SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (23 page)

He knows.
“Did you not read our correspondence yourself? Surely the Council was keeping a
close watch.”

He sank his spoon
into his bowl. “Admittedly, I did go over the exchanged lessons. But only in
the interest of the children.”

“Since you saw
what was exchanged between Ichabod and me, you know that
he
relayed no
plan to
me
of sealing The Horseman in.”

The Reverend
chased a pea around in his stew. “Regardless, it was a good plan. I remember
you asking me if such a thing would work.”

“And I remember
you affirming that it would. What a shame that it was not the real sword.
Especially since it looked like, as you put it, the weapon of a bloodthirsty
Hessian.”

He nodded. “But
there are so many swords in that stockpile. How could one possibly know the
difference?”

“Well, perhaps we
should stab them
all
into the grave. That should finish him.”

Father kept his
faded eyes on his bowl. “A valid suggestion.”

“And,” I added,
“Ichabod should be the one to drive them in. After all, his head is the one at
stake here.”

The Reverend waved
it off. “There is no proof that the Hessian’s sword is even there.”

“And no proof that
it isn’t. Who was it that bothered burying the German devil?”

The Reverend’s
agitation grew. “Katrina, you were but a babe during the Revolution. You have
no idea the anguish and bedlam that took place.”

“Oh, trust me, I
know a great deal about anguish.”

“At any rate, we
will never know who dug that grave. But it was most assuredly someone who
abhorred the British and their tactic of recruiting rogue soldiers. Quite
unlikely that it was Smedt.”

“Still,” I goaded,
“the old hermit might have pilfered the sword beforehand.”

The Reverend’s
hard huff mingled with steam on his stew. “Katrina, the entire Hollow knows you
have a vested interest and are quite anxious to resolve this…as we all are.”

Father suddenly
found his voice. “Then let’s resolve it. Tell the Council we’ll meet at the
church on Saturday.”

“Fine,” the
Reverend said, slurping his meal.

I made no further
snaps, but listened closely for any hints as to where they’d hidden Ichabod.
When it was time for the Reverend to leave, I helped him on with his overcoat.

“Where are they
keeping him?” I whispered as he slipped one arm through.

He heaved his
other one in. “Katrina, I cannot divulge that information.”

“But you know that
it was I who attempted to seal the grave, not Ichabod. Therefore you must also
know that I am desperate to free him.”

He uttered a small
laugh. “Oh, yes. It is your desperation that I fear most. What other extremes
might you employ?”

“I will do
whatever it takes,” I assured him.

“Even at the risk
of endangering the Hollow?”

“Reverend, there
is another way to keep me out of your hair.”

He smiled, amused.
“Now that’s a suggestion I’m anxious to hear.”

I moved in close.
“Marry me to Ichabod so that I may hide with him.”

His eyes bloomed
and his jaw dropped. “Without your father’s consent? That’s preposterous.”

“Please. I beg
you.”

He wrapped his
scarf around his neck. “Believe me, Katrina, if I could do it, I would. Crane
is just as bullheaded as you. The two of you belong together.”

“You’ll not even
consider it?”

“No,” he huffed.
“Out of the question.”

Had I really
expected he would? “Can I at least send a message to him?”

He placed his
hands on my shoulders. “It’s best that there be no written exchange between you
for the time being.”

“Then will you
deliver a verbal message?”

He sighed,
waiting.

“Tell him that I
hope he finds at least one
grain
of happiness in his cruel situation.”

He straightened
his hat. “That seems harmless enough.”

“You’re
forgetting, Reverend, I’m not the one who means him harm.”

* *
*

I kept hope that the Council would
come to some decision – find some method to blast The Horseman back to Hell.
When Saturday did arrive, I could barely think. They couldn’t possibly adjourn
without something substantial.

Simon came into
the kitchen after running errands in town. It was far too early for dinner, yet
he remained, finding ways to busy himself. And there was a certain restlessness
about him.

“How are you
today, Miss Katrina?”

I rested my
forehead against my fingers. “As well as can be expected.”

“Would you like me
to make you some tea?”

I peeked up, now
curious about his motive to linger. “Yes. That’d be nice.”

I watched as he dallied
with the kettle.

