But I Saw Him!
Synopsis: Constable Crane is in a field, delirious after witnessing the Headless Horseman decapitate Magistrate Samuel Philips, and his loyal acolyte Young Masbath finds him there. A bit of Masbath's mind.
Oh…yes. And did I mention that I own nothing about these characters except what I put them through? I don't own Masbath or the Constable or Lady Van Tassel…tee-hee… But I wish I did! A stoic constable with insectile headgear, a murderous witch with an insane lust for revenge, and a little darling boy with a great accent…who could want more in a valet, eh?
But, since we are on the topic of ownership…I do happen to own the horses. So, ha! I do own something after all.
UUU
Something was amiss, I felt it in my bones. Agreed, everything in town was amiss these days, but, today, it was more so… The air of the day was still, breathless, choking, in-waiting, just like it is before a thunderstorm. I could say 'pregnant', too, but that would make it sound too fertile, too alive, too thriving…this was a dead day. Speaking of pregnant—the Widow Winship? I never thought… and certainly I never would have guessed…
I lifted myself up off the Van Tassel's polished oak kitchen bench, which had been my home and bed since I had become both an orphan and a servant. My eyes watered from the warm sting of morning sun, and my joints ached; all my sores had stiffened while I slept and it was like hot pinchers when I tried to move.
The advantage was that I had access to the Van Tassel kitchen. As you can imagine, I was happy with this. My Father, who now lies in Heaven with my Mother, was a hard working husbandman, but bad times had fallen upon us. Mother had died of a great fever, when I was but a child of three, and my Father had never completely recovered from the loss of her… I would catch him whimpering like a frightened child, sometimes when I woke in the night. Then, came news of eviction from our landlord… The landlord himself had died with fever, leaving his next-of-kin to sell the cottage we called home.
The townsfolk pitied us, and the Van Garrets gave us shelter in their coachhouse—but we Masbath men were 'to be proud, never pitied' my Father told me. So, we worked loyally for the Van Garrets, and they gave us shelter and wages, in return. I think, Peter Van Garret became fond of us and 'accidentally' slipped a few extra coins in our purses. I would smile at him, and he'd jovially press his finger to his thin lips. Peter was a good man to us.
It seems only the good are being killed nowadays, and the bad can't stop living…
I'll tell you a bad man…that Doctor Lancaster. I have suspicions of him. He's always looking Sarah up and down, like she's some fine cranberry pie. It seems wrong, since he has a wife already. But, I suppose greedy men can't be satisfied with one woman…and that's why I do not trust him. He shows greed.
Doubtlessly, Constable Crane would find fault in these suspicions. He is much cleverer, when it comes down to deduction and logic. He is a learned man, worthy of my respect. Although, he's helpless with nature—just the other day, I had caught him squirming at the sight of a dormouse in the parlor. I consoled him by saying the mouse was more frightened of him, than he was of it, but he only turned pale and left the room as quickly as he could… I find that somewhat pathetic…
Well, then. Another day. And a day that seemed like it would bring tidings of ill-will, too…
I folded the cotton blankets Lady Van Tassel had given me, and placed them near my bench. After having a cool swig of water, I tore off a piece of rye bread from a loaf sitting in the greenwood cupboard. I chewed the bread, as I ventured to the dusty hall and climbed up the stairs… my destination was Constable Crane's room. He would need my assistance, like always— and I was glad to give it, too.
I didn't bother to knock; Ichabod was never undressed and, at this hour, he was usually wide awake and ready to tear up graves, desecrate corpses, and lecture me about how the Hessian was a 'fabrication of fear and ignorance'. I knew better than he. The Hessian was real, and he rides with my Father's blood wet on his sword.
I swung the door open, and walked in, "'Morning, sir. I hope you have had a good night's sle—"
I stopped in mid-sentence, as I was shocked to find Ichabod Crane no where around. The bed was smoothly made, the ledger and inkwells closed and bound, his papers stacked neatly in a corner of his desk, and the only thing missing was his coat. I rubbed my thumbs over my eyes, to clear off any dirt that might have hindered my vision, but, nay! Nay! He was nowhere.
"Child?"
A voice came from behind me, and I turned around to see Lady Van Tassel. A wooden fear temporally spread out within me, but it went away soon enough… It was only the kindly Lady Van Tassel, smiling her welcoming and motherly smile. She was nothing to be scared of.
"Child?" She said, "Has the constable…? Oh. I see he has not returned…"
"Returned, ma'am?" I asked, feeling a prick of suspicion rise in my instincts.
"Why, yes." She replied, smiling, "I thought you would know of it. He left at the break of dawn, in rather a hurry, and he has not returned since. Child…" She smiled and laughed slightly, "Do not look so fretted! I am sure your master has simply taken a morning jaunt, my child."
A…morning jaunt? Ichabod Crane never simply took a morning jaunt. I had not known the man much more than a week, but I knew him enough to see he wouldn't go 'jaunting'. He was not the sort of man who took lighthearted jaunts. He was a serious man.
