SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (24 page)

Washing out to
sea.

I could risk it.

There is no
sacrilege. No maelstrom. No suffering will follow.

It would take some
careful contriving.

I can do this.

A detailed plan of
execution.

I’ve been to
his grave once already.

There is no reason
I couldn’t carry it out.

I lay awake that
night, my eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Beware, you old maggot.
I’m
coming for you.

* *
*

Patience. Something I had little
of, but was forced to endure. I could not falter.

But my plan was
not failsafe. Even if the ghost is drowned at sea, how could I prove this to
the Council? How long would it take them to realize that The Horseman would no
longer rise? It was a problem I’d contend with when necessary. And if The
Horseman was truly banished, there’d be no pending danger to the villagers
should I level Father’s musket at the jailer and steal Ichabod away.

I carefully
thought out which tools I would need, then secretly gathered them. The largest
cloth bag I could find would in no way carry the intact spine and ribcage of a
human skeleton. But this devil had been in his grave for some time. Surely his
bones were brittle enough to shatter. I placed a hammer among the shovel,
lantern, and knife I’d buried under the hay in Dewdrop’s stall. I hid canvas
and rope as well.

Completely
absorbed with the matter, I could think on nothing else. I relived my previous
time at his grave, and what strength it took to drive in the sword. There had
been little rainfall since that time, so I could only count on the burrowing
field animals to have done more work for me.

By Tuesday, my
plan was set. I saw it over and over in my mind, contemplating the worst of
situations.

I must keep my
head.

When I retired
that evening, I did not make down my bed. Instead I sat at my window, watching
the skeletal limbs of the trees reaching to each other. Ashen gray clouds
sailed lazily across the sky, and my newest worry was that they may hide the
glow of the waning moon, which I was counting on for additional light.

Near four in the
morning I dressed, wearing no stays or petticoats to hinder my work. I slipped
into a shift, then a simple woolen dress. Both could easily be knotted at the
hem. I put on two pairs of wool stockings for warmth, and instead of ribbon,
tied my hair back with twine. My slippers would get me as far as the stables,
where I’d placed a pair of Father’s sturdy boots. To fit, I’d tucked rolled
linen into the toes. My cloaks kept me sufficiently warm, but their hems caught
easily on my heels. So I took one of Father’s overcoats too.

I lit a small
lantern in the stable, then quietly saddled my horse. “I am asking much of you,
Dewdrop. Forgive me.”

I’d put what I
could in a saddle pack, then strapped the shovel on. I blew out the lantern,
mounted and rode.

As it turned out,
those ashen clouds cast a glow, lighting my way. I kept low in the saddle,
determined, my heart beating with each pound of Dewdrop’s hooves.

The grave looked
the same as I’d left it. The sword still buried to the hilt. Again, instinct
told me that this was the true sword.

Why had it not
kept you down?

I gripped it and
tugged. After some heaving and shifting, I managed to raise it and cast it
aside.

I removed what I
needed, shrugged out of Father’s coat, and dug. At first I could only manage
the smaller, looser clods. But I soon realized that hopping onto the shoulder
of the shovel’s blade upturned deeper, larger fills.

The two pairs of
gloves I wore were cumbersome, but kept my grip solid. Yet each thrust was a
struggle. And though I repeatedly grunted and squawked, I stayed committed.

The one thing
lacking was fear. My knees trembled, but from labor not fright. A few scurries
among the weeds startled me, but I gritted my teeth and continued. I had no
reason to be afraid.

I
am not the one marked.

After a while, my
right shoulder ached – a miserable pang that twisted the muscle and pinched my
neck. A reminder that I had lived a life of wealth, not labor. A short time
later, the ache coursed its way to my wrist. I winced with each jab of the
spade.

I had misjudged
the depth of the grave. I’d assumed the person who’d dug it had only meant to
cover the scoundrel and go. But perhaps the gravedigger had a more personal
vendetta, digging with great ferocity. I couldn’t imagine that his grievance
was greater than mine.

