Page 6 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
Brom's teeth gleamed orange in the glow of the flames. "And then there was the case of old Brouwer. As you know, he has always denied the existence of spirits and ghosts—until one night, not twelve months ago, when he was returning from a market day. He was riding upon his empty cart, counting his coin from the day's commerce, when a flaming pumpkin soared past his shoulder and wheeled away into the trees. Old Brouwer's nag took fright and bucked, knocking Brouwer off the cart and into the road, while his coins rained down around him. The nag charged away, out of sight and beyond recall. Old Brouwer had twisted his leg, but he crawled around as best he could, feeling for the coins in the dark, scraping them together. And whom do you think should come galloping down the road at that very moment?"
Ichabod's skinny fingers gripped my arm, just above the elbow.
"The Horseman," breathed Vajèn.
"Yes, my dear Vajèn—the Headless Horseman. Big as a giant, on a steed hulking and monstrous, with no face above his shoulders, for he carried his head in his hand!"
Sascha squealed and grabbed Ichabod's arm so that the three of us were linked.
"Old Brouwer tried to limp away, sobbing and stuffing his coins into his pockets. But the Horseman rode up to him and reached down, grabbing Brouwer by the neck, and hauled him up onto the saddle behind him. Brouwer nearly fainted from the terror of riding behind the headless ghost. When they came to the bridge, Brouwer saw one chance to save himself. He leaped from the horse's back, over the side of the bridge, and into the brook. He swears that the Horseman's body shook all over, and that he threw off his coat to reveal a skeleton beneath it! Then he disappeared in a flash of fire and a peal of thunder. Brouwer barely had sense enough to swim to shore and limp the rest of the way home."
"But dullahan are not skeletons," squeaked Ichabod. "They look like any man or woman, until they are summoned for a direful deed, and then they—"
"Have you encountered the Headless Horseman?" Brom interrupted, leaning forward. "Have you challenged him to a race, and lived to tell the tale?"
"No," faltered Ichabod.
"Tell us the tale," begged Vajèn.
"It happened just last week." Brom's voice returned to its mysterious cadence. "I was riding back from visiting Katrina. The wind rushed cold through the trees, and I shivered—but I thought I saw sparks on the air, as if carried from a campfire—and a puff of heat passed over my head. Then I saw him, approaching me on his giant horse—the Headless Rider. I knew I had one chance to save myself, or he would take my head." Brom pressed a hand to his jaw, and the girls all sighed in unison. I rolled my eyes.
"Losing my head would be a great sadness, not only for me, but for everyone in Sleepy Hollow," Brom continued. "So I shouted to the Horseman, 'I will race you for a bowl of punch!' He did not answer, but raised one gloved hand, and I knew my challenge had been accepted. We ranged up our horses, side by side, and I saw the horrible red flesh of the Horseman's severed neck, with the white bone of the spine protruding from it. At his belt was a whip made from human spines, and in his hand he wielded a great golden scythe."
"No more," whispered Ichabod. "Please, no more."
Brom ignored him. "We spurred our horses and raced ahead, through the dark forest. Daredevil gave me his best speed ever, for I believe he understood our peril. The Horseman's mount began to lag, and I knew I would win. The Horseman would be obliged to buy me a bowl of punch, and I would have finally overcome the most fearsome legend of our valley. But as we approached the Old Church Bridge, the Horseman's steed reared up and leaped straight over the side, disappearing into the shadows below. I can only assume he was too proud to acknowledge himself beaten."
Ichabod lurched to his feet, disengaging himself from Sascha's grasp. "I—I must look for my book," he stammered, and wobbled away from the fire circle.
Brom stretched out his long legs and smiled. "Some men are too fragile for such tales. Too fragile for anything, I'll wager, including the spawning of heirs." He looked straight at me.
It was a coarse thing to say, probably fueled by ale and jealousy. He would certainly not have said it within earshot of our parents.
My face flaming, I gathered my skirts and marched away from the circle to look for Ichabod.
I found him some distance away, collecting his volume of Cotton Mather's writings from the damp grass.
"Is your book all right?" I asked.
"It is, thank you, Katrina."
I reached out to brush dirt from the spine of the tome, and in doing so, I accidentally brushed over his fingers in the dark. Immediately he shifted the book under his arm and took my hand in his.
"I am sorry for the way Brom treats you," I murmured, trying to gently slide my fingers away—but Ichabod only clutched them tighter.
"Your kindness makes up for his persecutions," Ichabod said. "You are the kindest soul in Sleepy Hollow, Katrina. I have no doubt that your attentions to me on this night were meant to reveal your true feelings—your affection for me. And I would be remiss if I did not return those affections. I am convinced we would be happy together—who could not be, with such wealth and beauty all around us? The riches of this place are beyond compare, and you are the greatest treasure of them all. But I am not without treasures, too—treasures of the mind, of learning, of knowledge—of music, song, and dance—all of which will make me a most interesting daily companion and will help me to efficiently manage this great estate when your father's health eventually fails. And so I come to the reason for my frequent visits here—Katrina Van Tassel, I offer you my hand in marriage. Together we could live in peace and comfort all our lives. This beautiful house and its lands will never need to change. We can keep it perfect, just as it is, and leave it to our children one day."
While he spoke, my teeth found my lip and ground into it; the pain centered me, clarified my thoughts. "Ichabod, I truly have affection for you, as a good friend. But I am not sure that we could be as happy as you say. There are things I want to do—changes I would make to this place—"
I could not continue. Ichabod had no home of his own, but stayed with various families by turns, and so he was naturally a purveyor of gossip. I could not trust him to keep my convictions private until I was ready to share them.
"I need time to think," I said. "My mind is not yet made up."
Ichabod jerked his hand away. "But—you danced only with me tonight. You walked with me, defended me—and when we have our lessons, you do things that I can only assume are intended to tempt me. And they succeed, Katrina. I am sorely tempted."
He moved in as if to kiss me, but the tip of his long nose poked my cheek. His fingers were cold and clammy around my upper arms, and his breath smelled musty as old books. I felt no physical desire for him at all. Ichabod appealed to my mind, while Brom's looks appealed to my body. Why, oh why could I not havebothin one man?
"I need time." The words burst out more sharply than I intended.
