Ichabod Crane and the Jersey Devil
Nov. 7th, 2007 12:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vanillafluffyThis is part of my "Putting the 'NO' in November" series...basically, I'm cleaning out my docs folder of WIPs that aren't making any progress because there are too many other bunnies and not enough time to write them all.
Title: Ichabod Crane and the Jersey Devil
Authored by:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vanillafluffy
Pairing: Ichabod Crane/OFC
Rating/Work-safeness: PG-13, maybe
Approximate word count: 3900 words of fic, plus notes
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Tim Burton and Washington Irving
Summary: After the events of the movie Sleepy Hollow, Ichabod Crane investigates reports of a mysterious "devil" in the woods of New Jersey.
1771 ~
Brian O'Meara stepped out of the door of his small cottage, closing the door gently behind him. The last thing he wanted was to awaken his young wife Catriona, or their week-old daughter, Maeve. He was brought up short at the sight of a large basket on the doorstep, and stared at it in shock as a tiny fist emerged from the blankets and waved in the air.
For a moment, all he could think was that somehow Catriona had been sleepwalking and had brought the baby out here and left her. Quickly, he leaned over the basket--and blinked. Surely wee Maeve hadn't grown so quickly overnight?
"She's yours, Brian," an ethereal voice said. He looked up in shock at the night-caped figure standing there in the early morning mist.
"You!" he blurted. "You can't--you mustn't be coming around anymore! I'm a married man now, with a family!"
"Ah, but 'twas fine for you to seduce me these ten months gone while betrothed to another? To allow our child to be born a bastard?" She shook her head and moved closer. Her voice still had the power to tug at his manhood. "To think that I loved you, once...."
O'Meara was transfixed as the woman lowered the hood of her cape, raven hair spilling down over her shoulders. She was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her crimson lips parted; it was the last sight he would ever see.
Some time later, after waking from a confused dream about a choir of angels and the silver sound of church bells, Catriona O'Meara found her husband dead across the threshold, and beside his still-warm body, a basket holding a beautiful baby girl, no more than a few weeks old. The village healer, hastily sent for, told her that Brian must have had an attack of apoplexy, likely brought about by the surprise of finding the child on their doorstep. "You see the blood running from his nose and ears?" the healer pointed out. "That's common in such cases, although 'tis sad to see in one so young. The babe is healthy enough, and you have enough milk for both."
Catriona O'Meara took in the infant, for she was a tender-hearted woman, and on the day that she buried her husband Brian, saw to it that her second daughter was baptized. Deirdre was a charming child, with a musical voice, and Catriona wondered how anyone could possibly have given her up.
1801~
On an overcast and unseasonably cool morning in April, a caped figure walked slowly through the unfamiliar streets of New York City. Long midnight blue cape swirling in the spring breeze, the hooded figure carried a small travel case and a bouquet of red and white roses, and paused before one particular residence on Pearl Street. There was a small, tasteful sign in the front window of the house. Elegant gold lettering on a black ground proclaimed that these were the premises of Ichabod Crane, Consulting Investigator.
Behind the simple muslin curtains in the building's front window, a young boy who was engaged in sweeping the floor sighted the figure, who appeared on the verge of approaching the front steps. The lad discarded his broom and sprinted toward the narrow flight of stairs leading upward. "Mr. Crane! Mr. Crane!" he cried as he dashed up to the attic. "There's a client coming up the front walk!"
In the third floor room he referred to as his laboratory, the man so addressed set down a curious-looking apparatus he had been tinkering with. "Are you *certain* this time, Masbeth?" asked Crane wearily.
At that precise moment, a peel sounded through the house. "Yes! said the boy triumphantly. "I'll go show 'em into yer office and you can make an entrance." He pelted back the way he'd come.
Crane watched him go, frowning. A tall man, slender to the point of gauntness, his twitchy mannerisms contributed to the resemblance between Crane and his namesake--a bird with ruffled feathers, to be sure--for his dark hair tumbled haphazardly upon his brow and his plain, well-made clothes seemed to have been bought to allow for a growth spurt which never occurred.
Reluctantly, the consulting investigator left his workroom, making his way downstairs at a funereal pace. This was something he had failed to take into account when planning this enterprise; Ichabod Crane was not gregarious by nature, and the necessity of meeting with prospective clients was an ordeal for him.
"It's a lady!" Masbeth hissed as Crane reached the entrance hall. The boy glanced significantly at the closed door of the consulting room. "And she's a looker, too!"
Crane shushed the boy nervously, hoping the boy's words would not reach--and offend--his client's ears. Taking a deep breath, he flexed his fingers experimentally, grasped the doorknob and entered the room with the demeanor of a man going to his doom.
For an instant, as he walked into the room, his client's face was in profile, and Crane saw what his young assistant had meant by "a looker"--her face would have made an admirable study for a cameo--her features were cleanly drawn: the hood of her midnight blue cloak was lowered, revealing a cascade of blue-black hair and sweeping black brows under a widow's peak. At the same time, her full, red lips were curved in a pleasant expression, and she looked up at him with the most intense blue eyes he had ever seen.