Sensing he had
something to say, I asked. “How were things in town?”

He shrugged in a
“so-so” manner. “Just the same, I s’pose. Lots of talk and such. I always hear
some of the oddest things when I’m there.”

Odd?
“Tell
me, what did you hear today?”

He set the kettle
on the stove. “It’s not my place to gossip.”

Again there was a
bridge of silence as though he needed permission. “Please, what did you hear?”

He picked up a
cloth and began wiping down our spotless sideboard. “Seems there was a brawl at
the tavern last night. The fellow that caused it went crazy wild. Tore up the
place.”

“Has Brom
returned?” I scoffed.

“Oh no, ma’am, it
wasn’t him. I didn’t catch the man’s name.”

I picked up the
tea canister and walked next him. “I hope this nameless man took some of that
rage out on Peter Bottoms.”
And beat that vulgar sneer off his face.

“I don’t know
about that,” Simon continued, “but the curious part is they didn’t arrest that
man. They just sent him on home.”

That was curious.
“Why didn’t they arrest him?”

“That’s the oddest
part. It turns out there was already somebody in the jail.”

“Was there any
reason they couldn’t have tossed him in with the other prisoner?”

He stopped wiping
and gazed past me. “I thought that too. But I heard they wouldn’t have none of
it.” He then turned his deep eyes to mine. “Makes you wonder who’s occupyin’
that jail, now don’t it?”

Our gaze held.

Oh, my sweet,
wonderful Simon!

I plopped the
canister onto the sideboard. “On second thought, I think I’ll wait until later
for tea.”

His lips curved
into a thin crescent. “Yes, ma’am. Is there anything else you need me to do?”

I gave his hand a
squeeze. “No, Simon, you’ve done more than enough.”

Sweeping on my
cloak, I hastened to my horse. I didn’t care who saw me or to what consequence.
I spurred Dewdrop into a winged gallop and did not slow until I’d reached the
Magistrate’s court.

I pushed inside,
marching straight to the jail.

The jailer, a
rangy lizard named Fallon, stepped in front of me, blocking my entry.

“Move out of my
way,” I ordered.

He remained stiff.
“The prisoner is not allowed visitors.”

I slipped off my
gloves. “Prisoner? Is that what you’re calling him?”

He puffed his
chest as though that should intimidate me. “You have no business here.”

“I am going
through,” I said, “and you won’t stop me.”

The blacks of his
eyes shrunk to beads. “You think I can’t?”

I met his glare
with equal measure. “I think you’re forgetting something extremely important.
My name is Katrina
Van Tassel
. My father is Baltus Van Tassel. Our
wealth keeps this village alive. And if I’m not mistaken, pays your wages.”

He flinched,
blinking. “I will have to notify the Magistrate about this.”

“Go ahead.” I
nodded toward the door. “He is presently at the church with the other Councilmen.
I’m sure you can still catch him.”

Fallon seethed,
practically breathing smoke.

“Now let me
through.”

“Fine,” he
scoffed. “But you’ll get no key.”

“Not yet,” I
muttered as I hurried past.

Ichabod lay on a
cot, his journal and pencil in hand. “Katrina.” He flung them aside and rushed
to the bars.

We caressed each
other as best we could. He kissed my hands and fingers, then reached through
the bars, placing his palms to my cheeks. I placed mine on his – the bars too
thick for our lips to meet.

His mouth creased
into a smile. “What took you so long?”

My heart ached.
“Ichabod, what have they done to you?”

He drew his hands
in and gestured. “Take a look.”

For the first time
I saw his cell instead of him. I blinked surprise. They had dressed it up
nicely. He was afforded a writing desk, chair, goose quills, a sheaf of paper,
basins, quilts, and a large comfortable featherbed. I then gazed up at the
small barred window just under the ceiling – the pane shut tight. “No fresh
air?”

“Believe me, it’s best
closed.”

I remembered the
ghastly stink of the narrow alley beyond it.

“So,” he said, his
eyes playful, “what do you think of my new quarters?”

“I’m certainly
relieved. I feared they had you in shackles.”

His fingers swept
across my cheek. “They do.”

His touch only
deepened my anger at the Council. “Ichabod, this is outrageous.”

“Well, they are
right about one thing. The Horseman can’t touch me here.”

