fic_variations | Journey Home (May 2008 challenge, Part 2) (Reply)

Title: Journey Home (Part 2)
Author: occhi_bella
Rating: T
fic_variations Prompt/Claim: Love/Hate, Time
Word Count: 1066
Warnings: Spoilers
Note: Based on an alternate universe in which Ichabod left the book that Katrina gave him behind.
Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.

Link to first part.

Anna was dismayed when Ichabod told her that he would be away on business as of the following morning but she said nothing. Although he hadn’t told her that he was returning to the same place, he could see in her face that she had guessed.

She served him his dinner quietly. He managed to eat only half of the meal then retired to his laboratory to gather his books, chemicals and equipment and pack them for his second journey to Sleepy Hollow, still brooding on the unwelcome news that he’d received from a place that he dearly wished he could forget.

The letter from Van Ripper and the impending second journey to Sleepy Hollow had weighed heavily on his mind all day. Now, in the privacy of his laboratory, he took out the letter and perused it again.

When the Headless Horseman beheaded his victims, the blade of his sword was so red hot that the neck wounds were instantly cauterized, leaving only traces of blood on the ground, if anything at all, rather than the pools of blood one would expect to find around the bodies. From the description that Van Ripper gave, it seemed that a thin trail of blood had been left in the parlor of the Van Tassel house. If there had been a crime committed there, it was doubtful that the Hessian was guilty. The perpetrator was someone of flesh and blood, and the drops of blood on the floor belonged to either the victim or possibly the culprit himself.

“Or herself,” he corrected himself, remembering his own short-sightedness and refusal to believe that a woman could be guilty.

The thin trail of blood could easily be explained by a cut such as the one Lady Van Tassel inflicted on her own hand. Katrina simply may have engaged in a similarly odd ritual and left drops of her own blood on the floor. Perhaps nothing was amiss at all and she simply disappeared of her own volition.

But then there was the question of Young Masbath. What had happened to him?

Ichabod suddenly remembered the day that they had returned from Notary Hardenbrook’s office and found Katrina Van Tassel in the room where he was staying, reading his ledger. At that point he was convinced of Baltus Van Tassel’s guilt and had unintentionally made a notation to that fact before the thought had completely come together in his mind.

Katrina knew that he had been to see the notary and that he’d returned with evidence that would point to her father’s guilt; she had questioned him and he, assuming that her questions were guileless, answered them honestly. But when he left the room again, she promptly purloined the will and other evidence that he’d procured and destroyed it in a fire at the old cottage ruins where she’d lived as a young child.

Young Masbath had been with him then, as he was during the entire investigation. Was it possible that Katrina viewed the child as a threat? After all, if he was with Ichabod at Notary Hardenbrook’s office, perhaps she assumed that he knew what Ichabod knew. The drops of blood in the parlor therefore might have been the boy’s blood.

Upon reading through the letter again, then two more times, Ichabod still failed to gain any further insight. He folded it up and was about to put it in the pocket of the waistcoat he would be wearing the next day when he realized that he’d seen something. Now he hastily unfolded it and examined the handwriting closely, his suspicions aroused as he did so. It almost looked like a child had written this letter.

Had Young Masbath himself written this letter, but signed Van Ripper’s name? He was clearly devastated that Ichabod had decided to leave post haste. Would the child stoop to such trickery? He couldn’t believe that, nor could he believe that this letter was a hoax. Yet at the same time, something about it felt all wrong and he wondered if someone was simply attempting to lure him back to Sleepy Hollow for a reason that he was yet to discover. Or perhaps he was merely fancying the ridiculous, so loathe was he to return to that place.

Of course it was quite possible that Van Ripper was barely literate, his penmanship abilities limited. Besides, he saw no reason why someone would write to him under Van Ripper’s name instead of their own.

