Page 5 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"How long will you keep Brom and the schoolmaster at odds, Katrina?" Sascha's green eyes fixed on mine. "Their rivalry is growing beyond all decency."
"It is." Lucas's deep voice issued from the dark, a soothing melody. He moved into the circle of amber firelight and swung one leg over the bench on which Vajèn sat. When she did not protest, he seated himself. "I heard that Van Brunt has been harassing the schoolmaster, stopping up the chimney of the schoolhouse, breaking into the place at night and stacking up the furniture this way and that, giving the students popguns to interrupt the lessons."
"Harmless pranks," I replied. "Annoying, to be sure, but Brom's jokes do no real damage."
"Maybe not to some of you," Lucas said. "Others are not so blessed. There's a man I know would have lost his leg to a prank of Mister Van Brunt's, had it not been for the Night Angel."
"The Night Angel?" I tilted my head, confused.
"An angel of mercy that visits the servants in the night. He comes to mend the broken bones, give medicine for the fevers, pull the rotting teeth, sew up the wounds." Lucas tossed a twig into the fire, but he did not look at me. "None of us know his real name, so we call him the Night Angel. He's doing the Lord's work, for sure."
"I don't know about pranks, or about anyangel," Sascha intercepted. "But, Katrina, if you intend to choose Brom, you should let Ichabod go, so he can choose someone else." Then she clamped her lips shut after the remark, as if she had said more than she meant to.
Desperation clutched my heart. I had thought I would have more time to choose, that I could hold the two of them off a while longer. What was I waiting for? A third option? The longer I waited, the more my reputation as a coquette was solidified in the minds of my friends. The firelight hardened their faces into masks of orange and gray, and when I looked into those faces, I saw condemnation, not sympathy.
It was time to face the facts. No third choice was likely to present itself. No handsome stranger would appear to save me from selecting either Ichabod or Brom.
I was about to respond, but my words were cut off by a whoop and several shouts from somewhere in the night. Brom and a few of his usual companions tramped out of the shadows, hauling Ichabod along by the collar of his coat.
"Lost your walking stick, have you, Katrina?" Brom's eyes were two blue flames, hot and vindictive. "See, I have brought him to you."
I leaped up and ran over to Brom, stroking his sleeve and laughing prettily. "Such a wit you are, Brom. Let him alone now. We were telling ghost stories, and he has brought something to show us."
Brom looked down at me, and I smiled winsomely into his face, while my heart growled unrepentant. He released Ichabod, and the schoolmaster hunched his coat back into place.
"I happened to have a rather interesting book in my saddlebag—Cotton Mather'sHistory of New England Witchcraft," Ichabod said. "It holds some fascinating information about the occult, and spirits, and magic of every kind! The owner before me made some additional notes and pasted in a few extra pages, on which you can see records of various wondrous creatures that roam the dark places of the world—" He flung open the book and pointed to an image of a black goat. "Like this, the pooka or shapeshifter of Irish tales. There is even a mention of a headless rider—see? The dullahan, bringer of death. It is said that a dullahan will—"
Brom groaned aloud. "Dullahan?Dull, for certain—I have never heard such dry delivery of any story. Enough with your dull old tales, before I fold you up and lay you upon a shelf in your own schoolhouse!" He clapped Ichabod's book shut and tossed it away into the gloom. Then he advanced into the firelight, wedging his broad frame onto the bench between Lucas and Vajèn. "I will tell you a better tale, one that will set your teeth on edge. Come, schoolmaster, sit down and listen. Perhaps Katrina will let you sit on her lap if the bench is too hard for that bony rump of yours."
I shot Brom a reproachful glare and plunked down onto a bench. Ichabod gingerly seated himself beside me, his thin hands writhing with nerves. He probably wanted to go and look for his precious book, but he dared not disobey Brom's directive. Brom could be a delight, full of jokes and good cheer; but in such a mood as this, it was best not to cross him.
"Ah, the Headless Horseman." Brom's grin dripped with malevolence. "Most often spotted on the Old Church Bridge, where it arches over the deepest and darkest part of the stream. You walk over that bridge on your way back to Van Ripper's place, do you not, Ichabod?"
Ichabod's throat bobbed. "I ride back that way, yes."
"Ride? You have a horse then?"
"Borrowed from Hans Van Ripper. He is called Gunpowder."
"Indeed? I have heard that old plowhorse was a right devil in his day. We must have a race, you and I—you on Gunpowder, and me on Daredevil."
Daredevil was Brom's restive stallion. Brom loved wild things, and he had no greater pleasure than the taming of a savage dog, a fierce hawk, or an unbroken horse. I had often wondered if he thought of me in the same way—as an overly exuberant creature in need of his strong hand. A wild thing to be cowed into submission.
"Daredevil is a much younger horse than Gunpowder," I interjected. "It would not be a fair race."
"Kind, fair-minded Katrina," sneered Brom. "Of course, you are right. It would not be fair to expect Ichabod's old knock-kneed mount to beat the steed who outran the Headless Horseman."
A series of gasps raced around the fire pit. Brom nodded, pleased with the response. "Oh yes. I have encountered the Horseman myself. As you know, sightings of the Horseman used to be commonplace in our grandparents' time. Then he disappeared for a while, until he was seen again, just five years ago, around the time of my father's death."
I caught my breath and gripped the edge of the bench. Was Brom about to tell us the truth about his father's passing?
He continued in a low, sonorous tone."Since then, various sightings have occurred, sometimes resulting in deaths, and sometimes not. You remember the man from the city a few years ago, who passed through with his solicitor and attempted to buy up some of our land?"
Heads nodded all around the circle.
"Well, that gentleman and the solicitor turned up dead a year later—that is to say, their skeletons were found in the wood, picked clean of flesh, with their vital organs gnawed out—and both were lacking skulls."
Beside me, Ichabod let out a terrified wheeze.