Studying her on his way to the big desk dominating the room, Ichabod failed to notice the broom still resting where Masbeth had let it fall. Performing a series of awkward steps to recover his balance, the investigator regained his balance with a stain of embarrassment on his cheeks. Snatching up the offending implement, he strode to the door and exiled it to the entryway with a glare at Masbeth, who was hovering at the portal. The woman's expression in no way changed. If she thought him a graceless fool, she was polite enough not to show it. Only a tremor of the bouquet in her hands betrayed her.
"A good day to you, Mr. Crane," she greeted him. Her voice was melodious and its soft lilt spoke of her birthplace on the Emerald Isle. At once, he felt more relaxed. Her sturdy, homespun garb spoke of a servant woman, and this investigation would undoubtedly entail a character reference, or perhaps exonerating her of some trifling misdeed--all matters well within his scope. "I am Deirdre Shrouds, the widow of Ezra Shrouds, of Leeds Point, New Jersey."
"New Jersey?" Crane was perplexed. "May I enquire, Mrs. Shrouds, as to how you learned of my services?"
"A near neighbor of mine, whose brother is a member of the New York City constabulary, received a letter from him which mentioned among other things, the departure of one of his brother constables to form an establishment handling certain matters that the police are ill-equipped to deal with." Listening to her cultured tones and her choice of words, Ichabod was forced to revise his initial guess. There was nothing in the least servile about her; she met his eyes with a gaze that was as direct as it was unnerving.
"And pray tell, what sort of peril would cause you to seek me out at such an inconvenient distance?"
"A most disturbing manifestation," she stated, a troubled furrow between her brows. "A number of our local farmers have lost small animals recently, including two of my own good lambs, which vexes me greatly." Ichabod kept the grave expression called for on his face with some difficulty. Farm animals? She wanted him to investigate the death of sheep? "Mind you, I've not witnessed these attacks personally," the widow continued, "but several of my neighbors, whom I know to be of sober character, have, and to a man, they say it appears to be...a devil."
Between the silvery tones of her voice, and an effort to find tactful phrases to tell her that sheep were not a matter he felt he could effectively consult upon, at first the import of her words did not quite register. "I beg your pardon; they say it is--what?"
"The description I have been given by several people is of a grotesque figure, and I have myself seen tracks in moist earth which were made by no beast I know of. They are not the paw-prints of a fox or wolf, nor are they a bear, nor even a catamount. They somewhat resemble hoof-prints, but no herd-beast would rip the throats out of its prey and disembowel it."
An uneasy feeling descended upon Ichabod. A year ago he would have dismissed such a claim as preposterous, but the past winter's events in Sleepy Hollow had shaken him to his foundations, and he could no longer scoff at the thought of infernal forces at work. "Have any persons been harmed?" he inquired sharply.
The Widow Shrouds hesitated. "There is a farmed named Schiller who has not been seen in several weeks, but it may be that he is merely making an extended hunting or fishing trip."
"So, to summarize," Crane thought aloud, teeth worrying his lower lip, "there have been a number of slayings of animals by an unknown being. Tracks of uncertain origin have been discovered, and eyewitnesses describe--what, exactly?"
"A small figure, standing upright, perhaps the size of a four-year old child, with hide like leather and a hideous face. Some claim that it has wings like a bat, others are sure it has a barbed tail, others agree as to both."
"And this creature's bloodlust has been satisfied by small animals?"
"Why do you think we are so worried?" she responded, her green eyes wide. "We are all terrified that it will progress to killing children."
The widow did indeed sound disturbed by the prospect, but Crane noted that she hadn’t specified that she was concerned for her own offspring; indeed, it seemed unlikely to him that she would have travelled to New York and left her children in the care of others while some murderous miscreant was on a rampage. Of course, for a woman with a small farm and no husband to rely upon, the loss of several spring lambs might represent a heartbreaking loss.
Really, what were the chances that this was some natural phenomenon? Simply because this woman said she did not recognize the beast's tracks, it would be foolish of him to conclude that the attacks were supernatural in nature. The Headless Horseman, gruesome as he had been, was an aberration, surely. "How many killings have there been?"
"The attacks began several weeks ago, when the snows first began to melt. My nearest neighbor lost several geese. He has caught sight of the devil twice now; both times it was devouring its kills and fled when he discharged his blunderbuss."
"I see. And this neighbor of yours is reliable? Temperate? No quarrels between you?"
"Nay, Amos Leeds is a good man. He and his wife Bethany could hardly have been more helpful after my Ezra died. I cannot think of anyone thereabouts who bears him ill-will."
Crane was formulating a suspicion. A widow with a small farm might be considered a tempting prize for a man with the ambition to acquire land. Perhaps the idea was to frighten Mrs. Shrouds by means of rumors and a bit of bloodshed and so cajole her into taking a husband or protector who could then take over the property. "And what of the gentleman you said had gone missing?"