With a fretful sigh, Ichabod inserted the folded letter into his vest pocket and finished packing, his mind filled with questions and worries. There were countless conclusions that he’d jumped to, clues and details that he’d failed to heed, and he feared that the consequences were only beginning to become clear. He could only blame himself if any harm had now come to Young Masbath because he left Sleepy Hollow prematurely.

oooOooo

Ichabod set off on the two-day journey from the city to Sleepy Hollow at seven-thirty the next morning. He was exhausted before it began. After lying awake for the entire night, he had managed to doze off shortly before dawn, sleeping fitfully for only about an hour before Anna rapped on his door.

It was a long, unpleasant drive. The scenery along the Hudson River was lovely but when he gazed out at it he only saw bleakness and gloom, imagining the misery and cruelty that lurked beneath even the most beautiful façades. Night fell and he drifted in and out of sleep as the coach drove over dirt roads that were filled with bumps, the carriage jostling him as it was tossed about. Disjointed thoughts filled his head as he slipped in and out of consciousness and the faces of Katrina and other people from Sleepy Hollow loomed before his eyes and faded away. After hours and hours of this discomfort the carriage suddenly lurched violently as the coach abruptly stopped and Ichabod woke with a start.

They were stopped before the two familiar stone pillars that flanked the narrow path leading down into the town of Sleepy Hollow from the main road. He alighted from the carriage, took his bags from the driver and paid him.

As the coach rumbled away, Ichabod stood on the threshold of the path and stared into the valley that enfolded the tiny hamlet. His stomach was in knots and he was filled with dread as he regarded the large, prominent white church, the adjacent cemetery where the numerous victims of the Hessian lay, the covered bridge through which Brom Van Brunt had chased him as part of a prank.

Almost everyone he knew from his last trip to this place was dead now, even Young Masbath possibly. A convulsive shiver ran through him.

Pushing aside the eerie feeling, Ichabod hoisted his bags, squared his shoulders and set off down the road and into town. He decided to first visit Hans Van Ripper, since he’d written the letter asking for help, and then inquire as to the whereabouts of Samuel Philipse Jr. With all of the previous town elders deceased other men of the village would have had to step in to fill their places. It stood to reason that the magistrate’s son, himself an attorney at law, would be one of those men.

Upon passing the church he could see that they had not yet repaired the large window. His eyes closed and he involuntarily stopped walking as the memory of that night in the church came unbidden.

Baltus Van Tassel hurrying up the stairs to the loft, brandishing a pistol and desperately shouting about a conspiracy that he would seek out, proving Ichabod wrong in his deduction that Baltus was the assassin. The sound of glass shattering and the shocking moment in which he realized that Baltus’s torso had been speared through with a fence post, the end of a make-shift harpoon-like weapon that the Hessian had used, and he was bleeding profusely. Then he was being yanked back by the rope, pulled through the window of the church and dragged along the ground. Katrina was screaming and running up the stairs to see what had happened to her father, he running after her, arriving at the window in time to see the Hessian doubling back to cut off Baltus’s head, which was now positioned outside of the fence that encircled the church, no longer on hallowed ground that he couldn’t touch. Ichabod was on the verge of fainting when the blade came down; but beside him Katrina did so first, snapping him out of his near-swoon.

In that moment when he turned to help her he noticed the pink chalk in her hand and glimpsed the symbol of the evil eye drawn below in pink chalk on the floor of the church, a symbol identical to the one that he’d found drawn under his bed. It was then that he put two and two together and knew that she was the worker of black magic that controlled the horseman, that she was the one responsible for the murders. But why had she reacted the way she did then? Did she have regrets in those last moments upon seeing how her handiwork brought about her father’s end? He would never know.

Physically shaking off the vivid memory, he opened his eyes and continued on his way. Van Ripper was at home and quite intoxicated. And he was also utterly shocked to find Ichabod at his door.

“Constable Crane! What brings you back to Sleepy Hollow?”

Ichabod stood speechless for a moment, then he withdrew the letter from the pocket inside his frock coat, unfolded it and handed it to him.

“I received this letter from you.”

“From me? I didn’t send a letter.” His eyes roved over the paper. “Someone is playing a joke on you, Constable.”