Though the pre-dawn
air held a raw cold, my tortured body perspired. I began to wonder if there was
anyone buried here at all.

Is that why the
sword hadn’t worked?

But just when my
struggle seemed bleakest, I hit something other than soil. A leather boot.

I stumbled back,
letting out a triumphant sigh. Where there’s one, there must be another. I
rooted around with the shovel till I found it. They were the only clothing that
had endured the grave. Then, with renewed vigor, I unearthed the skeleton that
wore them.

I crawled from the
pit, lit the lantern, then held it over my find. The Hessian lay face down – or
chest down, in this case – likely shoved or booted into the hole.

I slipped back in
and crouched. His boots were cracked and crusted and –
ugh
– smelled
like dry-rot. Instinctively, I covered my nose with my sleeve. After a couple
of deep breaths, I carried on.

His right foot was
detached, making my task simpler. But when I lifted the left boot, the entire
leg bone came up with it. I reached up out of the hole, grabbed the hammer, and
with one fierce thwack, severed it at the ankle.

Logic told me to
gather the smaller bones first. After collecting those of his left hand, I
reached across for his right. I instantly shuddered back. The fingers were
twisted and coiled like a skeletal claw…in an inviting gesture.

His right hand.
The
beckoning hand.

I did not buckle
then, and I would not now. I closed my eyes to calm my breathing, then,
one…two…three…
I
gathered my courage and snatched the hand up bit by bit.

The hipbones and
upper torso were much larger than I’d expected. And though my muscles twitched
and seized, my rage pushed me. By placing my foot on the lower spine, I was
able to smash some of the rib bones into manageable fractions. They plinked
like raindrops on a clay roof when I dropped them into the sack.

I kicked at the
soil with the toe of my boot. When I was sure there was nothing left but my
tracks, I pulled myself from the grave.

But there lay his
sword, partially covered with the flung dirt.

Leave no part
of him.

I picked it up and
eased it into the bag.

My lack of sleep
and hard labor had caught up with me, so I stopped a moment to breathe. Then
wiping back my loose strands of hair, I snuffed the lantern, and tugged
everything to my horse.

Dewdrop stood
patiently as I fumbled, packing her down. I heaved myself on, missing my
footing only once. Gripping tightly to the reins, I spurred her off toward the
Hudson, focusing solely on my goal and not the abomination that I carried.

After reaching the
bank, I tethered her to a low limb. The joints in my fingers had tightened, but
I managed to free the bag.

It’s time for
you to go, monster.

Then dragging it
across the rocky ground, I made my way to the river’s edge.

I waded in and…
Merciful
Heavens!
Even through wool stockings the freezing water bit my flesh. My
limbs trembled and my teeth knocked, sending spiking pains firing through my
jaws.

I had chosen this
particular area because as a child I was warned not to swim here. The swift
undercurrent was strong. But it was that lower tide that I counted on to flush
his bones away.

I continued
slogging out, my body shivering like a fevered dog. My boots were now filled
with frigid water and the soaked bag lay heavy in my hand.

Just a bit
farther.

When the river
reached thigh deep, I tried opening the bag. The wet rope had tightened and
gripped. I tussled with it as the coursing water drove against my legs,
threatening to wash me away. I tensed my muscles against the pull, while
Father’s boots anchored me to the bottom.

As I managed the
sack, the rushing water clutched it, trying to rip it from my hands. I held on,
determined.

First, I grappled
the sword.

Will the
current take it or will it lie on the bottom like a sunken ship?

Seeing no other
choice, I pitched it.

I then took out
the bones one and two at a time, and flung them as far as I could. But with my
loss of strength and benumbed limbs, I could only toss them a few feet. I then
removed the Hessian’s boots, foot bones within, and sunk them into the current.
With no part of him left, I dropped the bag and watched it wash away.

It was done.

Walking back was
like trudging through tar. The anchors that were Father’s boots now held me. I
crossed my shivering arms and pushed forward – my skin prickly, my teeth
clicking. Once I reached the shallows, I staggered my way to land.