"Mr. Schiller? He has a shack in the woods, but no livestock, unless he raises a pig or two during the summer. It has been remarked that he has not been seen in town since February, and he is usually habitual in his church attendance. Deacon Powter has stopped by his cabin twice now, and found no one there."
Ah, thought Ichabod, there's a likely fellow. Skulking around the woods, trying to throw a scare into a poor widow....it was disgraceful. The Widow Shrouds was obviously an intelligent and well-spoken woman; at no point in her discourse had she become agitated, she did not insist that this was some demon escaped from the balefires of the abyss, she was quite clear on what she had seen and what was hearsay. While investigating the death of sheep was not an activity he had ever thought to undertake, it would certainly be a kindness to help the woman not suffer further at the hands of some fortune-grabber.
"Mrs. Shrouds," he said, taking a deep breath, "this certainly sounds like a business which ought to be investigated. Allow me a few days to set my affairs in order here, and I shall apply myself to the matter."
Her smile was a bright reward, and as she rose, she extended the bouquet toward him. "I picked these from the bush in my dooryard as I was setting out. It seemed a shame to let them blossom and fade unappreciated. Please enjoy them as a humble token of my thanks."
They were extraordinary flowers, great white roses with crimson flecks, their petals just reaching full bloom, looking for all the world as if they were spattered by droplets of blood. As his hand closed about the stems, Crane felt a sharp prick, and the bouquet tumbled to the surface of his desk as he squeezed his injured finger. Indeed, the red bead that formed on the ball of his thumb was the same bright shade as the color dappling the white petals.
"Allow me," said the widow, and before he could revive himself sufficiently to discern what she was about, she had taken his bleeding hand in hers and lifted it to her lips. He felt her lips graze his thumb, and it seemed for a mad instant that she was tasting his blood. Lifting her head, she produced a tiny square of white linen and wrapped it around his injured finger. "Please forgive me, Mr. Crane," she said quietly. "The last thing I intended was for my gift to bring you harm."
"It's nothing, a scratch," he replied, breathing deeply to counter his astonishment. "Thank you for your concern, and your lovely flowers. They're very...distinctive."
"How kind of you to say so. They came from over the water as cuttings. There’s a bush in the churchyard where I was baptized. It's said that a holy man was struck down there by his enemies, and his blood stained the petals forevermore. When I was leaving to come to Amerikay, Father Dougal let me take starts from the blessed bush to bring with me. They've rooted well here."
Before her departure, Ichabod gained directions to the Shrouds farm, and promised to arrive within the week. He looked forward to an interlude of appreciating the beauties of springtime in the countryside.
A devil...what nonsense!
***
Ichabod Crane scowled as he tried to encourage his hired horse to move more swiftly. It was a forlorn hope; the animal plodded along, looking neither to the right nor to the left. It had to be, without a doubt, the most recalcitrant beast ever produced. He found himself recalling old Gunpowder, the last horse he'd ridden; with a twinge of nostalgia. Gunpowder might've been half-blind, but he'd been livelier than this sorry creature. Just as well that he had no Horseman to contend with; this miserable specimen would only serve to deliver his head more quickly to the sword!
After the passage of sixteen months, Ichabod could contemplate that epoch with some equanimity. His adventures in Sleepy Hollow had guided him to the change in his career path. After the Magistrate’s inquest, during which Katrina VanTassel had shamelessly corroborated the fiction they'd invented to explain the deaths in her native village, he had watched her return to her holdings with a pang of regret for what would never be: the heiress and the constable.
Deceiving the Chief Magistrate about the circumstances surround the murders had proven absurdly simple. Documentation regarding the size of the VanTassel fortune with an explanation of the Widow Winship's condition had been sufficient to convince the court as to why the killings had taken place. Their story as to who committed the slayings merely omitted some of the more lurid details. The supernatural cause was not mentioned; Katrina testified that her stepmother was in collusion with a stable-hand to gain her father's estate.
They perished together in the mill fire, Ichabod had lied without remorse. Saying that one conspirator had dragged the other back to Hell would probably have insured his immediate dismissal from the Force, if not confinement to a facility for the mentally deranged. How odd to realize that sometimes Justice might be better served by lies than Truth.
He thought often about Katrina, perhaps more often than he ought to, especially after having received an announcement of her marriage several months ago. The man's name meant nothing to Ichabod, but if he was Katrina's choice, then doubtless he would make a fine husband. Katrina was wise beyond her years in many ways. He sighed and kicked the horse again.
Leeds Point ought to have been no more than two days' journey from New York City - if that - but the livery horse took his own time; Ichabod did not arrive at the Shrouds farm until the evening of the fourth day, which was, unfortunately, the eighth day after the widow's visit to his premises. If it had been within his power to do so, he would have had the animal boiled down for glue, which might be the most useful pursuit for that creature.
The sight of several bushes with distinctive blooms reassured him that he had taken the correct road and would not be delayed further. He didn't bother to tether the horse--the thought of the indolent beast stirring itself to wander off was ludicrous--merely left it standing in the farmyard with the reins over its head when he had dismounted. There were hens scratching the dirt; one being so bold as to wander amongst the horse's legs as it searched for a tasty grub.
