The Headsman (2 page)

Today when she switched channels she went to the dance that was scheduled to follow the game that night. She saw herself wearing her black blouse and her silver pants that Buddy said were so tight he could count the hairs, and she looked terrific. People turned to stare at her when she walked across the floor of the gym. Jeff Peterson was giving her admiring glances and Pat was friendly but obviously a little jealous, and when the music started Marcy just knew Jeff was going to ask her to dance.

“Marcy?”

It was so cool—dreamy, even.

“Marcy?”

Suddenly she heard sniggering. She snapped out of it. “Yes?”

Jesus, it was Hathaway. The laughter grew louder and her face flamed. Most kids found nothing funnier than someone else’s discomfort, and the more embarrassed she became the more they relished it. Hathaway let the smirks and chuckles go on for a moment or two, and then he raised a hand to cut off the noise. His eyes were black and piercing but the rest of his face wore no expression whatever. Marcy squirmed in her seat at his gaze bored into her.

“I asked whether you thought Ichabod Crane’s terror was justified,” Hathaway said.

That sent her mind racing.
Justified?
First she had to remember what Ichabod had been terrified by to begin with. Ah, of course. He’d been chased by the headless horseman. The whole thing seemed like a crock to her, but that wasn’t the issue. What concerned her now was coming up with an answer that would get Hathaway off her back. She decided a positive opinion would be the best one to give, because it would be the least controversial.

She cleared her throat. “Yes, I think it was. I mean, he was on that lonely road at night, and he thought he was like being chased by a ghost.”

Hathaway pursed his lips, seeming to consider her answer. “All right, very good.” Marcy felt a surge of relief. His gaze left her and swept the others in the room. “Anyone care to add a comment to that?”

The room was dead quiet. Nobody seemed anxious to volunteer a viewpoint, not even that kiss-ass Betty Melcher. Betty rarely missed a chance to brown-nose a teacher, but for the moment she was as mute as the rest of them.

“Betty?” Hathaway was looking at her. Which was something he did often. She always sat in the front row of the class, where she could give him a good view of her legs and where her low-cut blouses would show to best advantage.

This morning Melcher squirmed a little for his benefit, but she didn’t offer a reply.

Hathaway glanced over the other students, and a note of cynicism sounded in his tone. “Surely one of you has a thought about this?”

The silence continued for several more seconds, and then it was rent by the sound of a long, piercing fart. Johnny Lombardi might have cut it, or maybe Billy Swanson. It came from somewhere in the back of the room, as loud and clear as a bugle call, and then the room erupted in shrieks of laughter. Buddy was sitting at the desk next to Marcy’s. He stuffed his hand into his mouth and bent over, his shoulders shaking.

Hathaway’s face darkened. It was sallow to begin with, even when he was calm. But now it looked like a piece of old leather. His brows hunkered down, a further clue to his anger, and when he spoke his voice cut through the titters like a knife. “Swanson!”

Billy looked up with a wide-eyed
who, me?
expression that inspired a few more choked-off laughs.

“Yes, you,” Hathaway said. “What do
you
think about Ichabod Crane’s fear?”

Swanson sat sprawled in his seat, one of his long arms hanging down at his side so that his knuckles almost touched the floor. He was a big tow-headed boy, left tackle on the football team. His usual manner was laid back and cool, and he slid into that protective covering now. “I think he got all wound up over nothing.”

“That may be, but did he know it was nothing at the time?”

The class was enjoying this; a sparring match between the pupil and the teacher was in the offing, and it had little to do with “The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow.”

Swanson became emboldened. He wasn’t much of a student, but he was usually sure of himself when he’d formed an opinion. “He should have known. Anybody would fall for a stunt like that had to be stupid.”

The teacher’s tone took on an edge of sarcasm. “Then you believe most people would have thought it was just some sort of joke—a prank?”

A half-smile stretched the boy’s mouth. “They would if they had any brains.”

There were murmurs of amusement from the rest of the class. Hathaway seemed to be getting the worst of this, and it was apparent that he didn’t like it. He studied Swanson for a moment. “Are you aware of our own legend, right here in Braddock?”

