SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (11 page)

On the day of the
funeral, the rain had ceased, but the gray veil lingered. While Garritt and
Nikolass had both been murdered by The Horseman, their funerals couldn’t have
been more different. Garritt was a child of the Hollow. Our grief for him
ripped the heart, leaving an emptiness in its place.

Brom and Marten
served as pallbearers, pacing grimly to the grave. The procession was slow as
there were many in attendance. And the rain had made the grounds sodden and
sluggish, adding to the drudgery. Elise and I hooked arms, helping each other
along. With a handkerchief clutched in her gloved hand, she wept in shallow
sobs.

Once there, the
four of us stood, staring down at the oak coffin. It was as though we were
still children, innocent and awed, yet disconnected without Garritt standing
alongside us.

The Reverend spoke
of the glory of Heaven, yet I felt no relief or joy. The only solace I took was
that Garritt could now be with his mother who had died when we were six. His
grave was dug alongside hers, joining them both in Heaven and on Earth.

Once the service
ended, we faced the long walk back, along with the realization that Garritt was
taken from us forever. Brom and Marten each offered an arm and escorted us to
the church. But as we turned to go, I cast my eyes across the cemetery, toward
that grave hidden beneath the weeds. My heart was black with hate. If I could,
I would dig up his headless bones and feed them to the wolves.

There was food to
be had, but no desire to eat. Most everyone stood, murmuring their sorrows to
each other. A line had formed to offer condolences to Notary de Graff. I swept
over and took my place. There were many statements of
“I am so sorry.”
and
“He will be missed.”
Once I approached, I took his hand. “I truly
don’t know what to say. I loved Garritt so much.”

His faded eyes
found mine, and he leaned toward me and whispered, “I must speak with you
privately. After the service.”

I nodded, somewhat
aghast. Had Garritt told him of my visit behind the house?

When I turned
back, Brom was there. “Come.” He guided me back to where Marten stood. Elise
had joined her family, still waiting to speak to the Notary.

“You should sit,”
Brom said.

“I’d rather
stand.” Somehow it felt wrong to relax.

Brom placed a hand
on Marten’s shoulder. “Watch after her while I get her some tea.”

I started to tell
him I didn’t need watching after, but he’d already hurried away. And he was
being kind and civil for once.

Marten fidgeted
with his tricorn, turning it corner to corner. In a whisper he asked, “Did you
manage to see Garritt last Sunday?’

“Yes.” I recalled
his tortured face.
Go to safety. And tell no one of my plan to leave.
Why
had I agreed?

“Did you speak to
him at length?” he asked.

“He only lingered
long enough to urge me away.”

He stepped closer.
“Did he confess anything?”

“Confess?”

“I mean did he
give any explanation as to why The Horseman chose him?”

“None.” Making
sure we were not overheard, I anxiously asked, “Marten, how much longer?”

He brushed back a
tumble of hair from his face. “Soon, I hope. And rest assured, those
further
arrangements have already been made.”

I won’t rest
assured until I’m away from this Godforsaken place. “What have you arranged?”

“Not here. I’ll
come by tomorrow and explain.”

He’d barely
finished his sentence when Brom returned with the tea. I took a sip, finding it
as bitter and acrid as this awful day. “I have no taste for this.”

“You should drink
it,” he encouraged.

“Really, I’m
fine.”
Though far from it.
As I handed it back, someone stepped behind
him.

“Pardon me.” It
was Ichabod, dressed impeccably in black. My heart hitched at the sight of him.
He seemed awkwardly out of place, having never met Garritt. “I wanted to
express my condolences. I understand he was a dear friend.”

Brom stood taller,
chin out. “None closer.”

“If there’s
anything I can do,” he offered, “please do not hesitate to ask.” Though these
last words were meant for all of us, it was me at whom he looked.

I blushed,
thinking of our near-kiss. “That’s very generous.”

Our eyes lingered
for a moment, then he said, “I’ll leave you to your mourning.”

Though I couldn’t
voice it, I wanted so much for him to stay.

* *
*

I truly wanted to go home and rest,
but I had agreed to speak with Garritt’s father, and it could only be here.
Never again would I step foot on his harrowing property and the sorrow locked
within.