He handed the letter back to him. Ichabod gaped at him, wondering if perhaps Van Ripper was merely too drunk to remember having written him a letter.

“A cruel joke if that is the case, Mr. Van Ripper. Do you recognize the handwriting? It appears to be that of a child.”

“I don’t recognize it.”

“What about Katrina and Young Masbath?” Ichabod demanded, growing irritated. “Are they missing, as this letter indicates? Or is that a joke as well?”

Van Ripper scratched his head but said nothing.

“Hans, what are you standing in the doorway for? Invite our guest in for goodness sake!”

The stern voice that came from inside belonged to Van Ripper’s wife. He stood aside and let Ichabod in. Mrs. Van Ripper was a short, plump woman with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. She was as energetic and lively as her husband was dull and lethargic, eagerly coming forward to greet him and escort him into the house.

She bustled him over to the table by the hearth after he set his bags down and coaxed him into a chair.

“You must be tired from your journey. I’ll bring you some tea.”

Minutes later there was a plate of sweets in front of him.

“There has been talk about Katrina going missing,” she told him as she set a cup down before him and poured him tea. “They are guessing that she ran off half-mad, what with losing her whole family in a day. First her stepmother, then her father. And of course she lost her own mother just about two years ago.”

“What about Young Masbath?”

“He might have gone with her, to look after her. After all, he has no one left either.”

“Someone from this town wrote me a letter in your name, Mr. Van Ripper. There must be a reason, and I should think that you would be concerned.”

“Really?” Mrs. Van Ripper was more interested in this latest intrigue than her husband apparently was and she came around, hovering over Ichabod, eager to see the letter. “I couldn’t say whose handwriting that is, honestly.”

“Where would Katrina have gone if she did run off, as you suggest?”

“No one knows. To a relative in another village that nobody here has heard of maybe. Into the woods perhaps, to see the witch there.”

He shivered, remembering his own odd experience with the crone in the Western Woods.

Mrs. Van Ripper returned to the hearth and Ichabod exhaled, relieved. Her hovering over him had made him just a bit uneasy.

Van Ripper sat quietly, swigging his drink from a mug, clearly unfazed and not caring that someone had forged his name on an official letter to the Burgomaster of the City of New York. Ichabod sipped his tea and munched on a cookie, mulling over the latest turn of events. Was it possible that Young Masbath wrote the letter, as he’d considered? But then why wouldn’t he sign his own name?

Whoever wrote the letter felt the need to disguise their identity. Perhaps they had even disguised their handwriting.

“That’s it,” he murmured as it dawned on him. Had he not been so distracted these last weeks that line of reasoning should have been one that came to him immediately. “Someone right-handed writing with their left hand, for example.”

But why? If someone had gone through the trouble of summoning him and asking for his help, why do it under such odd pretense?

And there was something else that nagged at him. Katrina had not kept her appointment with the younger Philipse, and the more he thought about that, the less sense it made. Why, after working so hard to get rid of everyone that stood in her way to the family fortune, would she fail to appear for the signing of the papers, the final step in acquiring her goal?

He was also quite disturbed at how unconcerned both Van Rippers seemed to be that two young people from their town were missing. The whole experience was discombobulating.

“Well,” he began, standing up to leave. “I thank you very much for the tea. You’re very kind. And now I should like to speak with Samuel Philipse Jr. Where can I find him?”

“He has taken the office that was his father’s.”

Ichabod thanked them again and took his leave, anxious to speak with the younger Philipse. Perhaps he would be privy to information that would be more helpful.

oooOooo

Samuel Philipse Jr. shared his father’s eye color and complexion, but he otherwise bore no resemblance to him at all. He was quite tall, easily over six feet, and his body was lean and sinewy. After greeting Ichabod cordially and indicating for him to take the chair across from his desk he listened attentively to his explanation of the letter and Van Ripper’s denial that he’d written it.

