SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (30 page)

Pain exploded
through me as pinpricks of light danced before my eyes. The room blurred.
Fallon hovered over me. Then there were two of him. Then darkness closed in.

Within that
darkness were fireflies and shooting stars. And rain.
Rain?
Droplets
hitting my face.
Blood. Fallon’s blood.
The fireflies dimmed. Then the
world rolled over and I ceased to exist.

* *
*

The fireflies returned, winking
upon a sea of blackness. Their number grew greater as their bodies grew larger,
becoming the size of bumblebees. They swarmed inside my head, their droning
boring through my brain.

“Katrina.”

The bees are
calling me?

“Katrina.”

No, a man.
Whispering.

The bees parted as
light sliced through the slits of my eyelids.

“Katrina, wake
up.”

The voice. I
recognized it. Brom.

I slowly rolled
over, my head thundering with every move. Brom was crouched near the locked
cell door.

Where is
Fallon?

Brom grimaced as I
slithered on forearms and knees. “Holy God,” he gasped. As I reached he bars,
he quickly pulled a flask from his coat.

“Thirsty,” I
managed.

He tilted it to my
lips. Whiskey. It was hot cinders going down.

“I only have a
moment,” he said. He tugged a cotton scarf from his neck and doused it with
whiskey. “Listen closely.” Reaching in, he wiped at the blood on my face.

“How…how?”
How
did you get in?

“I don’t have time
to explain.” He raised my chin so that my drooping eyes met his. “I’m coming
back for you tonight. About midnight. Do you understand?”

My eyelids fell.

“Katrina.” He
shook me, causing a pain like a bullet had shot through my skull. “Do you
understand?”

“Yes,” I croaked,
the taste of blood and whiskey mingling with the word.

“Keep this.” He
slid the flask through. “But just take mild sips. I’ll need you alert.”

“Brom.” I rested
my head onto my arm. “They’re going to hang me.”

He reached in and
brushed back my hair. “Not as long as I’m breathing.”

I closed my eyes
and he slipped away.

* *
*

Shouting roused me from sleep. I
briefly blinked my eyes open. Dark smoke swelled through the cracks in the
wall, the room held an amber glow.
Fire.
I tried to stir, even a little,
but my head screamed like I’d been kicked by an ox.
Fire.
Through blurry
eyes I looked at the waxy wooden chair. Then the cornhusk mattress. Kindling.
All kindling. The witch won’t hang, she’ll burn.

My stomach heaved
twice, then vomit shot out, slapping the floor. I closed my eyes, steadied my
breathing. The world slowed again.
Brom. He’d come.
I felt around for
the flask, but it wasn’t there. My mind drifted downward.
Had he really been
here, or had I only imagined him like before?
I slipped into darkness
again.
This time tomorrow, I’ll be nothing but ashes.

* *
*

I awoke to a dead quiet – in my
head as well as the room. I lay still, my eyes fixed to the back wall. The room
smelled smoky and singed like The Horseman had slashed it. But what did I care?
I was already marked. Night had fallen, but the glow of sconces lit the cell.

I listened to the
sound of my steady breathing, then realized someone else was there. I lifted
and turned, blinking my eyes. Beyond the bars, the Notary sat. His hands folded
in his lap, his mournful eyes watching me. He rose and walked forward, his face
slack.

God help me, I
haven’t the strength for more bad news.

He voice was low
and soft. “I thought you’d want to know that Peter Bottoms is dead.”

“Dead?” I felt
suddenly lighter. “How?”

“Knife to the
throat.”

At least it
wasn’t The Horseman.
I was spared that accusation.
“Who killed him?”

He shrugged his
weary shoulders. “No witnesses.”

Brom?

I waited for more,
wondering why he was the one to inform me. After a moment his stature slumped.
His eyes glistened. “My son liked you.”

Was that meant to
compliment or shame me? “I liked him too. I loved him. You know he was a very
dear friend.”

He looked down,
studying his clenched fists. “I remember when you and Garritt were children,
about eight-years-old, I think. He broke his arm tumbling out of a tree. You
made a sling out of your petticoat and helped him inside. Then you waited with
him till the doctor and I got there. When I walked in you had his head in your
lap, petting his hair, and singing softly to soothe him.”

