We live in the Hudson Valley of New York, and my husband's family is from Sleepy Hollow... yup...the same village as in Washington Irving's famous Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Our children were born there as well, so I decided to take the folklore and legends that live in the very earth of our beautiful valley and bring them to life, while weaving true historic fact into the stories.
Hollow's End was released last Halloween, and the long awaited second book TIME TURNER is scheduled for release on November 30th, though it is available for preorder on kindle...
As a taste, here are the first two chapters of TIME TURNER:
Chapter
1
Rowen?” A
soft knock followed my mother’s voice outside my bedroom door. “Don’t you think
it’s time you got up?”
I didn’t answer.
Rolling over, I took the
covers with me, peering across the satin edge of my duvet at the clock on my
nightstand.
Another knock let me know
she didn’t appreciate my plan to sleep in the remaining weeks prior to the
official start of my collegiate life, not when summer in the Hudson Valley was
chock full of diversions, and that included the quaint river town of Sleepy
Hollow. Our village may be best known for the Headless Horseman and Halloween
fun, but in the summer the streets came alive with weekends full of history,
music, and theater, including an annual jazz festival and large scale
productions like Pirates on the Hudson,
not to mention boasting the biggest farmers’ market in the county.
“Rowen? Gran is
downstairs....”
I closed my eyes,
muffling a whispered expletive. Clearly my mother had let me slide long enough.
My door opened a crack.
“Are you ignoring me on purpose or is it your plan to spend the rest of this
beautiful day in bed?”
“I heard you on your
first knock. It’s summertime, Mother.” I rolled onto my back, my arm thrown
over my brows to avoid eye contact and the unhappy set to her mouth. “And that
means for the first time in ten months I get to sleep in, and after the last
eight of those ten, I think I’m entitled.” I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture,
so I kept my arm where it was.
Her exaggerated sigh told
me she wasn’t having it. “Rowen, no one, least of all me, would dispute this
year has been horrific, literally. However, you’ve become a recluse and I won’t
allow it.”
“I spend time with
Hunter.”
“Yes, but since he left
to visit his father in California you’ve barely stepped foot out of your room,
let alone out of the house. Thank God he’s on his way back.”
I jerked my arm down from
my eyes. “When?”
Mom shrugged, bending to
pick up my dirty clothes from the floor. “I talked to his mother this morning.
Britt said Hunter and his dad quarreled about him not attending USC or
something. Clearly his father wants him to stay out west, but Hunter wants no
part of it. The boy called Britt to book him a flight home a.s.a.p.”
I sat up, covers dropping
to my lap. “They must have argued after we face-timed last night.” I stared at
nothing, chewing on my lower lip. “Did Britt say when he was getting in?” I
asked, finally acknowledging my mother with a direct look.
“Tonight. I wrote his
flight information on the notepad beside the kitchen phone, along with driving
directions to the airport.” A knowing smile tweaked the corner of her mouth.
“After a long flight and a fight with his dad, I thought he might like a happy
surprise when he lands.”
A full grin, wide enough
to match my mother’s, spread across my lips. I threw my legs over the side of
my bed and hugged my middle. I missed Hunter so much. He left for the coast the
day after we graduated. That was weeks ago. Three weeks to be exact, and one
week since the memorial for Talia and Mike.
I glanced at my yearbook
still open to the inside spread dedicated in their memory. Pain, fresh and as
sharp as ever pierced my heart. Regardless of what anyone said, there was no
escaping the guilt gnawing at my insides. They were both dead because of me.
My mother picked up my
yearbook and closed the hardcover, stowing it in the top drawer of my
nightstand. “Enough.” The word was both a directive and plea. She turned toward
me still hugging my middle, but this time for a different reason. The pain in
my chest made it hard to breathe.
“Mom…”
She shook her head hard.
“No, Rowen. It’s time you listen to me. You think I don’t know how hard the
memorial was for you? Especially with Hunter away? Talia was one of your best
friends. Since her murder you’ve clung to Hunter, and barely at that. You shut
everyone out, your grandmother and I included.