Crane rapped on the door of the small farmhouse. For a moment, all was still, then the heavy wood panel opened and Deirdre Shrouds smiled at the sight of him. "Welcome, Mr. Crane," she said cordially. "I trust you had no difficulty finding us?"
"The only difficulty lay in riding a horse fit only for glue," said Ichabod ruefully. "Please pardon my tardiness, Mrs. Shrouds. I failed to allow sufficient travel time for that animal."
"Hired from a livery, no doubt?" He nodded, begrudging every cent. "One can scarcely fault the horse, then, for he's most assuredly been ill-fed, ill-used and cannot do his best. I'll see to it that he's properly cared for during your stay, and we'll see if his performance doesn't improve."
There was an ear-splitting gabbling and cackling of hens in the farmyard. Turning, Ichabod saw a number of hens scurry from behind the barn, pursued by a misshapen figure like something from out of a nightmare. He and the widow gasped as one. It wasn't---couldn't possibly---be a human being, Crane saw at once, although it stood upright on two legs. The proportions were wrong, deeply wrong. Its legs were short and bowed, ending in stubby appendages that could hardly be called feet. Its arms were unnaturally long, with clawed, spidery hands. Its face was the most hideous thing about it, with the yellowy color and texture of old, cracked leather. Ridges on the sides of its skull looked ominously like horns.
Horrible as the imp was, it wasn't very large. When the rooster came to the defense of his harem, flapping and flailing at the apparition, its claws raked the creature's face. Knocking the vengeful fowl aside, the diabolical-looking entity blundered close to Ichabod's mount, which snorted, shied, and bolted down the lane at a pace the likes of which Crane would have never imagined it capable. Meanwhile, the devil scampered off behind the barn, chickens scattering before its rush.
Ichabod was torn between a desire to pursue the apparition, the need to recapture his mount (lest he be held responsible for purchasing the worthless animal), and examining the creature's tracks before they were eradicated by the hens. The latter activity won the day. He strode over to the area where the imp had stood.
Stooping, he inspected the prints in the dust. Hmm...quite odd. They weren't the pads of a carnivore, to be sure, but they were unlike any ruminant's track that he was familiar with. There were two parallel ridges, with a notch at the tip of the innermost suggesting a claw mark. Could they be cloven hooves? Was it, in fact, a supernatural creature?
He pointed these features out to Mrs. Shrouds, who had joined him. "Curious," she remarked. "Perhaps we'd best locate your horse, Mr. Crane. If he's as poorly as you say, no doubt he hasn't gone far." Since his equipment was packed in the animal's saddlebags, Crane consented, and together they trudged up the lane in search of his mount.
This was one of those moments when it would have been useful to have Masbeth along, he allowed. The boy had been excited about the proposed trip, but mindful of the expenses of a second horse, and additional food and lodging, Ichabod had vetoed the notion. He'd persuaded the youth to remain in New York by dint of remarking that it would require a valiant and resourceful lad to guard the premises during his absence.
True to its nature, the horse hadn't gone far. A few hundred yards away, it was nibbling some withered green shoots, oblivious. Mrs. Shrouds spoke soothingly to the beast--which certainly didn't need calming now, thought Ichabod furiously. She caught the dangling reins and stood stroking the animal's nose while Crane reassured himself that his instruments hadn't come to harm.
Returning to the farmyard, the widow led the horse into the barn, where it stopped dead in front of the stall she was trying to coax it to enter. Rolling its eyes, the beast made it plain that it wanted no part of the enclosure. "How odd," said the Irishwoman, frowning. "Why would a tired horse not want to enter a comfortable stall? Unless, of course, it smelt something unpleasant?" She froze for a moment, then dropped the reins and ran for the barn door.
Familiar with the old adage about what to do with a barn door, preferably before the horse has exited through it, Crane took the precaution of barring the portal so that they wouldn't need to pursue the animal again. As he was doing so, he heard the widow scream. He hastily tracked the sound to the opposite side of the structure, where he found the widow brandishing a length of firewood and dashing across a field toward the tree-line in pursuit of the misshapen imp. The cause of her outcry lay in a tattered heap of blood and feathers on the ground before him. The Shrouds' rooster had been torn apart.
Should he follow her? Or should he get his equipment and see if the rooster's remains revealed anything significant?
As he stood there indecisively watching her retreating figure, the widow stopped, obviously catching her breath. The strange visitor had disappeared into the woods. She shook her head and turned back around, returning less briskly than she'd left.
***
Notes: Deirdre** Shrouds is the daughter of a banshee---which is how her mother killed her father---and she's going to seduce Ichabod during a blizzard. (What can I say? I was highly smitten with Johnny Depp at the time...and still think he's pretty hot. Or hot and pretty!) First, they find Mr. Shiller's remains, and later they track the devil back to the cave it has its lair in, only to find a nest of them. Cautioning Ichabod to cover his ears, Deirdre stuns the devils with her vocal powers so they can escape. Ichabod whips up some black powder and they blow up the cave. One last devil, having avoided the blast, menaces them, but Ichabod kills it. It ends with him returning to New York, unaware that Deidre is carrying his child.
