I stood at the edge of a clearing in the forest, a spot deep in the woods not far from the church. I knew this spot—it was rumored to be the place where the Headless Horseman had been killed in battle. Few people dared venture here, thinking it an unlucky, haunted place. Suddenly—as if by blinking I had summoned him—the Horseman was before me, sitting astride his mount. And once more, Ichabod stood behind the Horseman, his form faint in the darkness.
Yet this time I heard his voice, calling out for me.
“Katrina!” His usually warm voice rang with terror. “Katrina!”
At once I began to run to him, even though doing so meant also running toward the Horseman. I ran toward him anyway, even as every thought, every inch of muscle and skin and bone in my body screamed for me to turn and run the other way.
As I drew nearer, somehow Ichabod’s voice began to fade, growing more distant as if slowly being taken from me. “Katrina! Katrina!”
Heart in my throat, I had nearly reached the Horseman when he turned away from me and galloped deeper into the woods, in pursuit of Ichabod. And in that instant I realized Ichabod had not been calling for help—he had been warning me away.
“No!” I cried, as I watched the Horseman ride toward Ichabod.
“No!” I cried, my eyes flying open as I bolted upright.
In that first hazy instant upon waking, the deep darkness of the forest surrounded me, the black outlines of the trees nearly indiscernible against the dark sky. I screamed, certain it had been no dream at all, but that the forest had swallowed me whole in my quest to find Ichabod, to save him from the Horseman. Fear flooded me as I realized I must be too late.
Ichabod’s arms found me, as he sat up and drew me against him, rocking me slowly. “Shhh, Katrina,” he whispered against my hair. “All is well. I am here.”
“Ichabod?” I said, my voice thick and unwieldy as it forced its way up through my throat. “Is it you? You are here?”
“Yes, my love,” he said soothingly.
“But … where…” I drew away from him and frantically searched the forest around us. “He must be here as well … the Horseman … I saw him, he cannot be far…”
“Shhh,” he hushed me again, holding me tighter. “Do not fret, Katrina. I swear to you, all is well. No one else is here. You have had a nightmare, that is all.”
“A nightmare…” I shuddered and threaded my arms around his back, burying my face in his shoulder, blocking out the darkness around us. No doubt he was right; I had dreamed of the Horseman enough times before. Yet never had I woken to find myself deep in the very forest he was said to inhabit.
As I awoke more fully, I began to recall the dream in greater detail. This dream had been different from the others. Never before had Ichabod called my name; never before had I moved, let alone run toward the Horseman. And never had I dreamt of that clearing. I shuddered again, recalling the fear in Ichabod’s voice as he cried out for me, the moment of crushing uncertainty just before I woke, when I had been unsure whether he was calling for me to help him, or warning me to flee.
“Do you want to tell me what you dreamt?” Ichabod asked, stroking my hair. “The Horseman, you said it was?”
“No,” I said. “I mean, yes … I saw him, in the dream. But … it is nonsense. Eerie nonsense, perhaps, but…”
“I am not surprised,” he said, his voice hard. “When we come out into this haunted wood to meet, where anyone and anything could be watching…”
I shivered. “Do not say such things, I pray you.”
“I am sorry. It is just…” He loosened his grip so he could see me, regret etched on his face. “This is not right. It is not worthy of you. How I wish I had a home of my own, a proper bed that I could take you to…”
“I wish it, too, but for the time we have no choice,” I said. “It is either the woods, or we do not see each other alone.”
He was silent, and I knew he was thinking the same thing as I: how could we bear to be apart, for any length of time? To give up such meetings, as imperfect as they were? Despite the dangers, the fears …
“Soon, my love,” I whispered before he could ask. “Soon we will speak to my father. I must have a little time first, to convince my father that Brom and I will never make a match.”
“You should not have to,” Ichabod said. “Your choice should be enough. That there is a man who loves you, and whom you love, should be all that is needed.”