Eventually the
crowd thinned and I crossed over to where he stood. “You wish to speak with
me?”

He took my arm and
guided me to the door. He appeared so small and frail – a man left to grieve
alone.

Once outside, he
led me away from the remaining mourners. He stared down at the ground, his
breath shallow. I worried for a moment that he might collapse.

“I know that you
defied me.” He never looked up. “You went to Garritt’s window and spoke with
him.”

I was a cornered
mouse. “But I had to see him. To understand.”

“You knew of his
encounter with The Horseman?”

“Yes.”

A silver tear fell
from his eye. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

“I was told in the
strictest of confidence. I begged him to report it, but he refused.”

The Notary wept
and coughed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I will live in
wonder the rest of my life.”

“As will I.”

He feebly dug into
his pocket and drew out Simon’s talisman. “Here. This was found with his body.
It was kind of you to offer it.”

“You keep it,” I
said, closing it into his palm. “Perhaps it will do you some good.”

A sob escaped him
as he nodded. “God be with you, Katrina.” With his head hung, he trudged back
to the church.

* *
*

Fear and grief leaves one achy, so
I chose anger instead. Anger directed at whoever controlled The Horseman. If I
could discover him, I’d have his head.

And then there was
the waiting. Marten had promised to come by. I was itching to know what
arrangements he’d made. But it was also Wednesday. Ichabod’s day to teach the
slave children. My eyes were on the clock, worried they’d show up at the same
time.

To my relief,
Marten arrived a little before three. Again we stayed on the piazza so as not
to be overheard.

“We must hurry,”
he said, grappling in his pocket. There was an unusual urgency in his words and
his hands trembled. He withdrew a silk cloth, then holding it in his palm, he
unfolded each corner, revealing a thin pinchbeck bracelet with six miniature
clay roses. “Take this.”

“Why? What’s it
for?”

He clumsily
fastened it onto my wrist.

It was lovely, but
explained nothing. I thought he’d come with news. “Marten, what is this?”

“A way to cover
our tracks.”

I looked a
question at him. How could a piece of costume jewelry make a difference?

He moved closer
and met my eye. “Listen carefully. When the time comes, I’ll send word. You are
to go to Greenburgh, where you’ll be met by Peter Bottoms.”

I drew back as
though he’d bit me. “Peter Bottoms? Why him?” Peter was our local tavern owner,
and a creature as foul as The Horseman himself. The man wore a permanent scowl
and had his fingers in a lot of pies. Most, inedible.

Marten pressed a
finger to my lips to quiet me.

I clutched his hand.
“Marten, no. Not Peter. I’d rather have dealings with Satan.”

“It has to be
Peter,” he argued. “Once we’re away, I’ll explain.”

“Explain now.”

He loosened my
grip on his hand. “There’s no time. Just listen. From Greenburgh, Peter will
take you to Sawpit. There will be a small boat waiting. The man piloting that
boat will ferry you to my ship. As payment for delivering you, you’re to give
Peter this bracelet. Understood?”

Not really.
“But
this is simple costume jewelry. Why would he want it?”

“Believe me,
Katrina, he does.”

I examined it,
running my finger over each clay rose. Intricate, but not delicate. “If he
wants it so badly, then what’s to stop him from simply nabbing it and
abandoning me on the road?”

Marten hesitated,
his eyes heavy, then said, “Because I’ll be waiting with the rest of the
payment. The only way he can get it is to comply.”

I twirled the
bracelet on my wrist, thinking of the complexity of this scheme. “It feels like
I’m being smuggled.”

“Would you rather
risk pursuit from your father?”

I shook my head.
My heart beat fast as I thought of what was to come. “Marten, are we doing the
right thing?”

He gazed at me
like I’d lost my mind. “Katrina, there is more at stake here than living your
life tied to this farm. The Hollow has become far too dangerous.”

“For everyone.”

His drew close and
whispered, “I cannot save everyone, but I can save you.”

Though my mind
whirled with questions, I quietly nodded.

He stood, looking
down at me sharply. “Weigh your thoughts and decide now. Because once I sail
away from Sleepy Hollow, I will never return.”