“We’re worried,
sweetheart. We were there, too, just as involved as you in untangling the
warnings behind your bloody visions. What happened was beyond anyone’s control.
The root of that evil is gone now, and the collateral damage in its wake is
something none of us will ever forget. You can’t bury yourself along with Talia
and Mike. If you do, evil wins, and that I can’t allow.”
I didn’t reply. My mother
was there when everything unraveled, yet she still didn’t understand. I never
told her about the weird conversation I had at Talia’s gravesite with the
cemetery caretaker or how he cocked his head, his milky eye color flashing to a
candy blue for a split second. I never told anyone, not even Hunter.
Itchy witch.
The caretaker had called me that when
his eyes changed. Itchy Witch was Tyler Cavanaugh’s pet name for me and only
because he knew I hated anything attached to my family’s witch roots.
I sighed, lifting my head
to the concern in my mother’s eyes. “I’m
okay, Mom. Really. Except for Hunter, not one of my friends will ever
understand the evil that touched us that night in the cemetery. I know I have
to let everyone think Tyler murdered Talia and Mike in a drunken rage, that he
assaulted Jenny, but you and I know that’s a lie. I have to listen to their
gossip and innuendo when they haven’t a clue what happened.” A rough exhale
replaced my sigh, my eyes searching my mother’s face. “You want to know the
worst part?”
She looked at me, her expression
heavy with care. “Rowen, don’t…”
I waved her off. “I can’t defend him,
Mom.” I lifted a hand, letting it drop. “I can’t say a word about what truly
occurred that night.”
She stepped toward the
bed and laid her hand on my cheek. “I know, baby, but people like their truths
in neat, explainable boxes. The alternative scares them too much. It’s much
easier to believe Tyler is on the run than an evil entity possessed his body
and soul.” Her eyes met mine, her regard soft. “It’s up to you if you want to
pit your truth against theirs, but you’re the one who never wants to give
Sleepy Hollow any more reason to hate us and our Wiccan ways.”
What if I hate myself?
I dropped my chin. “I
know, but...”
Truth or not, images from
last Halloween engulfed me. How could I forget the evil that showed its face
and flexed its supernatural muscles to keep two hundred years of secrets and
lies buried? How Hunter and I discovered the real truth behind the fate of the
headless horseman and had finally set his soul to rest?
She slipped her fingers
beneath my jaw, lifting my gaze to hers. “Don’t. I know you believe Tyler
replaced the Hessian soldier as the wronged spirit in the Old Dutch burial ground.
Gran and I have been canvasing every book we know, even making inquiries into
some of the darker covens on ways to bring him back.” She shook her head.
“Everyone says the same thing. Tyler was taken because blood called to blood
and unless blood calls him back, it can’t be done. Even if we had the necessary
sacrifice, the spell required is so dark and so inherently evil even Gran won’t
touch it, despite her knowledge and control.”
I blinked, realizing I
had wrapped myself in my own guilt and grief to the point I couldn’t help
anyone, let alone myself. “Guess that makes us the Unwicked Witches of Westchester, huh?”
Mom laughed. “Now that
sounds more like my girl.” She took my hand and pulled me from my perch on the
end of my bed. “Get cleaned up.” A soft shove and a love tap on my butt
directed me toward the bathroom. “When you’re dressed, come downstairs and have
something to eat. Gran has an early birthday present for you.”
“Birthday? My birthday
isn’t for two months. Unless she’s planning a world cruise or something to give
me a break from her spell classes, I don’t want to know.”
My mother picked up my
duvet and fluffed it, giving me her you
know better than to question Gran expression.
The look was so dead-on it was almost comical.
I snorted. “Last year her
big surprise was telling me my aura was bleeding. Maybe this year she’ll tell
me the stars have aligned and I’m destined to be Miss New York.”
