SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) Read online

  SEVERED

  A Tale of Sleepy Hollow

  By Dax Varley

  1790…Then

  The Horseman…he is real. He came for me.

  I sat, gazing out my chamber window. A ground mist had collected, hovering over the glen. Then I heard him, distant at first, approaching within the fog. His race with the night thundered a rhythm. My heart drummed to each beat.

  Within moments, I saw him – a headless outline of black within a gray cloud. As though sensing my eyes upon him, he slowed his phantom steed, circling once. The horse reared, pawing the haze. The Horseman quickly drew his sword and sliced the air.

  I dropped down below the windowsill, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Had I doomed myself by daring to peek? I quivered, hugging my knees.

  He is not real. He is not real.

  Moments passed. Then slowly, I inched to the edge of the sill. Hiding in the shadows, I moved the curtain just a whisper.

  The Horseman was still there, but now he’d turned…toward my window. My heart hammered and my blood ran as cold as the Hudson River.

  He knows I’m watching.

  His hand reached out – beckoning…inviting …bewitching me. A gray breath of evil played upon my neck, and my name shimmered within the mist.

  Katrina.

  I struggled against the force that summoned me, tightening every muscle, every nerve, refusing to move an inch. My body quaked, but I kept my mind as sharp as The Horseman’s blade. I will not come. I will not.

  Still he remained. No wind. No stars. Just the ivory fog. And that hand…

  Katrina.

  When I thought I couldn’t hold back a second more, he spurred his massive steed. And like a midnight blast, he flew, charging across the countryside.

  I collapsed, trembling, heaving. Finding strength, I crawled upon my bed. I dared not move. I dared not sleep. I lay within my quilt, knotted in fear.

  The Horseman …he is real. He came for me. And I knew not when he’d return.

  1793…Now

  It’s a simple game, really. A game that I call “Someday.” I close my eyes, spin a globe, and then draw it to a stop with my finger. When I open my eyes, there it is – the place I’ll visit “someday.” My diaries were filled with someday destinations. Vienna. Cairo. Burma. Someday I would visit every one.

  “Katrina,” Father snapped, pointing to the inkblot I’d dripped on a billing slip. “Pay attention. I can’t have sevens resembling twos.”

  Oh rot. We’d been working the ledgers for over an hour, and the numbers were bleeding together before my bleary eyes. Our three hundred acres had produced a particularly abundant harvest, and Father insisted on registering every grain. I picked up the blotter and rolled it over the fat droplet, then glanced at the remaining notes and vouchers. Sigh. I’d rather jab this quill in my eye than continue tabulating. But as always, I pressed on. Being the only child of the wealthiest man in Sleepy Hollow meant that “someday” I was to inherit this farm – keep his empire intact. But that was the “someday” Father had planned.

  Some ten minutes later the door to Father’s study opened. Hans Van Ripper, an old farmer, came in, nervously tapping his hat to his leg. His face was dark and shadowed, and he heaved like he’d limped all the way here.

  Father rose from his chair. “What it is, Hans?”

  Van Ripper cut his eyes to me, then back. “Better tell you in private.”

  “Go on, Katrina,” Father said, making shooing motions with his hands.

  “Father, I’m eighteen. Certainly old enough to hear –”

  “Go!” he ordered.

  “Fine.” At least I was getting a break from the ledgers. But there was something behind Van Ripper’s tense expression that told me this was news I needed to hear. I rose, passed between the two of them, then quietly closed the door. I made a few thumping noises to sound like I’d retreated, then as lightly as possible, placed my ear to the door.

  There was a strained silence in the room. Perhaps they were making sure I’d gone. Then Van Ripper uttered, “The Horseman has killed again.”

  A thousand pinpricks needled my skin. I pressed my palms to the door for support. The Horseman’s back.

  “Good God,” Father boomed. “Who has he claimed?”

  “The schoolmaster,” Hans answered, “Nikolass Devenpeck. Found the body myself.”