"Do you know where he went?" I asked, suddenly eager.
"No," She sighed, and smoothed out her rich emerald skirts, "But he shall return." The lady smiled an affectionate smile at me again, "Oh, you seem so flushed! Shall I go and have Sarah make you a drink, Young Masbath?"
I shook my head, and politely smiled back. I suddenly was not in the mood to drink, or eat, for that matter. This was strange, this absence of Constable Crane. It was unlike him. As the air had prophesied—something was definitely amiss.
He would have beckoned me to help him, if it had been something he needed aid in. So, he must have not needed aid. And he would have taken his ledger and satchel and leather bag if he was to go to investigate a crime. So, he mustn't have gone on the trail of crime. Ichabod Crane must have been in a hurry, since he had told no one of his whereabouts—he always made doubly sure to tell others where he went, in case of any emergency.
I frowned, as I closed Constable Crane's door, and I dug my hands into my coat to warm them from the freezing morning air. Lady Van Tassel floated her way downstairs and into the parlor, leaving me to myself again.
Somewhere in my thoughts, an idea came to me. A good idea, and a worthy plan. Ichabod Crane was in trouble, and I was the one to find him and dig him out of it… I trotted down-stairs, buttoned up my coat to the neck—and then I dashed out the door.
UUU
I stopped running when I opened the stable doors, and walked into the dry, hay sheltering. The horses, it seemed, had better warmth than the humans did inside the mansion. Maybe, I should start sleeping in here.
The horse allowed to me by Baltus Van Tassel was Chester Charles. He was a young horse, sort of small-structured too, but bulging with muscle and power—The horse was maize colored and had a diamond patch of white on his muzzle. He was better tempered than most other horses the Van Tassels owned, so I considered myself lucky.
Chester Charles was in his stable, absentmindedly neighing and grunting in his own way. I felt a pang of guilt, since I had forgotten to give his ration of oats to him, and that the air was cold enough to make his nostrils' breath come out in crystals; I had forgotten to give him his blanket. But the horse was a good one, and he was a tough as nails—he seemed to not mind my forgetfulness.
Katrina's pure white horse, Psyche, was sleeping in the corner of her soft-floored stall. That horse was the most pampered and spoiled of the lot; the little thing had more ribbons and oats and carrots than she knew what to do with. Alastar and Patience—the old farm horses— were both ill-temperedly kicking at their stalls, flaring their muzzles, and making a general ruckus. This was their standard way of waking up.
But old, feeble Gunpowder was no where, just like his master was no where.
My heart hardened, and I had a burst of resolute courage. I unlatched the swollen door to Chester Charles' stable, untied his lengthy reins, and then fastened his knotted, dirty cloth saddle on him.
I then led him out to the open farming yard, tied him to a post outside the clucking chicken pen, and I nimbly hurried back into the mansion, for one more thing. From the bench, I got out my Father's brown bess musket, my powder pouch, and an ancient box of bullets. I prayed to God that I would not need to put these to use—but it was always better safe than sorry.
"Chester!" I said, when I returned to him, my musket in hand. I got on his back, and shook the reigns, "Let's go, boy! Yah, yah!"
UUU
After searching the Hollow high and low for my master, taking a good two or three hours on my horse…I didn't find him until, riding into Bake's Field, I saw the round body of Magistrate Philips. His head was gone, and the neck showed neatly severed red, stiffened tubes and veins and meat. The Horseman's work.
I paused, breath gushing out of me, and lifted my rifle.
I saw the Constable not but ten or eleven yards away from me—on his back, and his face white as wax. His legs were spread apart from each other, and he was trembling like an autumn leaf. His eyes stared up to the clear sky, not making a single move, and he gripped the fragile hay beneath him, crunched it in his palms, as if he wanted something to hold onto.
I wondered how long he had been lying there. I waited for the constable to catch sight of me, but his eyes stared up at the heavens—not moving one bit. I might've thought him a dead man, if it weren't for his shivers and heavy breathing.
"Sir?" I said, approaching him cautiously. I feared that he might be startled.
He gave me no answer, but his eyes instantly zipped towards me. They were a madman's eyes. Glittering, terrified, trapped, fiercely afraid—he had almost an animal's face— I felt my steps become soft and weary, as I got closer to him, as one would approach a bear or a snake. He was usually so pompous and thoughtful, and to see him in such a state was surreal to me.
"It's only me, sir," I consoled him. I lowered my musket to the floor, to show his wild eyes that I meant no harm.
"Y-young…" His voice was jittery like a bunch of crickets were held in his throat, "Mas-Masbath?"
He eyed me, suspiciously, as if he were wondering if I really was who I said I was.
"Aye, only me, sir…only me, now…"
He was quick to snap out, "G-get on the ground!"
"Sir?"
"Get down! Before it r-returns!"