“The contents of the letter are quite true, Constable Crane. We did find traces of blood on the parlor floor of the Van Tassel home, and no one has seen either Miss Van Tassel or Young Masbath for nearly a fortnight. I’m not sure what can be done at this point, but we would be grateful for any assistance you can offer.”

“You are still looking then?”

“To be honest, we’ve given up. They are not to be found anywhere in town. We did search the woods immediately surrounding the town. No one will dare go further than that. Even the bravest men fear the Western Woods.”

Ichabod sighed dejectedly. Although he was hearing more of the same superstition from this educated young lawyer that he’d always lacked patience for, he couldn’t fault the man. He’d seen with his own eyes that the Headless Horseman existed, that there was a tree that served as a gateway to Hell, and that allowed a ghost to pass to and from the underworld at will – or at someone else’s will. He’d been witness to the workings of magic in this town. As much as he wished he could turn back time, to forget that he knew of these truths now, he could not.

The best approach, he decided, was to treat this as he would any other rational, worldly investigation.

“Would you take me to the Van Tassel home? I should like to examine the parlor and the blood stains on the floor.”

“What would blood stains tell you?”

Judging from the look on the younger Philipse’s face, Ichabod guessed that the blood had already been cleaned up.

“Has the room otherwise been left as it was?”

“A chair was overturned. We righted it.”

“I see. I’d like to have a look. Would you mind?”

“Not at all. I’m happy to help, Constable.”

They walked together to the edge of town, turning up the curved, gently sloping path that led to the large house that Baltus Van Tassel had built. The jack-o-lanterns along the road weren’t lit this time and the house was completely dark.

“I thought the door had been removed.”

“It was. They replaced it right away in the event that Miss Katrina returned.”

They entered the house and Philipse began to light the candles in the main room. As they moved through the house, they lit up each room as they went. Ichabod went into the parlor. This was the room where he’d found Katrina sitting up and reading, dressed only in her nightgown and a thin robe. She gave him her book of spells that morning. A Compendium of Spells, Charms and Devices of the Spirit World. The book lay on the table still, exactly where he’d left it the day he departed from Sleepy Hollow.

Odd that she had left it there. He walked to the table and picked the book up gingerly, opening it to the flyleaf at the front where two names were signed. Elizabeth Van Tassel, and below it Katrina Van Tassel. A twinge of pain gripped his heart as he read the names again and he closed his eyes. Whatever she had done, this had been a true gift indeed. A book that belonged to her mother must have meant the world to her, as much as his mother’s thaumatrope, a silly paper disk on a string, meant to him. Yet she had generously offered it to him.

“It is sure protection against harm.”

It seemed unlikely that a book would offer him protection, but it didn’t matter. Any gift from her meant the world to him.

“The blood was here.”

Ichabod opened his eyes with a start. Philipse had entered the room and was standing by a large plush armchair near the hearth.

“This chair was overturned,” he explained. “The blood trail started here and continued to the doorway. Then it stopped. It was a very thin trail.”

“I see.” He replaced Katrina’s book on the table and moved over to the chair, kneeling down and inspecting the floor. “Was it a steady stream of blood?”

“More like a sprinkling of drops.”

“As if from a small cut rather than a severe wound.”

“Yes. Where are you staying for the night, Constable?”

“I’m afraid I’m in a rather odd situation, since the person who I thought summoned me here did not do so.” Ichabod stood up and brushed his pants off. “I have not made arrangements yet.”

“Well, I suppose you could stay here in this house,” he suggested.

“That…doesn’t seem right.”

“How foolish of me. I don’t know why I even suggested it.” He paused. “You’re welcome to stay in my home then.”

“Thank you.”

Ichabod finished inspecting the room. Other than the overturned chair and the blood that had been reported, there was nothing out of place. He found himself standing before the table again, staring at Katrina’s book. Once more he picked it up and gazed at it for a moment before putting it down and turning to leave.

But something made him turn back yet again. He picked the book up and tucked it into the inside pocket of his frock coat. Then he followed Philipse out.

(continue to next part)