SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (22 page)

The shrieking and
howling of guests pierced the room. Caspar Jansen peered out the window, then
stumbled back. “It’s The Horseman! He’s returned!”

My heart thrummed.
That’s not possible.

“What should we do?”
someone shouted.

Marten kept a
tight hold on me, attempting to block me from danger. Heat and smoke choked the
air.

Another window
smashed as more burning wood and coals flew in.

The crowd grew
chaotic – wailing, crying and shouting. Some rushed the stairs seeking refuge,
but a fireball blast through, hitting the steps and setting the decorative trim
ablaze.

Burning cinders
skittered under Gertie Marris’ skirt as she cradled her infant son. Her hem
ignited, blue flame gobbling her dress. She held her child out to the frantic
crowd. “Take my baby! Please! Please! Someone take my baby!” Ichabod was among
the many who came forward to help.

People cowered in
corners and under tables. Some scattered to the inner parts of our home.

Efforts were made
to extinguish the flames, but as soon as one fire was snuffed, The Horseman
would launch another blazing missile.

“Someone do
something!” the Magistrate ordered.

Father turned to
him, disgruntled. “A bloody suggestion would be nice!”

Peter Bottoms
stumbled forward, a fierce glower in his eyes. “We all know what he wants.”
Then he shifted his gaze to Ichabod, who was beating hot coals with his silk
coat.

“It’s true!”
Caspar Jansen shouted. “He wants Crane.”

The Horseman made
another pass, his outline visible among the torches.

“Deliver him,”
Clive Van Helt cried. “before the Hessian takes us all.”

“No!” I screamed,
struggling to break Marten’s grip.

Caspar ground a
cinder with his heel. “Send him out.”

Then the lynching
began.

A crowd descended
upon Ichabod, grabbing his arms and legs. He flailed and fought, but there were
too many.

I shoved my way
out of Marten’s hold. “No!”

Father slammed his
fist to the wall. “Are you all mad? We cannot offer this man up as a
sacrifice.”

But the drunken
villagers were heedless.

I rushed them,
pounding and kicking. “Let him go! Let him go!”

They pushed toward
the front door, dragging and shoving Ichabod as The Horseman still cast cinders
inside.

The Magistrate
stomped his foot. “Order! Let there be order!” No one complied to his authority.

Father scrambled
to block the way, but was shoved upon the hearth. His head thwacked against the
brick, splitting his scalp and sending sheets of blood streaming down his face.
“Father!” I ran to his aid, cradling him as he bled onto my dress.

The Magistrate,
now in a frenzy, shouted, “How is sending this man to his death going to help
us? What guarantee do we have that The Horseman will be appeased?”

But those
determined to have Ichabod butchered would not hear a word.

Notary de Graff
hurried over to me with napkins in his hands. “Katrina,” he said, pressing one
of them to Father’s head. “Don’t let them do this.”

I grabbed the
fireplace fork and charged, swinging, pounding and thrusting. One man, named
Dathan, pulled it from me and shoved me to the ground.

Marten ran to
assist me, then with one solid blow, bloodied the man’s nose.

The brawl
continued as many of Ichabod’s defenders stormed forward to barricade the door.
But I feared the mob were too many. I looked around for something…anything!

Elise huddled
behind a table, whimpering.

“Please, Elise,
please! Help me!”

“I cannot,” she
sobbed, her gown clutched within her fists. “I cannot go against my father.”

I raced back into
the revolt, pulling and tugging. Ichabod still struggled, teeth grit. Our eyes
met and he cried, “Katrina!”

Dear God!

Caspar, who
clutched one of Ichabod’s sleeves, yelled to me, “Move out of the way!”

“We won’t let you
through,” the Magistrate held.

“Then we’ll toss
him out the window!”

They shifted
direction, traversing the room.

I flew to the
kitchen in search of a weapon, my heart slamming against my chest.

Simon, as though
by accident, knocked a large cleaver off the sideboard close to my feet. I
snatched it up and ran back.

They continued to
trudge, dragging Ichabod through the cinders and glass. But I streamed around
them, standing at the window with the cleaver held high. “Let him go or I’ll
chop all your heads off myself!”