She folded the downy
coverlet and draped it over my footboard, surveying the rest of my messy room
with a small frown. “Get moving, smarty pants. Ten minutes,” she instructed
tapping her wrist.
Mom closed the door
behind her and I stretched, one last yawn giving up the ghost on my last
vestige of sleep. Gran was up to something. My
birthday? I didn’t think so.
Eighteen. It didn’t seem
possible, but there it was looming right along with the college dorm shopping I
had yet to start. To the casual observer, my future seemed bright. Except for
the little hiccup of having two friends die and another ostensibly trapped in a
purgatorial no man’s land, I had a lot going for me.
In spite of my heavy
grief, I managed to earn a decent scholarship to a good school…and of course,
there was Hunter.
A derisive snort left my
mouth. Defying evil and setting old wrongs to right while nearly dying in the
process makes for quite a bonding experience, either you end up marrow deep in
love, or psychotic. Considering the residual nightmares that played behind my
lids each time I closed my eyes and my self-imposed seclusion, crazy was still
on the table. Mom was right. Holed up in here, I was half way to being Miss
Havisham from Dickens’s Great
Expectations.
I stripped and turned on
the shower, stepping into the spray, trying not to think about my mother’s ten
minute mark. Not that she would hold me to it, but Gran would. Something was up
for her to be here on a weekday afternoon, birthday gift or not. Then again,
Gran had reasons for everything she did.
I washed my long, dark
hair, giving my curly locks an extra shot of conditioner in the lather, rinse,
and repeat. July was no one’s friend when it came to frizz. Finishing up, I slicked
a quick layer of baby oil gel over my wet skin before reaching for a towel.
I avoided the sink as
much as possible these days, choosing instead to brush my teeth in the shower.
Most of my friends thought it weird or gross, but they never had visions of blood
pouring from their bathroom tap.
After wrapping my hair in
a towel, I shrugged on a three-quarter sports bra and a pair of terrycloth
shorts before wiping a hand through the steam gathered on my mirror.
Condensation dripped in small rivulets down the glass. I peered at myself,
running my fingers over my high cheekbones in the streaky reflection. My face
was thinner, but with all the sleep I’d forced on myself lately, at least my
dark circles were gone.
I took my makeup bag from
the drawer, but put it to the side. It was just lunch with Gran, so no need to
primp. I’d save the effort for later and towel dried my hair instead, smiling
in anticipation of Hunter’s face when he saw me waiting at the end of the
gateway.
Dropping the damp towel
on the vanity, I lifted my head and pushed the tangled mess from my eyes. A
wide toothed comb made fast work of the snarls in my hair as I decided what to
do next. I wound my rapidly curling hair and held it with one hand while I
searched for my clip.
A tinkle of wind chimes
jerked my attention from my narcissism. I had one hand on my head holding my
hair and the other flat against the wide midriff band on my top. My stomach
flip-flopped because I knew the sound didn’t belong in my bathroom. I pushed
the door open and checked my bedroom windows hoping for my own neat, little box
of truth. Nope. Both windows were shut tightly and the telltale hum from the
central air the only discernable sound.
My hands shook and my
stomach clenched against the familiar spike in adrenaline. I pressed my lips
together. Collateral damage? Try post-traumatic
stress disorder for the rest of my life…
Annoyed, I let out a
rough exhale through my teeth, dismissing the sound as imagined and turned back to the task of taming my hair.
The wind chimes tinkled again, only
this time the sound was accompanied by the scent of smoke. Not a fire and
brimstone stench, but a pleasant campfire aroma thick with a sense of peace and
woodland solitude. I closed my eyes, ignoring what I knew was not a
hallucination.
Whispers called my name, the voices
as subtle as a summer breeze.
Oh God...
From the visions that hit
months ago, I knew God had nothing to do with it, and I cringed. The lilt from
the chimes became frenetic, their pitch increasing in volume and speed. The air
around me whipped and blew in a torrent. I covered my ears, my hair dropping to
my back as my shoulder muscles bunched against the blasts sending my curls
flying around my face, the still wet ends stinging my cheeks.