  The air thinned. I struggled for breath. Nikolass? True, he was always clumsy, dry, and poorly dressed, but he was a fine teacher who’d only settled here last winter. Before then the children had been educated at home, as I had. Why him?

  There was some foot shuffling, then Father asked, “And you’re sure it was The Horseman?”

  Van Rippers gravelly voice lowered. “His headless body was layin’ in a circle of scorched grass. Same as the others.”

  The others. Old Brower and Cornelius Putnam – two villagers beheaded. But that was three years ago. Then.

  “I’m waging the schoolteacher tried to outrun The Horseman on foot,” Van Ripper wheezed. “His old dapple, Gunpowder, was found grazing near the school.”

  “And his head?” Father asked.

  “Several of us scoured the nearby field, but it weren’t nowhere to be found.”

  Their words wavered in and out as I leaned heavier on the door. For three years there had been no word. No sightings. No deaths. And now…?

  More foot-shuffling. Father pacing. “I thought this nightmare was behind us.”

  “Will it ever be?” Van Ripper asked. “You know as well as I that Sleepy Hollow is a haunted place.”

  Bile clogged my throat. I couldn’t shake the chilling image of Nikolass – a heap of blood and limbs, sprawled upon a circle of blackened ground.

  Father briefly stopped his pacing. “Do you know if anyone’s disturbed The Horseman’s grave?”

  “Who would dare?” Van Ripper snapped.

  Not a soul.

  In life, The Horseman had been a Hessian mercenary whose head was severed by a cannonball. His body lies in the far reaches of the church cemetery, the only marker a crude headstone that reads:

  Hessian Swine

  Dismantled 1778

  The grave is hidden among a mass of creeping vines and cockleburs. No villager would risk going near it.

  There was a thick silence on the other side of the door, then Van Ripper spoke again. “Baltus, you know The Horseman does not rise of his own accord.”

  I had always heard this – rumors that someone controlled the hessian, conjuring him to enact their own revenge. But the schoolmaster? Nikolass, what had you done?

  Father’s footfall was heavy as he crossed the room. “There will be panic among the villagers. Go and assemble the Council. I shall be there shortly.”

  I spun, meaning to hurry off. But I only made it a few feet when I realized – Blast! – the hem of my dress was stuck between the door and the jamb. I tugged hard, but it was wedged tight.

  The knob turned. I pressed myself to the wall, hoping the door would hide me when Van Ripper opened it. Once he’d passed, I could slip down the hall undetected. But it was Father who emerged, slinging it open. It swung back, slamming into me. Oomph!

  He peeked around, his face ruddy with anger. “Katrina, get back in here and finish the numbers. I’ll be back later this afternoon.”

  I tugged my creased skirt from the door hinge as Van Ripper pushed past me.

  “Father –” I started.

  “And don’t you dare leave this house.” He lifted his coat from the peg. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.” Though I doubted my hands would stop trembling long enough for me to write. All his sevens would definitely resemble twos. “But, Father…h
as The Horseman returned?”

  He shrugged his coat on, not bothering to meet my eye. “You were listening. What do you think?”

  I handed him his scarf. “What will we do?”

  He pitched it around his neck and sighed. “Pray.”

  Pray? Absolutely. I prayed that my “someday” would soon be at hand.

  * * *

  A bright September sun shone down upon the funeral, sweeping shadows across the crypts, stone crosses, and weeping angels. The air smelled of maple and spices. And the birds sang as the village mourned.

  We gathered near the newly dug grave while the Reverend stirred us with passages of rebirth and heavenly treasure. And while my mind should have been on the proceedings, I couldn’t help glaring across the far field of gravestones to the spot where The Horseman lay. These past three nights I waited…wondered…listened – falling asleep to the sound of my heart beating in my ears. Will this be the night he comes back for me?

  My close friend, Elise, nudged me out of my daze. “Stop staring,” she murmured. “You’ll only provoke him.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “He doesn’t rise during the day.”