“Move out of the
way, Katrina,” Peter Bottoms ordered in a drunken slur. He grabbed for me, but
I brought the razor-sharp blade down on his shoulder. I wasn’t strong enough to
sink it, but it sliced through his shirt, sending a spray of blood from the
slash. He buckled, then reached for the cleaver, trying to wrestle it from my
hands.

No! No!

The Reverend
pressed in, holding up a Bible. “Stop this ungodly behavior now!” But they
struck him and shoved him aside.

Peter continued
battling for the cleaver. Though I held strong, it finally popped from my grip,
sending me stumbling back, nearly toppling out the window. They would’ve tossed
Ichabod right on top of me, leaving both our fates to The Horseman.

Just when I
thought there was no hope, Father stepped up, a rag tied to his head and a
musket aimed at the crowd. “Stop! I will not stand for this in my home. Release
him at once.”

The room went
silent. The lynching ceased. No one wanted to chance a bullet.

Ichabod shoved out
of their hold. He slumped against a wall, panting. His hair was disheveled and
his shirtsleeve ripped. The top button was missing from his waistcoat and the
second one dangled from its thread.

The Reverend rose
from the floor. “He’s gone.”

We all turned to
the window.

“The Horseman is
gone,” he repeated.

I rushed to
Ichabod, throwing my arms around him, both of us trembling.

The Magistrate
took charge. “Now, let’s see if we can manage some decorum.” He held up a
finger, glancing around. “Baltus, how badly are you hurt?”

Father wavered and
sat. He still clutched the musket tight. “I’m fine, Harding. But check on Peter
there.”

I had sliced
deeper into Peter’s shoulder than I’d thought. He held his coat to the wound,
but blood still splattered onto the floor. His eyes bled hatred as he narrowed
them toward me.

I looked around
for Marten, but he seemed to have disappeared.

Marten, where
have you gone?

Dr. Goodwine
examined Peter’s wound. “He will require stitches. I’ll need sewing notions.”

Father called for
Simon to fetch them. “And show Gertie to my room to find a dress among my
wife’s things. Get some salve for her legs.”

Gertie, dressed in
a table cloth and clutching her child, sobbed as he led her away.

The Magistrate
turned back to Father. “This is your home, Baltus, what do you intend we do?”

Father looked
around at the whimpering wives and children. “We’ll gather in the common room.”

Most of the throng
had now dispersed, looking guilty and shamefaced. Once we settled back, the
Council, without Caspar, took charge of the situation.

“It is quite
evident,” the Magistrate said, “that Crane failed in his task to seal The
Horseman.”

“Or likely, he
used the wrong sword,” the Reverend added.

I buried my face
on Ichabod’s shoulder. All this was because of me. I had risked everyone’s
lives.

“Either case,” the
Magistrate continued, “it is my duty to insure the safety of the Hollow. Nobody
leaves this house before dawn.”

No one argued.

“Come morning,
we’ll place Crane in a secure spot. It’s apparent that The Horseman has a
grievance with him.”

I snapped my head
toward him. “Grievance? You make it sound like they simply quarreled.”

“Hush, Katrina,”
Father warned. He was too weak and weary to bark.

Ichabod laced his
fingers through mine to calm me.

The Magistrate
shook his head. “This much we know. As long as Ichabod is safe, so are we. The
Horseman has marked
him
. The ghost will not take vengeance on any of us
until he’s taken Crane’s head. That’s why it’s in our best interest to keep
this man alive.”

“And where will
you take him?” the Notary asked.

“Don’t worry,” the
Magistrate answered, “There is one place where The Horseman can’t reach him.”
He waved us off after that, concluding, “Now, I recommend we spend these next
few hours making peace amongst ourselves. It’s the only way we’ll survive.”

I reached up and
stroked Ichabod’s face. “I have never been so terrified in my life.”

“Nor I.” There was
still fear within his eyes. “I should’ve taken my chances with The Horseman.”

“Ichabod,” I
whispered, “What are we going to do?”

He worried with
the dangling button. “I don’t know. But for now, I’m trapped. These men will
never let me leave.”