My back was to the
mirror, and I knew whatever or whoever caused this used the reflective glass as
its portal.
“Enough! You’ve got my
attention, now what do you want?” I shouted, my voice lost to the squall.
The wind stopped and the
chimes resumed their fairylike serenade. Whoever or whatever heard me despite
its tantrum in a tempest. I turned, swallowing hard against my rising fear.
I thought about Gran. She
heeded the cosmos, acknowledging the supernatural play by a different set of
rules, yet never discounted her own power and strength of will. I was from the
same unbroken line, and the universe needed to remember that as much as I did.
“Rowen…”
I exhaled the breath
caught in my throat.
“Look at me, child…”
I opened my eyes to find
a pale blue pair staring back at me from the mirror. My stomach clenched again,
but at least I didn’t flinch. I refused to allow myself to be an otherworldly
pawn…again.
The eyes were clear but
the face obscured, as if peering through smoke or fog. Wisps blurred most of
the features, yet I caught a glimpse of steel gray hair poking out from beneath
soot-smudged white lace giving the impression my visitor was female. Her eyes
crinkled and I knew they did so in an acknowledged smile.
“It is time…”
Layered whispers formed
the words and the woman in the mirror turned, her hand beckoning me from the
glass, but the vision went dark before I could respond. Different set of rules,
remember?
Outside, my mother’s
footsteps took the stairs two at a time, and I heard Gran’s voice yelling after
her from the kitchen.
“Rowen! Are you all right?”
She shoved my bedroom door open and found me standing with my hands clutched
over my stomach. She sniffed the air, her eyes scanning me completely before
shifting to the mirror. “What happened?”
“I…I don’t know exactly.
I think it was a spirit of some kind.”
She stepped in front of
me, holding her hand over the mirror. Her gaze narrowing as her fingers closed
into her palm.
“Do you smell that?”
I nodded. “There was
smoke in the vision.”
Mom frowned. “Downstairs. Now.”
I swallowed. It was clear
Mom wanted Gran to weigh in on what she sensed from the glass and a feeling of
foreboding crawled over my chest.
Chapter
2
Gran scrutinized me,
reaching out to push my hair behind my ears. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
I knew her touch held a
dual purpose. She smoothed my fears but at the same time tried to get a bead on
whom or what came through. I told her everything, leaving nothing to chance.
Sins of omission were never a good idea when dealing with the supernatural,
especially with entities strong enough to punch a hole between worlds.
“The spirit beckoned you,
and that’s all?”
I nodded, knowing Gran
didn’t need me to elaborate. She was simply mulling over the facts, weighing
possibilities and probabilities.
She glanced at my mother
and then at the calendar on the wall. “Well, Litha is this weekend, but I can’t
see how that would help manipulate the veil. It’s not that kind of a sabbat.”
“Litha? I don’t know who
is worse, you or Mom. Can’t you just say the summer solstice like everyone
else?”
Gran eyed me, but didn’t
reply. I had slowly accepted my place as the newest addition to our family’s
practitioners of the white arts, but right now I didn’t need another reminder.
The visions were enough.
“Whoever came through
didn’t give us much to go on.” Gran made a face. “I hate it when they’re
cryptic.” She blew out a breath, her complaint more for herself than me or Mom.
She eyed me again. “This spirit, did she try to reach through the glass or
touch you?”
I shook my head.
Chewing the side of her
cheek, Gran repeatedly unfolded and refolded her paper napkin. In her quick,
clipped movements I could see the likelihoods examined and discarded. She
stopped, lifting her preoccupied gaze from the table. “The spirit called you by
name, and all she said was ‘it is time’…and you’re sure there was no underlying
sense of menace?”
I paused to run the scene
through my head again. “Yes. I’m sure.”
She picked up her iced
tea and took a sip. “Perhaps this was nothing more than an awakening. It
certainly sounds like one, yet…” She didn’t finish the sentence. Instead she
glanced at my mother.