***
**"Deirdre" means "sorrow".
Feel free to comment!
Title: Ichabod Crane and the Jersey Devil
Authored by:
vanillafluffy Pairing: Ichabod Crane/OFC
Rating/Work-safeness: PG-13, maybe
Approximate word count: 3900 words of fic, plus notes
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Tim Burton and Washington Irving
Summary: After the events of the movie Sleepy Hollow, Ichabod Crane investigates reports of a mysterious "devil" in the woods of New Jersey.
1771 ~
Brian O'Meara stepped out of the door of his small cottage, closing the door gently behind him. The last thing he wanted was to awaken his young wife Catriona, or their week-old daughter, Maeve. He was brought up short at the sight of a large basket on the doorstep, and stared at it in shock as a tiny fist emerged from the blankets and waved in the air.
For a moment, all he could think was that somehow Catriona had been sleepwalking and had brought the baby out here and left her. Quickly, he leaned over the basket--and blinked. Surely wee Maeve hadn't grown so quickly overnight?
"She's yours, Brian," an ethereal voice said. He looked up in shock at the night-caped figure standing there in the early morning mist.
"You!" he blurted. "You can't--you mustn't be coming around anymore! I'm a married man now, with a family!"
"Ah, but 'twas fine for you to seduce me these ten months gone while betrothed to another? To allow our child to be born a bastard?" She shook her head and moved closer. Her voice still had the power to tug at his manhood. "To think that I loved you, once...."
O'Meara was transfixed as the woman lowered the hood of her cape, raven hair spilling down over her shoulders. She was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Her crimson lips parted; it was the last sight he would ever see.
Some time later, after waking from a confused dream about a choir of angels and the silver sound of church bells, Catriona O'Meara found her husband dead across the threshold, and beside his still-warm body, a basket holding a beautiful baby girl, no more than a few weeks old. The village healer, hastily sent for, told her that Brian must have had an attack of apoplexy, likely brought about by the surprise of finding the child on their doorstep. "You see the blood running from his nose and ears?" the healer pointed out. "That's common in such cases, although 'tis sad to see in one so young. The babe is healthy enough, and you have enough milk for both."
Catriona O'Meara took in the infant, for she was a tender-hearted woman, and on the day that she buried her husband Brian, saw to it that her second daughter was baptized. Deirdre was a charming child, with a musical voice, and Catriona wondered how anyone could possibly have given her up.
1801~
On an overcast and unseasonably cool morning in April, a caped figure walked slowly through the unfamiliar streets of New York City. Long midnight blue cape swirling in the spring breeze, the hooded figure carried a small travel case and a bouquet of red and white roses, and paused before one particular residence on Pearl Street. There was a small, tasteful sign in the front window of the house. Elegant gold lettering on a black ground proclaimed that these were the premises of Ichabod Crane, Consulting Investigator.
Behind the simple muslin curtains in the building's front window, a young boy who was engaged in sweeping the floor sighted the figure, who appeared on the verge of approaching the front steps. The lad discarded his broom and sprinted toward the narrow flight of stairs leading upward. "Mr. Crane! Mr. Crane!" he cried as he dashed up to the attic. "There's a client coming up the front walk!"
In the third floor room he referred to as his laboratory, the man so addressed set down a curious-looking apparatus he had been tinkering with. "Are you *certain* this time, Masbeth?" asked Crane wearily.
At that precise moment, a peel sounded through the house. "Yes! said the boy triumphantly. "I'll go show 'em into yer office and you can make an entrance." He pelted back the way he'd come.
Crane watched him go, frowning. A tall man, slender to the point of gauntness, his twitchy mannerisms contributed to the resemblance between Crane and his namesake--a bird with ruffled feathers, to be sure--for his dark hair tumbled haphazardly upon his brow and his plain, well-made clothes seemed to have been bought to allow for a growth spurt which never occurred.
Reluctantly, the consulting investigator left his workroom, making his way downstairs at a funereal pace. This was something he had failed to take into account when planning this enterprise; Ichabod Crane was not gregarious by nature, and the necessity of meeting with prospective clients was an ordeal for him.
"It's a lady!" Masbeth hissed as Crane reached the entrance hall. The boy glanced significantly at the closed door of the consulting room. "And she's a looker, too!"
Crane shushed the boy nervously, hoping the boy's words would not reach--and offend--his client's ears. Taking a deep breath, he flexed his fingers experimentally, grasped the doorknob and entered the room with the demeanor of a man going to his doom.
For an instant, as he walked into the room, his client's face was in profile, and Crane saw what his young assistant had meant by "a looker"--her face would have made an admirable study for a cameo--her features were cleanly drawn: the hood of her midnight blue cloak was lowered, revealing a cascade of blue-black hair and sweeping black brows under a widow's peak. At the same time, her full, red lips were curved in a pleasant expression, and she looked up at him with the most intense blue eyes he had ever seen.