* *
*

At first cockcrow, there was a
stirring. Everyone gathered their things. The Reverend held up his hand for
attention. “Church services will still be held, but moved until two this
afternoon. I suggest you all attend.”

The guests left in
groups. Little was said. No goodbyes or expressions of gratitude. And the few
apologies uttered were to the Council, not Ichabod.

When most everyone
had gone, the Magistrate said, “Come on, Crane. Let’s get you to safety.”

Ichabod made no
attempt to resist.

“Where are you
taking him?” I asked.

“For the sake of
the Hollow, it’s best we not divulge that.”

“But this is
wrong. You can’t make him a prisoner again.”

Father managed to
step in, his face haggard and gray. The bloodstained bandages were peeling,
revealing the severity of his wound. It was stomach-clenching. “Katrina, you
will not stand in the way of the Magistrate.”

I threw my arms
around Ichabod’s neck and whispered, “I will find you. I promise.”

He closed his
eyes, breathing in my voice.

I watched,
helpless, as they escorted him out. He walked like a man condemned. When he
mounted his horse I thought,
Ride away, Ichabod. Ride away now.

But no matter how
much I willed it, I knew that he would not.

* *
*

The dawn shed its light on the
disaster that was our home. We were accustomed to the clutter and mess that
followed our yearly parties, but what I laid eyes upon looked more like the
aftermath of war. Scorched planks. Shattered glass. And the russet stains of
blood. All encased within a fetid stench of smoke, like that caught in the
schoolhouse by the barrier of dead birds.

The windows, now
gaping mouths of broken teeth, breathed the outside frost. I welcomed the chill
as a reminder that I could still feel something. Carefully stepping through the
debris, I closed the remaining curtains. It was our only defense against
exposure until the slaves brought boards and nails.

Every inch of me
ached as I trudged to my room.

Will this dark
cloud ever disperse?

Exhaustion finally
overcame me, and I fell into a dead sleep.

* *
*

Over the next two days, I budgeted
for repairs while Father saw to the farm. Our newly arrived overseer had fled
back to Chappaqua. Who could blame him?

I worried for
Father. His ghastly wound was now a livid lump, the color of egg yolks and
chicken livers. The gash within it had crusted over with a prickly maroon scab.
It turned my stomach every time I doctored it. And it was causing him
headaches, I could tell.

And, of course, my
mind was continually on Ichabod.
What place in the Hollow was safe from The
Horseman’s reach?

I considered
having Leta deliver a note to Henny, the one person who may have wrangled the
information, but that would prove too risky. I’m sure she had already concocted
stories of a lurid affair between Ichabod and me. The query would only add
kindling to the fire. I’d have to figure another way.

My first real hope
came on Thursday. Reverend Bushnell had been invited to dinner. He knew where
Ichabod was being kept, and I’d find a way to wring it out of him.

After grace,
Father picked up his spoon. “Reverend, I again offer my humblest apology for
the chaos last Saturday.”

The Reverend
lifted a hand. “No need, Baltus. It was no fault of yours.”

“But had I known
The Horseman was not restrained, I would never have…” His words trailed as
though he no longer had the strength to speak them.

“Do not concern
yourself. As it is, we are now somewhat skeptical of the whole business.”

“Which business?”
Father asked, his spoon trembling in his hand.

Reverend Bushnell
cast his eyes to me. “How Crane was able to slip away undetected and carry out
the sealing process. There was no real proof that it was the correct sword. We
now think it was just a ploy of desperation. A way to free himself from those
whose only motive was to protect him.”

I met his gaze,
chin high. “Reverend, how would you like being kept under lock and key?”

“Oh, don’t
misjudge my remarks, Katrina. The inconvenience of his circumstance has not
been taken lightly.”

Father blew steam
from his stew. “So you think Crane took some random sword as a ruse to mislead
us?”

“No,” the Reverend
answered, keeping his eyes on me. “He most likely believed it was the true
sword. After all, it certainly looked like the weapon of a bloodthirsty
Hessian. No, I think there was more at play here.”

I was onto his
roundabout accusations and met his challenge. “What more could be at play?”

His lips curled
into a sly smile. “Perhaps you can tell me? You were corresponding with him
during that time. Did he not tell you of his plan?”