“An awakening?” I echoed,
bringing Gran back to the point.
I shifted in my seat,
fidgeting with my placemat, uncomfortable with the fact Gran had let her words
trail off. The woman was nothing if not definitive, and her passing hesitation
left me uneasy.
She nodded. “A
metaphysical welcome to the club
courtesy of a long line of charmed ancestors.”
“You’re kidding.”
A smirk pushed one side
of Gran’s mouth up. “Ask your mother.” That smirk turned full on grin and Gran
lifted her chin toward my mother’s not so happy expression.
I couldn’t help it, I
laughed too. Mom, on the other hand, clearly didn’t appreciate our shared humor
and pursed her lips, shooting Gran a dirty look.
“Your mother fell out of
bed when your great-great-grandmother Ivy dropped by unexpectedly for an early
morning chat.”
My mother’s lips parted,
her eyebrows knotted in a dubious frown. “Morning chat? It was three a.m., and
I was fast asleep. What did you think would happen? The woman hovered over me
like some kind of reaper!” A piqued grumble left her mouth and she rubbed her
bare arms. “You could have warned me, you know. I was only sixteen.”
With a laugh Gran reached
over and patted my mother’s forearm. “What, and miss the awed panic on your
face the next morning?”
“Anne Dederick Ekert, you
really are an evil, old woman.”
Gran burst out laughing,
giving my mother’s arm a decisive squeeze. “And where would we be if I weren’t?
White witches hardly ever get to play in the dark as much as we have this year,
and it certainly keeps things interesting.” She turned, her pointed gaze
finding me still fidgeting. “Which brings us back to you.”
“Me?”
She nodded, leaning over to reach
into an oversized bag on the floor beside her chair. A soft thud followed an
aged volume landing in front of her on the kitchen table.
“Like any reflective
surface, mirrors are a portal.”
Huh? Mirrors? I blinked at Gran’s seemingly random statement, trying not to look
as confused as I felt. “So you’ve said.”
Her raised eyebrow was in
direct correlation to my tone, and the single glance sobered my sarcasm.
“Of course, I’ve said it,
and it’s something you’ve heard many times, though never paid much heed to until
now. You mentioned something wispy, either smoke or fog obscuring the face in
the mirror.”
I nodded, not wanting to
venture another verbal wrist slap.
“Did you know fire can
also be used as a portal? Water vapor is too delicate to hold a vision, but
smoke and flame are a different story. Only the most accomplished of us master the
art of fire. In fact, it’s how the pious first got the idea to burn witches at
the stake.”
Pressure on my knee
courtesy of my mother’s slender fingers told me to stop fidgeting, but I
couldn’t help it. I wanted to scream for Gran to land her damn plane already and
get to the point. When it came to unwelcome visions, my track record proved
they came in multiples and that meant another loomed somewhere in my near
future.
“Historically, the hearth
was the center of every home,” she continued. “Fire was used for
everything—warmth, cooking, cleaning—making the use of flame the least
suspicious way to apply the art of summoning.”
My ears perked up. Maybe
we were getting somewhere after all. “Summoning? I thought fire was used
primarily for scrying?”
I earned myself a closed lipped smile
of approval. “Very good, Rowen. Certain gifted practitioners found the dancing
flames could coax the sight and induce trances, thus giving them power over
what they searched for in the physical world, as well as in the ethereal.
Constant practice fed their skill, ultimately leading to the ability to breach
worlds. It’s a rare talent.”
“So what has this got to
do with me?”
With an eager expression
on her face, Gran raised one finger. “This is what it has to do with you.” She
reached into her bag then withdrew her hand. In her palm was a tiny silver
dagger attached to a black chord embroidered with silver thread, its beveled
blade the length of my pinky finger.
I had to laugh. The pendulum
looked like a prop right out of the Harry
Potter series. “Professor McGonagall, unless that blade magically grows
another foot, it’s not going to afford much protection in the dark forest.”