“Nor I. Not in the
way I wish.” The desire gripped me.

He braved a smile.
“So our fates are in the collective knowledge of the Council, and yet my
optimism isn’t raised.”

I clutched his
hands, “Ichabod, I intend to free you.”

“I’d put my faith
in you before them, but I don’t know how you can. And Fallon would swallow the
key before turning it over.”

“Perhaps I could
slip some type of sleeping draught into his cider.”

He chuckled. “He’s
rarely alone during the day. And at night I’m protected by two guards. I think
they’d grow suspicious if you were to show up with a jug.”

I squeezed his
hands tighter. “Then I’ll find some way to stop The Horseman myself.”

He rested his
forehead against the bars. I placed mine on the other side.

“Katrina,” he
whispered, his voice grave. “I know how you think. Please don’t do anything to
endanger yourself.”

“If you know how I
think, then you know I’ll stop at nothing.”

“Just promise me
you’ll not do anything rash. You’ve taken a huge risk for me already.”

I closed my eyes,
feeling his warm breath on my face.

“Katrina…promise
me.”

I could not. “I
can only promise that I will find a way to end this.”

He sighed, concern
glistening in his eyes. “Whatever will I do with you?”

We held each other
as best we could. How unfair – the victim being jailed. And though it was risky
for me to linger, I could not tear myself away.

It wasn’t long
before the courthouse door opened and we heard mumbling through the wall.

We still held
hands as Magistrate Harding stepped into the jail room. He looked neither angry
nor disappointed. He simply gazed, blank-faced. “Does your father know you’re
here?”

“No,” I answered,
trying to keep my voice calm. “Are you going to tell him?”

He didn’t answer
directly, but his expression showed that he would not.

Ichabod leaned
against the bars, arms crossed. “I’m assuming by your lax demeanor that the
Council is still baffled as ever?”

The Magistrate
pointed a finger. “Don’t test me, Crane.”

Ichabod ignored
it. “I’d like to see the minutes of the meeting, being that I am the reason it
was called.”

“The Horseman is
the reason,” he countered.

“And?” I urged.
“Did you come up with anything?”

He ran the back of
his hand across forehead, then paused and scratched his nose – like delaying
the answer would make the question go away. Finally, “There was talk of
bringing in more clergy.”

“Oh goody,”
Ichabod said. “More religious wit. Always the answer.”

The Magistrate
scowled. “I should’ve let the mob toss you.”

I stamped my foot.
“And they are the ones who should be locked up!”

“Katrina,” he
barked, “I will not discuss this with you.”

“You cannot keep
him caged like this.”

“I can do whatever
is best for the Hollow. Now visitation is up. Go home.”

On the Magistrate’s
orders, I had no other choice.

Ichabod brought my
hand to his lips, kissing it gently. Then he whispered, “On second thought,
bring all of them cider.”

I couldn’t find
the strength to smile. “How can you jest at a time like this?”

His eyes soften.
“Because I prefer it to the alternative.”

The Magistrate
motioned for me. “Come, Katrina.”

Ichabod hesitantly
released my hand. As I trudged away, he called, “Katrina.”

The Magistrate and
I both turned.

He still leaned
against the bars, an endearing smile on his face. “I love you.”

I returned the
smile, though weak and thin. “I love you too.”

* *
*

My thoughts spun as I rode home.
There was a simpler way to solve this. I could point a musket at Fallon’s face,
demand the keys and kidnap Ichabod, taking him so far from here they would
never find him. I smiled, thinking how Ichabod would be enchanted by this plan.
But if the Magistrate was right, I’d be saving Ichabod, but sentencing everyone
else to death. The simpler way would not work.

I remembered the
story of Dora Hindricks. How the Council had used her children to give her
peace. But the only peace offering for the Hessian would be his severed head,
which was probably picked clean by buzzards and piled in a mass grave
somewhere.

There was still
one solution that seemed the most logical to me. Remove his blasted bones. Yes,
the Reverend viewed it as desecration, but could it be more unholy than what
the ghost had enacted upon us? I would not be so cruel as to inter them in
another vicinity. If his ghost did follow his body, then he needed to be buried
some place far from human reach or sent washing out to sea.