  “But he may sense your eyes upon him. God only knows which one of us is next.”

  God only knows.

  Once the last prayer was uttered, we trudged back to the church for the feast waiting inside. Elise and I dallied behind Father as we moved toward the church.

  “Has your father given any indication as to why The Horseman chose Nikolass?” she whispered as we tread the dirt path.

  “Father keeps Council business to himself. What about yours? Anything?”

  “The same. He stomps about, grumbling under his breath.”

  The Council is a committee of grumblers. “I still can’t imagine what offense Nikolass committed.”

  She suppressed a smile. “Besides wearing shoe buckles?”

  I slapped my hand to my mouth to cover a snorting laugh. Then I gave her a sidelong glance “So rude.”

  “Really, Kat, no one wears shoe buckles anymore.”

  “That’s hardly grounds for execution.”

  As we rounded to the front of the church, I spotted Brom, our overseer, standing near the doors. He was handsomely dressed in black, except for the ridiculous fox skin cap on his head.

  Father stopped abruptly and gripped Brom’s arm. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Brom shrugged like the answer was obvious. “I’ve come to pay my respects. Isn’t that what funerals are for?”

  Father’s forehead crimpled. “I left you in charge.”

  “Don’t worry, Baltus. Fearful slaves work quick and hard. Now that The Horseman has risen, they won’t chance being out after dark. And anyway, I intend to make my stay short.”

  Father placed his hand on Brom’s shoulder. “See that you do.”

  “Came to pay your respects?” I asked after Father had gone inside. “You might’ve tried wearing a decent hat.”

  His cocked brow disappeared under his cap. “I’m proud of this one. I trapped and skinned this fox myself.”

  “I know. You’ve told me a thousand times.”

  He leaned close. “But you love it.”

  I pushed his face away.

  He turned his attention to Elise. “Surely you’d like to hear my heroic tale.”

  “Which version?” she snipped. Whisking her handkerchief, she shooed him back.

  He tipped the ugly cap as we walked around him.

  We stepped through the double doors of our small church and weaved through the people and pews to the very front. Several tables were arranged next to the pulpit, each set with ample amounts of roast duckling, ham, puddings and pies.

  “It all looks so delicious,” Elise said.

  “Especially these.” I pointed to a large batch of strawberry fritters, then scooped a generous portion onto my plate.

  Elise swatted my hand. “Pig.”

  I pinched off the edge of one and popped it in my mouth. “These are dark times. I’m allowed.”

  She raised a brow. “When were you never?”

  I’d barely finished filling my plate when Brom swept over and took it from me. The man had the prowess of a cat and the intelligence of a baboon.

  “Wait,” I said. “That’s not yours.”

  He flashed his devil-may-care grin. “Of course it is. See? The other wives are serving their husbands.”

  What an idiot. “Oh dear. You must’ve forgotten. I’m not your wife.”

  He plucked up a fritter and bit in. “Then consider it practice.”

  He will not steal my fritters. I snatched the plate back, nearly spilling my precious hoard.

  “Why do you taunt me like this?”

  “Me? It’s you who’s doing the taunting.” He nodded toward Father, who was across the room, talking with the Council. “Baltus says we merely have to set a date.”

  “Hmmm… He hasn’t told me. But let me know which day you decide so I can be occupied elsewhere.”

  Elise stepped between us. “Come, Kat, before he starts naming your children.”

  We searched the packed church for a place to sit, but the assembly had overtaken the best seats. Unless we climbed to the belfry or impaled ourselves on the pipe organ, Elise and I were forced to settle next to the village busybody, Henny Van Wart. If there was no news to spread, Henny invented her own. I once heard that the minister sneezed during prayer, and because of Henny, the entire Hollow knew about it before he uttered “Amen.”

  “So tragic,” Henny said, holding her platter in one hand and a drumstick in the other. “And no family to speak of.”

  I nodded as I nibbled, not wanting to spur her into one of her outrageous tales. But a nod is conversation enough for Henny. She continued.