* *
*

When I stepped inside, Simon was
walking toward the door. “I was just coming out to find you, Miss Katrina. Your
father’s asking for you.”

I hurried to his
study.

“Oh, good,” he
said, rising. “There are some inconsistencies on these export registers. I need
a fresh pair of eyes to look them over.”

My eyes were
anything but fresh, and in no way would I be able to concentrate. “Can it wait
until this evening? Ichabod’s coming and I must prepare.”

“Ichabod won’t be
coming.” He tapped the ledger and went on as though that statement needed no
explanation. “I feel there is some miscalculation in the tobacco column, but it
could very well –”

“What do you mean
he’s not coming? It’s Wednesday. He’s expected.”

Father kept his
gaze on the numbers. “Not anymore.” He ran his finger down one of the columns
as though rechecking the figures, but I knew he was simply waiting for my
response.

There could only
be one explanation. I exhaled, determined to stay calm. “Why have you put a
stop to it?”

Father exhaled his
own sigh, more from impatience than surrender. “Because he did not use
discretion.” His finger grew white as he pressed it to the ledger. “He made me
look weak before the Council.”

Father? Weak? Not
when his money sets the rules. “I can assure you, Ichabod told no one.” He
would never jeopardize all he’d contended.

“We’d agreed he’d
teach my slaves, yet there were others from neighboring farms.”

“That was not his
doing.”

Father jerked his
head up. “Then whose?”

I froze, mum. I
couldn’t name Leta. “Perhaps you should’ve rationalized it to the Council
instead of giving in.”

His face flushed
as his eyes bore through me. “I did not give in! I simply came to realize the
ridiculousness of it.”

I returned his glare.
“It’s not ridiculous.”

“You’re right.
It’s not ridiculous, it’s preposterous. I should’ve never agreed.”

“But he only means
well,” I argued.

“Are you so sure?”

Without a
doubt.

“Katrina, the
Council is starting to question whether Crane is a teacher or a troublemaker.
He’s allowing the children too much freedom, and filling their heads with
unorthodox thought. One child reported that he had them spend the afternoon
studying ants!”

Had I not been so
angry I might’ve smiled.

“We’re keeping a
close eye on him.”

“Perhaps the
Council should worry more about The Horseman, and less about Ichabod.”

He jabbed his
finger down on the page again. “Perhaps you should stop arguing and come help
me as I asked!”

I stood stock
still, considering my options. I turned and swept to the door.

“Where are you
going?” he called.

“Out,” I said,
glancing back. “I will find the numerical problem when I return.”

He lifted his
finger from the ledger and pointed it as straight as a pistol. “You are not to
leave this house.”

“Why? Because of
the danger? You’re forgetting, Father, The Horseman only rises at night. Or are
you more afraid I might encounter Ichabod?”

Before he could
protest further, I hurried down the hall.

* *
*

I spurred Dewdrop into a gallop –
riding hard, the sting of the cool wind on my face. My intention had been to
get away. To taste a little freedom. To breathe. But after a few minutes, I
changed course, and didn’t slow until the schoolhouse came into sight.

The school day had
ended, but Gunpowder was still tethered in front.
Good.
I hitched
Dewdrop, then smoothed down my windblown hair. I touched my palms to my face.
How must I look after that fierce ride?
Rosy nose? Mottled cheeks?

I pushed through
the door. “Ichabod?” The room was empty. I peeked out at Gunpowder… then I
remembered.

There’s a
comfortable patch of clover near the water. An excellent spot to think
.

Of course.

I hurried through
the schoolyard to the old birch by the brook. Ichabod sat against it, journal
and pencil in hand. His eyes were fixed to his notebook. He wrote intensely,
like the words may evaporate before he could get them onto the page. I watched
for a moment…then two. I could’ve watched for an hour, but secretly observing him
felt a bit lewd.

“Ichabod,” I
whispered.

He started as I
brought him out of his trance. “Katrina.”

Quickly rising, he
tucked the journal and pencil into his vest pocket. How beautifully handsome he
was. I touched my cheek again, worrying that I looked a smallpox victim.