“Rowen!” My mother’s soft
admonishment left me mumbling an apology. Gran was never random, and guilt
washed over me at being my usual bratty self.
Gran winked at my mother
and then let the pendulum’s blade drop from her lifted fingers. Its silvered
edge suspended just above the bible. “Open the cover to the inside flyleaf,”
she instructed.
Sparing a glance for my
mother, I turned the fragile book around to face me and carefully lifted the
cover. Inside were sheets of vellum, hand stitched into the book’s spine.
Familiae nostrae sanguinem. I sounded out the words. “That sounds like Latin.” I recognized
two words: family and blood.
Gran nodded. “The title
is a broad reference to our maternal bloodline, yet orchestrated so as not to
arouse suspicion. Back in the day, a family such as ours needed to be beyond
reproach. This record could have damned our line to dangle from the end of a
rope or bound wrist and ankle to a pyre. It lists every powerful female in our
family straight up to your mother and me.”
She tapped the page,
flashing a proud smile. “I brought this today because after this past year, I
think we can safely add your name to the list.”
I snorted. “Facing unseen
evil should guarantee a fast pass to the head of the line.”
Mom glanced at Gran and
the two shared a moment before my mother’s eyes found mine. “Everyone on that
list had to face some sort of challenge, Rowen. Whether it was conquering
prejudice or some supernatural menace. In many instances both proved to be just
as insidious and evil. Besides skill, it’s a question of courage and resolve
that gets your name in the book.”
Gran nodded. “Your mother
is right, and yes, you’ve more than demonstrated those qualities despite your
teenage bullishness, but you must remember the white arts will not work for you
without a humble heart and pure objective. You must keep that covenant,
always.” She covered my hand with hers. “Congratulations, sweetheart, you’re
the newest hope of our future and possibly most important link to our past this
family has seen in many generations.”
Giving my hand one more
pat, she turned her attention to the book. “This list dates to our family’s
origins in the sixteenth century. Of course, this isn’t the original bible. The
first one came from Germany, migrating with our ancestors to the New World
early in the eighteenth century. The names have been transcribed over the
centuries, with more vellum sewed in as needed. This particular bible dates to
the late 1800s.” A single arthritic finger caressed the spine. “Now, let’s see
which witch decided to pay you a visit this morning.”
She dangled the pendulum
over the thin pages, mindful of how fragile and old their condition. The blade
swung in a circular motion, ‘round and ‘round, picking up speed as she moved it
slowly down the first page. The names registered in my head as Gran went through
the list, but the varied ancestries left me with more questions than answers.
“The names are mixed.”
Mom moved to Gran’s side
so she could see as well, her eyes scanning the looping script. “What do you
mean? The dates are in perfect order.”
I shook my head, the tip
of my index finger tapping the edge of the list. “I don’t mean the names are
out of order. I’m referring to the nationalities represented; I knew we were
German and Dutch, but this says English, Irish, and even a little Native
American.” Impressed, I raised a teasing eyebrow. “Kind of gives us a mixed bag
of tricks, huh?”
Mom laughed. “I suppose
so.”
“Our ancestors were
clever about not staying in one place long enough for anyone to accuse them of
witchcraft. In fact, they avoided the hysteria like the plague. As bad as it
was here in the late 1600s, it was worse in Europe,” Gran added.
“But our family has been
in Sleepy Hollow for generations. There are Ekerts buried in the Old Dutch cemetery
and those grave markers have got to be two hundred years old at least.”
The dangling blade
hanging from Gran’s hand stopped short, its sharp edges quivering over a single
name. Of its own volition, the silver tip jerked downward, sinking point first
into the fragile vellum.
Gran’s lips curved into a
knowing smile. “You’re right, Rowen, and the reason we’ve been able to make our
home here and not been too bothered by the pious populace lies with one woman.”
Nimble fingers underscored the impaled name and Gran tapped the vellum for me
to read the one word written in faded black ink.