"Sir—"
"GET DOWN!"
I obediently fell to my feet. Madmen are never to be told 'no', and the constable was indeed now as mad as they get. I made sure to load my musket, just in case.
"Sir, what happened to you?" I felt my own hands shaking.
He turned his face towards me…His hair was wet with sweat and dew, and his face was slick as a wet riverside stone. He looked close to fainting, but I think his madness kept him awake.
He pulled me closer to him, strongly. They say madmen have the strength of ten men, so I didn't dare tear away from him.
Sharply—sharper than any voice I have ever heard—he whispered: "It…came!"
I swallowed, "What came, sir? Was it… the Horseman?"
He shuddered, and his eyes glazed over, in memory of something. "H—Horseman! I—it's—he—right there, Masbath, right before my eyes! Just there, just as plain as…day…"
"Let me help you up."
"—Clean as dandelion heads!—"
"He is real, sir." I said, somberly. But I was glad he saw the truth. "Didn't we all tell you?"
"But— but, but, but, but—"
I tried to calm him. It was no use, anyway, but I tried still. I tried to lift him up, but he was too heavy and sleek with sweat for me to carry, so I got hold of his feet and dragged him down the road.
He struggled, "I saw him, Masbath. I saw him. The horse…and the head…simply, gone. No head! The head was gone! D-do you understand? Headless! Masbath! Headless!"
"Aye," I replied, "They call him the Headless Horseman with good reason, sir."
"But—but, but—"
The constable paused, gasping for air. The man was truly insane, twisting and turning in my grasp like a spoiled child who doesn't want to go to bed. I kept hold of him, though. I wouldn't let him go, not for the life of me.
"Masbath, it's… impossible!
And then I noticed his babbling and struggling ceased, and his whole body went vacant and limp as a rag cloth. He had fainted—and I sighed, relieved, since it meant he couldn't struggle anymore with me.
Yes, I've decided to give you guys a little more…here's a snippet from a story I'm working on now. Just to let all the past 'Number 31' readers know, this is it's prequel…I will soon begin the actual mystery again sometime in October…but I am presently gearing up my prequel to 'Number 31'.
So, here is a little bit of the tale I've temporally titled 'Afterthought' (it is the respective prequel to 'Number 31'). Just a taster :)
'Pickety-Witch…Pickety-Witch…Who has got a kiss for the Pickety-Witch?'
'Pickety-Witch…'The world had been unbalanced, twirling around in a dizzying circle, and the high-tuned violins in the night's background, and the blindfold, only set the unstableness to higher levels of discomfort for Katrina. The young lady had not particularly enjoyed being the 'prize' of a flirtatious party game, but she had given her consent, to play her part and to set an example of cheeriness for the rest.
She remembered stretching her arms out, whilst crackling, and then catching someone. And it was not Brom's scratchy chin and strong jaw. Katrina could not suppress a smile, for she immediately presumed it to be the unfortunate Theodore—Theodore, the poor lad, always seemed to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time—and there was no doubt that Brom would throw a fit at him after the party, giving mild threats to Theodore to not come near 'his woman' again. Poor, dear Theodore…
The emotions and images echoed in the young lady's mind, repeating themselves over and over, 'Is it Theodore?'
The answer was deathly soft, 'Pardon, miss, I am only a stranger.'
Katrina had not recognized his voice, and she then knew that he was indeed a stranger. By this time, she had learned practically every voice in Sleepy Hollow…and, with some of them, she could even tell who a person was by the sound of their footsteps.
But, she reasoned, this stranger had been caught, and he did rightfully merit a kiss, no matter what Brom's reaction would be.
'Then have a kiss on account.'
As she said this…the stranger's cheeks grew slightly warm. Katrina did not let this stop her, and she rose up on her toes and gave the stranger's bloodwarm cheek a small peck.
When she took off her blindfold, the first thing that had struck her were the stranger's eyes. They were black as night. Ebony eyes.
The dark eyes gleamed in the jack-o-lantern's pale orange light, and, for a brief moment, the eyes were struck dumb as the stranger took an astonished step backwards. Although his mouth mumbled something out about wanting to see her father, the young witch could clearly see the shimmer in his eyes whispering, 'Your looks freeze me.'
In all honesty, the first time she was able to judge him, Katrina did not believe the stranger to be anything akin to the sort of a constable. Like a girlhood porcelain doll, this stranger was too frail and fragile to be an authority on anything, but she had indeed underestimated the daunted man. Perhaps, she had conjectured, he might be a traveling merchant, trying to sell a new jardin chinos tablecloth or a set of cheap cutlery. Yes—and it had been a confusing surprise when she had heard him proudly introduce himself as, 'Constable Ichabod Crane, sent to you from New York to investigate murder in Sleepy Hollow.'
…Indeed, a stranger…
Well, there you have it. Just a little snippet. Soon, I'll give you the whole thing…hehehe…