Just two steps
out, I collapsed, gasping for breath.

You cannot
stop.

The pain and cold
clutched me like I was entombed in ice.

Move, Katrina,
move!

My body continued
to twitch and quake.

Find warmth or
you’ll die.

I’d left Father’s
coat with Dewdrop. Crawling on hands and knees, I urged forward, finally
struggling to my feet. I labored, step by step, till I reached the tree where
I’d tethered her.

Dewdrop?

The limb had
snapped. She was gone. What had startled her away?

I dropped to my
knees, helpless. After all that I’d endured, it’d be bitter irony to die now.

I turned my
hammering head and gazed down the shoreline. Boats.

Marten.

Self-preservation
drove me. How had I not planned for this pain and cutting chill? I pulled
myself up and trudged back toward the shoreline where the land was more level
to walk.

Dawn was hiding
just behind the hills – its amber light splitting the horizon. It felt like I’d
walked for hours, stumbling, determined. I finally reached the piers.

The predawn
fishermen had sailed, leaving somber gaps in the empty moorings. As the sky
grew lighter, I grew nearer, but then...

Dear God!
My
hand flew to my mouth and tears sprang to my eyes.

Marten.

His battered ship
lay tilted, the stern sunk into the silt. One mast had snapped and lay cracked
across the bow. Raveled nets hung loose, trapping floating debris. Had I not
known it to be his, I would’ve guessed it a shipwreck washed ashore.

Then I saw it. The
stygian mark of The Horseman, scored deep along the hull.

My breath caught.
Panic rippled down my spine. With a hoarse and rasping voice, I cried,
“Marten!”

Where is
everyone?

“Marten!”

I scrambled
forward, blinded by tears.

“Marten!”

There was no
gangplank to aid me, yet maybe I could still climb aboard. But the second I
touched the ship, I drew my hand back. Though my fingers were already frozen to
the bone, that one touch bit my hand the same way it had on Garritt’s window.

“Marten! Marten!

“Katrina?”

I cut quickly
toward his voice.

“Katrina!”

He was hurrying
down the slope, holding bags and boxes, but when he saw my condition, he
dropped them and broke into a run. He’d only scrambled a short distance when
his gaze caught on his ship. He slowed. His jaw dropped.

That’s when I
heard it, distant at first – thundering hooves pounding clay. Then
he
came into view – The Horseman – charging straight at Marten.

“Oh God, Marten,
run! Run!”

But instead of
taking to his heels, he spun around, throwing his arm up to shield his face.
The Horseman brought down his scythe, slicing it across Marten’s neck, taking
his head and arm in a single blow. Marten’s head flew from his collapsing body,
then hit the ground, bouncing and rolling toward me.

“No! No! No!”

I scuttled back,
but momentum carried it. And in spite of my panic and attempt to dodge, his
head stopped just inches from my feet – his upturned face frozen in a mask of
horror.

The Horseman sat
tall, his scythe resting on his shoulder.

I sent you
away! I sent you away!

I stared up,
afraid to blink. Afraid to breathe.

He popped the
reins and trotted toward me.

“No!” I gasped,
stumbling back – back into the frigid river.

He stopped at the
water’s edge.

My heart hammered
against my ribs. “I sent you away!”

He remained for
only a moment. Then turning, he spurred his horse and raced away from the
rising sun.

I plodded out,
sobbing, averting my gaze from Marten’s face.

Marten.

My wearied body
moved by sheer will, my mind numb with shock. Hot saliva filled my mouth and
what bits were left in my stomach forced their way out, spilling to the ground.

Marten.

I staggered a
little farther, but my senses had now given way. My head swam. The earth
blurred. Dark spots bloomed. Then everything went black.

* *
*

My eyes blinked open – barely – my
vision milky. I tried to swallow, but it felt like hot coals had been poured
down my throat. I had a sense that someone had bathed me and put me to bed, yet
my hair clung to me, sticky and damp. I moaned.

“Shhh…” The voice
belonged to Doctor Goodwine. “Lie still.”