening?”

“Yes.” He pointed
toward Father, grumbling with the Councilmen in their usual corner. “Baltus has
invited me to dinner.”

I worked to keep
my composure. “That’s wonderful. I look forward to it.” Here was my chance to
learn if
he
was a rogue or risk-taker.

Elise’s jaw
tightened. “How lucky you are” –she gritted her teeth – “to be the first to
enjoy his work.”

If her teeth
ground any tighter, they’d shatter from her mouth. And if that wasn’t enough,
she daggered me with her glare as well.

Before I could
reply, Marten approached, head lowered. This time he wore appropriate attire.
“Katrina, I must speak with you.” He spoke quietly, but I detected a sense of
urgency in his tone.

Please don’t
tell me our plans are off.

“Privately,” he
added.

Elise suddenly
relaxed – delighted, I’m sure, that I was leaving her to a full helping of
Ichabod.

“Excuse us,” I
said.

Marten led me
behind the pulpit.

Once out of sight,
I gripped his arm. “What’s happened? Has the purchase fallen through?”

“Shhh.” He shook
his head. “No. Not that.”

I exhaled relief.

“It’s Garritt,” he
said. “I’ve been to his house twice this week. He won’t see me.”

Marten and Garritt
were the closest of friends. I could see Garritt turning anyone away but him.

“Has he indicated
why?” I didn’t mention The Horseman, though I’m sure Brom had informed him of
Garritt’s encounter.

“No, but I think
he’s panicked.”

What I saw at the
meeting that night was more than panic. It was pure madness. “Have you spoken
with his father?”

“He says Garritt’s
extremely ill. Doctor Goodwine is calling it hysteria. Daily bloodlettings
haven’t helped, and they’ve tried all manner of vinegars and draughts.” He
looked at me as though I’d have a solution.

There was one
unspoken question between us. “Has he told them of The Horseman?”

Marten shook his
head. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not? After
what happened to Mr. Devenpeck, surely they’d be looking for a way to help him,
not cure him.”

Marten moved in
close, his voice low. “Katrina, do you believe him? That he truly saw The
Horseman?”

“Why wouldn’t I?
Why would there even be a doubt?”

“It’s possible
that he ate something disagreeable and Devenpeck’s death triggered a
hallucination.”

“He ate something
disagreeable? Oh, Marten, listen to yourself. ”

“But there are
cases of people who’ve become hysteric just from ingesting bad grain.”

“And there are
cases of people who were bewitched and murdered just like our former
schoolmaster. Garritt has somehow attracted the wrath of The Horseman, and we
must do what we can to help him.”

Marten stepped
back, giving in, but the worry never left his face.

I placed a hand on
his. “Listen, I’ll ride out to his place this afternoon and persuade Notary de
Graff to let me in.”

Marten leaned
close, eyes narrowed. “Katrina, that could take some bewitching from you.”

* *
*

It was well after three before I
could sneak out undetected. Being a Sunday, I knew Brom would not be near the
stables. He only abided by the Sabbath when it came to work. I took every
precaution not to encounter him. I quietly saddled Dewdrop and rode away.

A scattering of
cotton clouds dotted the sky. The scent of pine and spruce filled the air, and the
chattering of woodland creatures accompanied me. Had this not been such a grave
endeavor, I would’ve relished the afternoon sun on my face.

The fall air was
cool, normal for this time of year, but as I approached the de Graff home, I
gaped. At present, the trees of Sleepy Hollow wore an array of autumn colors –
a blending of lime, jade, ash, gold, and coral. But the trees on their property
were barren and dry, as though they’d been embraced by some pestilence or
blight. Their rotting limbs resembled skeletal fingers, all pointing toward the
house.

The Horseman’s
handiwork.

The grass had also
succumbed to some unnatural plague. Withered and scorched. It looked as through
fire had rained down upon it.

What must the
Notary think?

Dewdrop slowed to
a canter as we neared the property line.

“Come on, girl,” I
encouraged.

She stopped,
refusing to take another step.

I snapped the
reins. “Make haste.”

She remained firm,
nodding and braying distress.