Swanson’s smile widened. “What legend is that?”

Billy had to know damn well what the teacher was referring to, just as Hathaway had to be aware that the boy was pulling his chain.

But the bearded man’s face remained impassive. “I’m speaking of the headsman.”

“Yeah,” Billy said. “I’ve heard about it.”

“A lot of people in this town believe it to be quite true.” Hathaway let his gaze drift over the other students. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with the subject.”

Whispers passed through his audience, like the rustling of leaves in the wind. At the sound, the corners of the English teacher’s mouth turned down. He had their attention now, but instead of seeming pleased, his expression was clearly disdainful.

“Yet I wonder,” he went on, “if you know its origins. Probably not.”

They waited as he closed his eyes in a dramatic show of thinking deeply about what he was going to say. Several seconds passed before he opened them, and several more before he spoke. “To begin with, the practice of execution by beheading is as old as civilization. It started when man learned to work copper, around 5,000
B.C.
That enabled him to make edged weapons that were far superior to stone or flint. They were much sharper, much better suited to cutting through flesh and bone. And from that time on, a vanquished warrior or a criminal could expect to lose his head. Even the Romans, who were famous for crucifixion, actually preferred to behead their victims.” He paused. “Can anyone tell us where else it was popular over the centuries?”

No one replied.

Hathaway’s tone was dry. “The answer is … everywhere. In every country, and with every one of the world’s leaders. Attila’s horsemen carried opponents’ heads on their lances as trophies. Charlemagne decorated his castle with them. So did Vlad the Impaler and Barbarossa. And Genghis Khan was believed to have beheaded as many as fifty thousand of his enemies. There was even a sport that got its start that way.”

“I know,” Betty Melcher blurted. “Polo!”

The teacher appeared surprised as well as gratified. “Very good, Betty. Tell us about it.”

She sat up straight in her seat. “The tribesmen in Afghanistan played it. They’d take the head of one of their enemies and put it in a field and then they’d ride on their horses and try to knock the head over the goal line.”

“Excellent.”

Marcy felt like gagging. Little Miss Kiss-ass was scoring one of her own goals, as usual.

Melcher pressed her advantage. “The Afghans played it for hundreds of years, and when the British were there they picked it up. Only they used a ball instead of a head.”

Hathaway was smiling at her. “How did you know that, Betty?”

“I saw it in a movie on TV.”

He frowned. “Urn.”

“With Sean Connery and Michael Caine.”

“Called
The Man Who Would Be King
. From a Kipling story. I was hoping you’d read it.”

Melcher looked crestfallen. Marcy was elated.

Hathaway’s dark eyes swept the class. “Then there was the French revolution, of course. The guillotine was used to behead the nobles and the bourgeoisie, and eventually the revolutionaries as well. But in most places the work was done with the ax.”

His bony hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair. “In England, every community had its own headsman. The executions took place among the rich and the poor, the weak and the powerful. King Henry the Eighth had two of his six wives beheaded. And it wasn’t uncommon for children as young as twelve to be put on the block for stealing a loaf of bread.”

God, Marcy thought. How terrible.

“The English system of justice is different from ours,” Hathaway said. “It decrees that the accused is guilty until proven innocent. A trial back then would take only a few minutes, and the offender would be condemned to death by the ax.”

He’s enjoying this, Marcy realized. Rolling around in it like a dog in a cowflop. What a sicko.

Hathaway shifted his heavy shoulders. “When the village of Braddock was founded, early in the eighteenth century, the settlers not only brought the custom with them, but they brought a headsman as well. When someone committed a crime here, he was decapitated. His head was chopped off.”

The teacher paused, apparently gauging the effect his words were having.

Melcher tried again. “And the legend is that every so often, the headsman comes back.”

Hathaway nodded somberly. “That’s correct, Betty. Every few years, they say, the headsman returns to Braddock.”

The room was quiet, and Hathaway’s gaze moved back to Swanson. “So you see, we not only have the legend, but we know it was based on historical fact. It’s quite possible that Washington Irving was familiar with the story, and perhaps was inspired by it. When you look at ‘The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow’ in that context, it’s also easier to understand Ichabod Crane’s fear, wouldn’t you say?”