Studying her on his way to the big desk dominating the room, Ichabod failed to notice the broom still resting where Masbeth had let it fall. Performing a series of awkward steps to recover his balance, the investigator regained his balance with a stain of embarrassment on his cheeks. Snatching up the offending implement, he strode to the door and exiled it to the entryway with a glare at Masbeth, who was hovering at the portal. The woman's expression in no way changed. If she thought him a graceless fool, she was polite enough not to show it. Only a tremor of the bouquet in her hands betrayed her.
"A good day to you, Mr. Crane," she greeted him. Her voice was melodious and its soft lilt spoke of her birthplace on the Emerald Isle. At once, he felt more relaxed. Her sturdy, homespun garb spoke of a servant woman, and this investigation would undoubtedly entail a character reference, or perhaps exonerating her of some trifling misdeed--all matters well within his scope. "I am Deirdre Shrouds, the widow of Ezra Shrouds, of Leeds Point, New Jersey."
"New Jersey?" Crane was perplexed. "May I enquire, Mrs. Shrouds, as to how you learned of my services?"
"A near neighbor of mine, whose brother is a member of the New York City constabulary, received a letter from him which mentioned among other things, the departure of one of his brother constables to form an establishment handling certain matters that the police are ill-equipped to deal with." Listening to her cultured tones and her choice of words, Ichabod was forced to revise his initial guess. There was nothing in the least servile about her; she met his eyes with a gaze that was as direct as it was unnerving.
"And pray tell, what sort of peril would cause you to seek me out at such an inconvenient distance?"
"A most disturbing manifestation," she stated, a troubled furrow between her brows. "A number of our local farmers have lost small animals recently, including two of my own good lambs, which vexes me greatly." Ichabod kept the grave expression called for on his face with some difficulty. Farm animals? She wanted him to investigate the death of sheep? "Mind you, I've not witnessed these attacks personally," the widow continued, "but several of my neighbors, whom I know to be of sober character, have, and to a man, they say it appears to be...a devil."
Between the silvery tones of her voice, and an effort to find tactful phrases to tell her that sheep were not a matter he felt he could effectively consult upon, at first the import of her words did not quite register. "I beg your pardon; they say it is--what?"
"The description I have been given by several people is of a grotesque figure, and I have myself seen tracks in moist earth which were made by no beast I know of. They are not the paw-prints of a fox or wolf, nor are they a bear, nor even a catamount. They somewhat resemble hoof-prints, but no herd-beast would rip the throats out of its prey and disembowel it."
An uneasy feeling descended upon Ichabod. A year ago he would have dismissed such a claim as preposterous, but the past winter's events in Sleepy Hollow had shaken him to his foundations, and he could no longer scoff at the thought of infernal forces at work. "Have any persons been harmed?" he inquired sharply.
The Widow Shrouds hesitated. "There is a farmed named Schiller who has not been seen in several weeks, but it may be that he is merely making an extended hunting or fishing trip."
"So, to summarize," Crane thought aloud, teeth worrying his lower lip, "there have been a number of slayings of animals by an unknown being. Tracks of uncertain origin have been discovered, and eyewitnesses describe--what, exactly?"
"A small figure, standing upright, perhaps the size of a four-year old child, with hide like leather and a hideous face. Some claim that it has wings like a bat, others are sure it has a barbed tail, others agree as to both."
"And this creature's bloodlust has been satisfied by small animals?"
"Why do you think we are so worried?" she responded, her green eyes wide. "We are all terrified that it will progress to killing children."
The widow did indeed sound disturbed by the prospect, but Crane noted that she hadn’t specified that she was concerned for her own offspring; indeed, it seemed unlikely to him that she would have travelled to New York and left her children in the care of others while some murderous miscreant was on a rampage. Of course, for a woman with a small farm and no husband to rely upon, the loss of several spring lambs might represent a heartbreaking loss.
Really, what were the chances that this was some natural phenomenon? Simply because this woman said she did not recognize the beast's tracks, it would be foolish of him to conclude that the attacks were supernatural in nature. The Headless Horseman, gruesome as he had been, was an aberration, surely. "How many killings have there been?"
"The attacks began several weeks ago, when the snows first began to melt. My nearest neighbor lost several geese. He has caught sight of the devil twice now; both times it was devouring its kills and fled when he discharged his blunderbuss."
"I see. And this neighbor of yours is reliable? Temperate? No quarrels between you?"
"Nay, Amos Leeds is a good man. He and his wife Bethany could hardly have been more helpful after my Ezra died. I cannot think of anyone thereabouts who bears him ill-will."
Crane was formulating a suspicion. A widow with a small farm might be considered a tempting prize for a man with the ambition to acquire land. Perhaps the idea was to frighten Mrs. Shrouds by means of rumors and a bit of bloodshed and so cajole her into taking a husband or protector who could then take over the property. "And what of the gentleman you said had gone missing?"
"Mr. Schiller? He has a shack in the woods, but no livestock, unless he raises a pig or two during the summer. It has been remarked that he has not been seen in town since February, and he is usually habitual in his church attendance. Deacon Powter has stopped by his cabin twice now, and found no one there."