The memory pierced
my heart. “He was very brave. He barely cried.”

“Garritt was like
that. Always strong.” His face pinched. “He got into mischief a lot, though I’m
sure Brom was behind most of that.”

I didn’t tell him
that it was Brom who’d pushed Garritt out of the tree.

The Notary raised
his head and looked at me. “But he was a good boy. A strong boy. Do you know
how powerful something would have to be to terrify him that much?”

I nodded
agreement. “Yes, sir. His tortured look still haunts me.”

He pursed his
trembling lips. “Katrina, do you know why The Horseman killed my boy?”

I shook my head.
“No. Nor do I know why he killed Marten. Or Nikolass. His brutal path makes no
sense.”

He blinked his
weak and watery eyes. “I don’t know what the Council will do with you, Katrina,
but they’ll no longer have this.” He opened a fist. My talisman lay curled
within his palm. “I’ll toss it in the river.”

I slumped, tears
stinging my eyes. “Bless you, Notary.”

He closed it back
in his hand, then straggled to the door. Just before exiting, he turned back.
“Katrina, if I thought it would’ve saved my son’s life, I would’ve dug those
bones up myself.”

* *
*

Once he’d gone I made an effort to
rise. My bones ached, but the effort was easier than I’d feared. Upon standing,
my foot kicked something under my skirt. The flask.
Brom had been here.

I scooped it up
and shook it. The sloshing liquid was like the peal of a bell. I removed the
cap, filled my mouth, then swished it around to kill what remained of Fallon. A
broad dark smear leading out of the cell told me his body had been dragged
away.
By who?
I vigorously spit the whiskey into the chamber pot,
ridding him for good. Then I took a hearty swig for myself.

What time is
it?
I looked up, trying to judge by the degree of darkness, but the canopy
of trees made it an impossible task. I sat down on the chair to wait.
Eventually, someone would come for me – one way or the other.

* *
*

At last there was a great
disturbance within the courtroom. Scuffling, shouting. A single hard knock
thwacked the door.

Someone’s head
has cracked against it.

The door flew open
and Brom rushed in. He called behind him, “Get the key.”

“Brom,” I cried,
hurrying toward the bars. “You came back.”

He gripped my
hand. “Yes, and I’ve brought someone to help.”

It was then that
Ichabod rushed in, fumbling with the key.

Oh God!
Ichabod.

He unlocked the
cell and rushed to embrace me. The feel of him was heaven to my touch.

“I’m so sorry,” he
said, squeezing me to him. “I tried to get back to you, but they were holding
me.”

“Come,” Brom
ordered. “You can explain once we’re safe.”

Ichabod placed his
arm around me, guiding me out. We stepped over a guard, sprawled unconscious at
our feet, then passed another lying face down on the floor.

At the backdoor,
Brom peered out, then hurried to a patch of overgrowth. Moments later, he led
their horses out.

“Where are we
going?” I asked Ichabod.

“First to the
schoolhouse. We’ve hidden Dewdrop within the woods.”

He helped me onto
his horse, then mounted, straddling behind me. As quietly as we dared, we
trotted around to the road. Then, when it felt safe, they kicked the horses
into a gallop, and we flew against the frigid wind.

Ichabod had both
hands on the reins, his body warm against me. My mind urged the horse to move
faster – to spirit us from danger.

But we’d barely
made a quarter mile when I heard a third set of hoofbeats behind us.
We’ve
been discovered!

“Don’t look back,”
Ichabod said, but I already had.

Dear God!

My breath caught
and my heart froze. The Horseman trailed us, his steed kicking up sparks as he
quickly gained ground.

“Ichabod,” I
murmured. But he kept his eyes forward, spurring his horse on.

Brom was soon
beside us, his face as pale as moonlight.

“Continue to the
school,” Ichabod said. “He never dismounts. We can find refuge there.”

If we make it!

We cut off the
road and across a field, our horses side by side. Within seconds the
schoolhouse came into view. But The Horseman rode with ghostly power. As we
entered the schoolyard, he bore down on Brom, reaching across and snatching
Daredevil’s bridle.

When Ichabod
didn’t slow, I grabbed the reins. “Brom!”

The Horseman held
Brom by his hair, the scythe raised. But instead of sweeping it across his
neck, he raised his foot and kicked him off his horse. Brom hurdled to the
ground, landing on his back. His breath whumped from his body.