I shook my head. “It should, but I have known Brom all my life, and my father has always fancied the two of us would wed. I must have time to bring him around.” I suppressed another shiver as the tarot cards, and my premonition, flashed through my mind. Of these tidings, Ichabod could know nothing.
Ichabod sighed again, frustrated. “If you say so, Katrina,” he said. “You know the situation and players far better than I.”
I cupped his face in my hands. “We will be together, Ichabod,” I said firmly. “We will be husband and wife. Do not doubt it.”
He turned his head and kissed my palm. “I never have,” he said.
* * *
That night, as I rode in front of Ichabod on Gunpowder’s saddle, I could not seem to quiet my fears. Even with Ichabod there, solid behind me, I trembled with fear at all the shadows in which an ill-meaning spirit could hide. Ichabod wrapped an arm protectively around my waist. “There is nothing to fear,” he whispered in my ear. “You are safe.”
I wished that I could believe him.
He drew Gunpowder to a halt just before the road, and reluctantly I slid from the saddle. “Will you be all right the rest of the way?” he asked.
I nodded, still unsure.
“I can take you to the door, if you wish.”
“And run the risk of someone hearing us, or seeing you? No,” I said. “We cannot chance it.”
Ichabod dismounted and took my face in his hands. “Your safety and peace of mind are the most important things by far,” he said. He kissed me.
I returned his kiss, wishing he did not need to leave me. Oh, that we might both climb back onto Gunpowder’s back and spur the noble old beast onward, into the night; that we might ride fast and far from Sleepy Hollow, far from the Headless Horseman and witchcraft and nightmares and ill omens. We could ride to New York City and lose ourselves in the crowds; to Boston and its Puritan churches; to the wilderness of Maine. Or we could ride west, and keep riding, until we were somewhere that no one would know us or find us, somewhere too far ever to return to this haunted place.
Reluctantly, I stepped back. “I will be fine,” I said, trying to reassure him, even if I could not reassure myself. “It is not far.”
“Very well,” he said. “If you are sure.” He swung back up into the saddle.
I nodded. “Good night, my love. I will see you soon.”
With that, I turned toward my house, resisting at every step the urge to turn and look back at him. I was too afraid I might turn around only to find my nightmare come to life.
* * *
The next morning, I found myself feeling rather foolish at my nervousness the night before. As I looked out my window toward the small stand of woods at the side of the house, sunshine gilding the tree leaves, I shook my head in impatience with myself. For the first time I thought it was lucky Ichabod was of a somewhat superstitious mind; if he was not, he would think me quite mad.
* * *
The next few weeks passed unremarkably. I helped my mother and Nancy with chores, visited with Charlotte—each time, we studiously avoided talk of tarot cards or visions or the Sight—and I endured Brom’s company only when I had to. I was polite, but distant at every turn. Even as he grew frustrated with me, it was plain he did not know what else to do. I felt my father frowning at my reticence on the few occasions when Brom dined with us, but I ignored him. Let him see for himself that I had no desire to marry Brom Van Brunt, no matter how he might wish it.
Ichabod came for my voice lessons, and we arranged nights to meet in the woods. I tried not to betray to him again how uneasy the forest made me, for my dreams of the Horseman had not ceased. He would put a halt to our trysts, thinking it in my best interests. So I pushed my fears aside, living for the time I spent in his arms, when nothing else mattered. And each time, I drank my herbs faithfully.
What he and I did not speak of was the fact that the end of summer was upon us. Soon the weather would cool and freeze and the woods would no longer be an option. We would need some other, hopefully permanent, arrangement. We would need to speak to my father, come what may, or endure many months apart.
I pushed away the tarot cards, and my own vision of doom, let them grow faint in my memory. I had no reason to trust in such things.
Instead I trusted the love in Ichabod’s eyes, so present that I did not know how the whole village did not see it. It was there, always, visible and tangible, and I clung to it when we were apart, as I waited for the string of nights to come when he would always be beside me.