Ah, thought Ichabod, there's a likely fellow. Skulking around the woods, trying to throw a scare into a poor widow....it was disgraceful. The Widow Shrouds was obviously an intelligent and well-spoken woman; at no point in her discourse had she become agitated, she did not insist that this was some demon escaped from the balefires of the abyss, she was quite clear on what she had seen and what was hearsay. While investigating the death of sheep was not an activity he had ever thought to undertake, it would certainly be a kindness to help the woman not suffer further at the hands of some fortune-grabber.
"Mrs. Shrouds," he said, taking a deep breath, "this certainly sounds like a business which ought to be investigated. Allow me a few days to set my affairs in order here, and I shall apply myself to the matter."
Her smile was a bright reward, and as she rose, she extended the bouquet toward him. "I picked these from the bush in my dooryard as I was setting out. It seemed a shame to let them blossom and fade unappreciated. Please enjoy them as a humble token of my thanks."
They were extraordinary flowers, great white roses with crimson flecks, their petals just reaching full bloom, looking for all the world as if they were spattered by droplets of blood. As his hand closed about the stems, Crane felt a sharp prick, and the bouquet tumbled to the surface of his desk as he squeezed his injured finger. Indeed, the red bead that formed on the ball of his thumb was the same bright shade as the color dappling the white petals.
"Allow me," said the widow, and before he could revive himself sufficiently to discern what she was about, she had taken his bleeding hand in hers and lifted it to her lips. He felt her lips graze his thumb, and it seemed for a mad instant that she was tasting his blood. Lifting her head, she produced a tiny square of white linen and wrapped it around his injured finger. "Please forgive me, Mr. Crane," she said quietly. "The last thing I intended was for my gift to bring you harm."
"It's nothing, a scratch," he replied, breathing deeply to counter his astonishment. "Thank you for your concern, and your lovely flowers. They're very...distinctive."
"How kind of you to say so. They came from over the water as cuttings. There’s a bush in the churchyard where I was baptized. It's said that a holy man was struck down there by his enemies, and his blood stained the petals forevermore. When I was leaving to come to Amerikay, Father Dougal let me take starts from the blessed bush to bring with me. They've rooted well here."
Before her departure, Ichabod gained directions to the Shrouds farm, and promised to arrive within the week. He looked forward to an interlude of appreciating the beauties of springtime in the countryside.
A devil...what nonsense!
Ichabod Crane scowled as he tried to encourage his hired horse to move more swiftly. It was a forlorn hope; the animal plodded along, looking neither to the right nor to the left. It had to be, without a doubt, the most recalcitrant beast ever produced. He found himself recalling old Gunpowder, the last horse he'd ridden; with a twinge of nostalgia. Gunpowder might've been half-blind, but he'd been livelier than this sorry creature. Just as well that he had no Horseman to contend with; this miserable specimen would only serve to deliver his head more quickly to the sword!
After the passage of sixteen months, Ichabod could contemplate that epoch with some equanimity. His adventures in Sleepy Hollow had guided him to the change in his career path. After the Magistrate’s inquest, during which Katrina VanTassel had shamelessly corroborated the fiction they'd invented to explain the deaths in her native village, he had watched her return to her holdings with a pang of regret for what would never be: the heiress and the constable.
Deceiving the Chief Magistrate about the circumstances surround the murders had proven absurdly simple. Documentation regarding the size of the VanTassel fortune with an explanation of the Widow Winship's condition had been sufficient to convince the court as to why the killings had taken place. Their story as to who committed the slayings merely omitted some of the more lurid details. The supernatural cause was not mentioned; Katrina testified that her stepmother was in collusion with a stable-hand to gain her father's estate.
They perished together in the mill fire, Ichabod had lied without remorse. Saying that one conspirator had dragged the other back to Hell would probably have insured his immediate dismissal from the Force, if not confinement to a facility for the mentally deranged. How odd to realize that sometimes Justice might be better served by lies than Truth.
He thought often about Katrina, perhaps more often than he ought to, especially after having received an announcement of her marriage several months ago. The man's name meant nothing to Ichabod, but if he was Katrina's choice, then doubtless he would make a fine husband. Katrina was wise beyond her years in many ways. He sighed and kicked the horse again.
Leeds Point ought to have been no more than two days' journey from New York City - if that - but the livery horse took his own time; Ichabod did not arrive at the Shrouds farm until the evening of the fourth day, which was, unfortunately, the eighth day after the widow's visit to his premises. If it had been within his power to do so, he would have had the animal boiled down for glue, which might be the most useful pursuit for that creature.
The sight of several bushes with distinctive blooms reassured him that he had taken the correct road and would not be delayed further. He didn't bother to tether the horse--the thought of the indolent beast stirring itself to wander off was ludicrous--merely left it standing in the farmyard with the reins over its head when he had dismounted. There were hens scratching the dirt; one being so bold as to wander amongst the horse's legs as it searched for a tasty grub.