The tone of the boy’s voice was arrogant. “I still think the whole thing’s a lot of crap.”

Marcy drew in her breath sharply. Whether he realized it or not, Billy was pushing it to the limit. If he went too far he’d be thrown out of the class. Hathaway was one of the few teachers in Braddock High nobody dared mess with.

But Hathaway surprised her by remaining unruffled. “You’re entitled to your opinion, of course,” he said to Swanson. “But in fairness to Ichabod, let’s set up a hypothetical situation, closer to home. Okay?”

Billy shrugged, letting the audience know he’d won this little skirmish, but if Hathaway wanted to keep on looking like a horse’s ass, then what the hell—he’d go along.

“Let’s suppose,” the teacher said, “you’re out late at night, walking along a road right here in Braddock. It’s a lonely road out in the country. You’re out there all by yourself. Suddenly you hear footsteps behind you.”

He leaned forward. “The footsteps come closer. You turn around, and there—standing directly behind you—is the headsman. Now be truthful. If that happened to you, wouldn’t you be just a little fearful?”

Swanson grinned at having been given a perfect opening. It was obvious he was in his glory now, in a position to show everyone what he was made of and what he thought of Hathaway and Washington Irving and the entire subject. “Nah. I’d know it was all phony.”

“Are you so sure? Think about it. What you see is a very big man, obviously very powerful. He’s dressed entirely in black. He’s wearing a hood and carrying a huge, double-bladed ax.”

In spite of herself, a chill passed over Marcy. As long as she could remember, and probably for as long as the town had been here, Braddock’s children had been frightened by the legend. Parents used it to discipline their kids, telling them that if they were bad, or if they didn’t shape up and do as they were told, or whatever, the headsman would come looking for them. He’d be carrying that big ax, and the ones who were really naughty would get their heads chopped off. Braddock’s very own bogeyman, lurking behind some tree or waiting to jump out of your closet at night, swinging that awful weapon.

But hey, that was just so much nonsense. And you realized it about the same time you stopped believing in Santa Claus.

“Well,” Hathaway prodded, “what would you do?”

The grin on Billy’s face widened. “I’d take the ax and stick it up his dingus.”

Hoots of laughter filled the classroom.

Still there was no change in Hathaway’s expression. His eyes glittered like onyx as his gaze once again ranged over the kids in the room, but he said nothing until the giggling and chortling died down. Then a tight, ironic smile passed briefly over his lips. He turned the wheelchair around, its motor whirring, and directed it toward the blackboard on the other side of the room.

Picking a piece of chalk out of the tray, he looked back at them. “Since all of you seem to think this is some sort of joke, I have a homework assignment for you.”

A collective groan rose from the class.

The reaction seemed to please him. That’s what he wanted, Marcy thought. An excuse to jam it to us. He knows there’s the game tonight and the dance, and he wants to do what he can to screw it up. Only a shit would give homework on weekends.

Hathaway held up the piece of chalk. “I want each of you to write an essay on the subject we’ve been discussing. Apparently many of you believe Ichabod Crane would have been a fool to react as he did when he was pursued by the headless horseman. So you’re to write about how
you
would react if you found yourself in a similar situation. Describe how you would feel and what you would do if you were being stalked by the headsman right here in Braddock.”

There was an undercurrent of protest, but Hathaway ignored it, writing out the assignment on the blackboard. As if we couldn’t understand what he’d told us, Marcy thought.

A few minutes later the bell rang, and the class was over.

3

The evening didn’t work out the way Marcy had hoped. Brad-dock lost the basketball game by one point, 72 to 71, even though Jeff Peterson played as well as he ever had in his life, bringing the crowd to its feet again and again, sinking impossible baskets with his hook shot and setting up his teammates with dazzling ball-handling.

Pat had a big night as well. She looked sensational as usual in the white sweater, keeping the Braddock fans in a near frenzy as she paced the cheerleaders. But in the end it was all for nothing. Warren Falls was the winner, and what Braddock would have to concentrate on now was making the regional playoffs.