“Ichabod, we
cannot leave him.” I turned the horse and before it fully halted, leapt off.

“Katrina!” Ichabod
yelled, bounding down and coming after me.

“Brom, get up,” I
urged. “Hurry!”

Brom struggled to
his feet, but to our astonishment, The Horseman dropped from his horse and
stalked toward him.

He dismounted.

I raced toward
Brom, but The Horseman was there. Ichabod caught up and restrained me.

I turned,
pleading. “We’ve got help him.”

“How?” Ichabod
said, holding me tight. “Going closer would be suicide.”

I struggled, but
he held me firm. “We must try. Surely there is some weapon.”

“Against a ghost?
Katrina, we are powerless. Ichabod backed up, pulling me with him toward the
school. Our horse had fled into the woods, leaving us helpless and exposed. But
I would not desert Brom. I pushed forward against Ichabod’s grip.

Brom eyes met mine,
fear masking his face. We were just yards apart when The Horseman strode up,
kicking Brom back to the ground. Before he could make another move, the
towering ghost raised his foot and stomped down on his chest. Steam rose as it
seared though his shirt and into his flesh. Brom screamed, his face twisting in
agony.

“Brom!”

I fought against
Ichabod, but he would not loosen his hold. “Katrina, he will kill you if you
interfere!”

The Horseman
brought the tip of his scythe to Brom’s neck, piercing it into his flesh.
Brom’s shrieks grew louder as blood seeped from the puncture.

I scoured the yard
for something, anything to help him. When I raised my eyes again, the steam
from Brom’s chest had cleared, allowing me a glimpse of The Horseman’s shoe. A
shoe, not a boot. A gray leather shoe with a brass buckle. I went limp as
realization struck.

No one wears
shoe buckles anymore.

This was not our
legendary Hessian. It was the ghost of our former schoolmaster.

“Nikolass?”

He relaxed his
stance when I said his name, though he still held Brom at bay.

“Good God,
Nikolass, what are you doing?”

Brom’s face opened
with recognition, then froze with new fear. “Devenpeck!”

“Nikolass,
please,” I begged. “Let him go.”

But he gripped the
scythe with both hands and pushed it deeper into Brom’s neck. Brom winced as
his blood sprayed forth. He gritted his teeth, the cords of his neck stretched
tight. “Nikolass!” he yelled, “it was an accident! I swear!”

I flailed against
Ichabod, but he was too strong. “It’s Nikolass,” I sobbed. “He was kind.”

“And yet he holds
a blazing weapon,” Ichabod argued.

“Please,” Brom
pleaded. “It was an accident. We were drunk.”

An accident?
“Brom,
what have you done?”

Nikolass grabbed
Brom by his coat and lifted him to his knees, twisting him around to face us.
He held onto Brom’s hair as he placed the crescent blade to his throat. Then he
pressed his own knee into Brom’s back, just below his shoulders.

“Brom,” I called
again. “What did you do?”

Nikolass pushed
harder against Brom’s back, bringing the scythe tighter. A necklace of red
formed beneath it. Yet he only applied enough pressure to maim, not kill.

Ichabod placed his
mouth to my ear. “He wants a confession.”

“Brom!” I urged.

Brom clamped his
eyes shut, tears squeezing through. “Katrina, it was an accident. I swear to
you.”

“What did you do?”

Nikolass pressed
the scythe harder against Brom’s neck.

“It was late. We’d
been drinking.” He paused, gasping for breath. “It was just that stupid prank
we’ve always pulled. We’d stretched wire between the trees.”

When he paused
again, Nikolass brought the blade up to his jaw, leaving a crimson scrape.

Brom clenched his
teeth against the pain. “We only meant to knock him off his horse.” He lost
strength, wilting against Nikolass’s grip and looking up at me with sorrow in
his eyes.

“Confess it,” I
urged, hoping this was the ghost’s only motive.

“We sent Marten to
fetch him. He cooked up a lie that the schoolhouse was on fire.

Marten.

“But we’d
misjudged. We’d strung the wire too high. When Nikolass rode through, it caught
on his neck.”

“Nikolass,” I
said. “You heard him. It was an accident. Can you not show mercy?”