Crane rapped on the door of the small farmhouse. For a moment, all was still, then the heavy wood panel opened and Deirdre Shrouds smiled at the sight of him. "Welcome, Mr. Crane," she said cordially. "I trust you had no difficulty finding us?"
"The only difficulty lay in riding a horse fit only for glue," said Ichabod ruefully. "Please pardon my tardiness, Mrs. Shrouds. I failed to allow sufficient travel time for that animal."
"Hired from a livery, no doubt?" He nodded, begrudging every cent. "One can scarcely fault the horse, then, for he's most assuredly been ill-fed, ill-used and cannot do his best. I'll see to it that he's properly cared for during your stay, and we'll see if his performance doesn't improve."
There was an ear-splitting gabbling and cackling of hens in the farmyard. Turning, Ichabod saw a number of hens scurry from behind the barn, pursued by a misshapen figure like something from out of a nightmare. He and the widow gasped as one. It wasn't---couldn't possibly---be a human being, Crane saw at once, although it stood upright on two legs. The proportions were wrong, deeply wrong. Its legs were short and bowed, ending in stubby appendages that could hardly be called feet. Its arms were unnaturally long, with clawed, spidery hands. Its face was the most hideous thing about it, with the yellowy color and texture of old, cracked leather. Ridges on the sides of its skull looked ominously like horns.
Horrible as the imp was, it wasn't very large. When the rooster came to the defense of his harem, flapping and flailing at the apparition, its claws raked the creature's face. Knocking the vengeful fowl aside, the diabolical-looking entity blundered close to Ichabod's mount, which snorted, shied, and bolted down the lane at a pace the likes of which Crane would have never imagined it capable. Meanwhile, the devil scampered off behind the barn, chickens scattering before its rush.
Ichabod was torn between a desire to pursue the apparition, the need to recapture his mount (lest he be held responsible for purchasing the worthless animal), and examining the creature's tracks before they were eradicated by the hens. The latter activity won the day. He strode over to the area where the imp had stood.
Stooping, he inspected the prints in the dust. Hmm...quite odd. They weren't the pads of a carnivore, to be sure, but they were unlike any ruminant's track that he was familiar with. There were two parallel ridges, with a notch at the tip of the innermost suggesting a claw mark. Could they be cloven hooves? Was it, in fact, a supernatural creature?
He pointed these features out to Mrs. Shrouds, who had joined him. "Curious," she remarked. "Perhaps we'd best locate your horse, Mr. Crane. If he's as poorly as you say, no doubt he hasn't gone far." Since his equipment was packed in the animal's saddlebags, Crane consented, and together they trudged up the lane in search of his mount.
This was one of those moments when it would have been useful to have Masbeth along, he allowed. The boy had been excited about the proposed trip, but mindful of the expenses of a second horse, and additional food and lodging, Ichabod had vetoed the notion. He'd persuaded the youth to remain in New York by dint of remarking that it would require a valiant and resourceful lad to guard the premises during his absence.
True to its nature, the horse hadn't gone far. A few hundred yards away, it was nibbling some withered green shoots, oblivious. Mrs. Shrouds spoke soothingly to the beast--which certainly didn't need calming now, thought Ichabod furiously. She caught the dangling reins and stood stroking the animal's nose while Crane reassured himself that his instruments hadn't come to harm.
Returning to the farmyard, the widow led the horse into the barn, where it stopped dead in front of the stall she was trying to coax it to enter. Rolling its eyes, the beast made it plain that it wanted no part of the enclosure. "How odd," said the Irishwoman, frowning. "Why would a tired horse not want to enter a comfortable stall? Unless, of course, it smelt something unpleasant?" She froze for a moment, then dropped the reins and ran for the barn door.
Familiar with the old adage about what to do with a barn door, preferably before the horse has exited through it, Crane took the precaution of barring the portal so that they wouldn't need to pursue the animal again. As he was doing so, he heard the widow scream. He hastily tracked the sound to the opposite side of the structure, where he found the widow brandishing a length of firewood and dashing across a field toward the tree-line in pursuit of the misshapen imp. The cause of her outcry lay in a tattered heap of blood and feathers on the ground before him. The Shrouds' rooster had been torn apart.
Should he follow her? Or should he get his equipment and see if the rooster's remains revealed anything significant?
As he stood there indecisively watching her retreating figure, the widow stopped, obviously catching her breath. The strange visitor had disappeared into the woods. She shook her head and turned back around, returning less briskly than she'd left.
Notes: Deirdre** Shrouds is the daughter of a banshee---which is how her mother killed her father---and she's going to seduce Ichabod during a blizzard. (What can I say? I was highly smitten with Johnny Depp at the time...and still think he's pretty hot. Or hot and pretty!) First, they find Mr. Shiller's remains, and later they track the devil back to the cave it has its lair in, only to find a nest of them. Cautioning Ichabod to cover his ears, Deirdre stuns the devils with her vocal powers so they can escape. Ichabod whips up some black powder and they blow up the cave. One last devil, having avoided the blast, menaces them, but Ichabod kills it. It ends with him returning to New York, unaware that Deidre is carrying his child.
**"Deirdre" means "sorrow".
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