  “I hear his wife and daughter were taken by Indians some ten or so years ago. No telling what unspeakable acts befell them.”

  More nodding on my part.

  “Poor Mr. Devenpeck found himself so distraught, he turned to drink to cure his grief, and well, you know how that goes.”

  Not firsthand, but I didn’t let on.

  “He suffered a tumultuous tumble from society, and after some five years or so, picked himself up and started over.”

  As Henny’s tongue wagged out her story, she waved the drumstick around like a choirmaster’s baton. Twice I dodged it to avoid getting poked in the eye.

  “So,” she sighed, “The man finally got his life back in order, only to have The Horseman make short work of it.”

  Elise looked down at her meat pie like it was Nikolass’s severed head. “I just don’t understand, of all the villagers, why him?”

  Though it’s a question that had endlessly plagued me, I nudged Elise with my knee. Don’t encourage her.

  “Oh, I suspect it was some form of sacrilege on the part of Mr. Devenpeck,” Henny clucked.

  “Sacrilege?” Elise and I spouted together.

  Oh, Henny, what have you cooked up now?

  She drew so close I could smell the meaty seasonings on her breath. “It seems he used pages of old copybooks to patch the schoolhouse windows, and when there were none to spare, he used pages from a hymnal.”

  “I hardly find that sacrilegious,” I said. “Why would a hymnal be of more value than repairs to the school?”

  Henny craned back like I’d committed a sacrilege of my own. “Because they contain praises to God!”

  I tilted my head, considering it. “So you’re saying God summoned The Horseman to rise up against the teacher because He was offended by Nikolass’s actions to protect the children from all manner of weather and bugs?” Absurd.

  “Of course God didn’t summon The Horseman, but he obviously ignored Nikolass’s prayers while the Hessian…” Here she paused, and using the drumstick, made an imaginary slash across her bulky neck.

  I lifted my chin. “Well, I think he was an honorable man and an innocent victim.” If indeed Nikolass Devenpeck had been plagu
ed by years of grief and drink, he certainly didn’t need to be remembered as Godless too. “And,” I added, “he didn’t need a hymnal. As I recall, he had all the psalms memorized.”

  Henny eyed me suspiciously. “I didn’t know you knew the schoolmaster so well.”

  “I didn’t. I only saw him at Sunday service…which he attended regularly.”

  Henny narrowed her eyes, giving me a slantwise look. “Hmmm… He was more than twice your age, but a comely man to be sure. I can see why you had eyes for him.”

  I choked on a fritter making its way down. “No. No. I didn’t have my eyes for him.”

  She lowered her voice. “Now, now, dear. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “I have nothing to hide.” I turned to Elise, who was struggling for composure. No help there.

  Henny’s gray speckled eyes danced. “Don’t you worry, Katrina, I will not tell a single soul.”

  Only the entire village. “There was nothing between Mr. Devenpeck and me.”

  Henny nodded once, condescendingly, as though promising to keep a secret.

  “Urrrgh!” Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? I rose, clutched my plate tightly, and stomped off.

  Elise sprang up and came after me. She was trying unsuccessfully to not giggle.

  “It’s not funny,” I said, wanting badly to flick some of my fritter crumbs in her face.

  She placed her hand on my shoulder in an attempt to settle my rattled nerves. “Stop worrying, Kat. Henny Van Wart is just a large sail of foul wind. No one listens to her.”

  “Everyone listens to her.”

  “But no one believes her.”

  She was right, of course, but it didn’t ease my frustration. Though I still had several fritters that could. We found a quiet corner behind the altar.

  I was about to take an ample bite when my friend, Marten Piers shoved his way through a group of standing mourners. They glared, curling their lips in distaste. And no wonder. He was still wearing his fishing garments – gray breeches and shirt (smeared with who knows what), and a red knit cap that he tugged off, revealing hair as tangled as his casting net.

  “Katrina,” he blurted, panting like he’d just raced up from the docks. It had to be dire for him to come dressed as he was.