When I looked up, both
she and my mother chuckled at the lingering doubt on my face.
“Hulda? As in the Witch
of Sleepy Hollow? The same woman the Friends of the Old Dutch Church have
listed on their tour?”
The two nodded in unison.
“She’s real?”
“Oh, she’s very real.” Gran shrugged. “Her story is not well known, even to
people who live in Sleepy Hollow. Hulda died on Battle Hill, leading a group of
British redcoats away from a contingent of American militia. The exact year is
a little hazy, but historians have the date narrowed to somewhere between 1777
and 1780.”
“I thought Battle Hill occurred in
White Plains, not Sleepy Hollow.”
“At that time, the Hudson Valley was
rampant with combat. The Battle of White Plains is the most famous because
Washington lost the city to the British. Small skirmishes were commonplace,
especially with each side raiding the other.”
I grinned. “Cowboys and skinners,
right? Cowboys being the redcoats who helped themselves to our cattle and skinners
being the Americans who stole back what they took.”
“Very good, Rowen. At least they
taught you something at that high school.”
I rolled my eyes. “Gee, thanks, Mom.”
Gran waved us both off. “Hulda was a
sharpshooter, and history tells how she picked off a good many redcoats before
leading them on a wild goose chase. Of course, the British commander at the
time wouldn’t accept a woman singe-handedly menacing his troops, so he made it
his business to put an end to it and her.”
She turned to the back of the bible,
drawing out what looked to be an old newspaper editorial, and from the tight
margins and close type, the article was nineteenth century if a day.
“This is a clipping from
1897, shortly after our latest bible was transcribed. All across the
continental U.S., papers ran stories celebrating our country’s history. Since
Sleepy Hollow was a hot bed at the time of the revolution, one New York paper
decided to run stories on the unsung heroes of the war for independence.”
The edges were yellowed
and creased, and Gran held the paper out to me with care. My eyes skimmed the
document, squinting against the small, aged type.
Those who have navigated the waters
of the mighty Hudson or traversed its banks may tell of whispers, echoes from
the past haunting this serene landscape once scarred and pitted by
revolutionary cannon-fire and blood
The world is loath to find a single
voice impotent to raise the founding fathers to his lips, but what of our fledgling
nation’s unsung heroes? Those whose names and deeds were lost to time and
circumstance?
These lesser known ghosts prowl hail
and hearty in the crisp night, and one story sparks fertile in this reporter’s
imagination and that is the story of the Witch
of Sleepy Hollow.
An unassuming Bohemian, who the
townsfolk named Hulda, settled in the hollows of Tarrytown. She arrived without
kith or kin in the blood-soaked years of the revolution. Villagers held fast to
tenets of the day and gazed upon the stranger with suspicion, ripe for spurious
rumor.
The woman lived a solitary existence,
gathering herbs and simples in the mill woods, and it was said her cottage rung
sweet with the odor of plants a-drying, curatives for ailments and the
unsophisticated aches of simple folk.
The Dominee of the Dutch Church
labeled the poor wretch a witch, accused of a devilish consortium, her brews a
means to harry the poor townsfolk to hell. Yet, in the midst of their prejudice,
circumstance rained down the worst of the war. Crime was committed in the name
of the king and congress alike, until a dejected people sat in their stripped
fields and depleted stores, facing starvation and sickness.
Still, an unobserved hand ministered where
want and pain had settled, and though the villagers knew well the identity of
their benefactress, fear yet lurked in their hearts.
In the days that passed, men
patrolled the highways against thieves set to plunder what remained of their
poor stock. Ravaged and suffering, the number of able bodied men dwindled,
forcing townswomen to take their place with flint-lock and powder-horn.
Musket in hand, the witch presented
herself for this service, but no one would abide her companionship.
Soon after a British troop landed
from one of the transports sailing up the Hudson and commenced a march by means
of the King’s Highway to the rear of Putnam’s position at Peekskill, New York.
As they advanced in daunting array, a volley of gunfire greeted them from
behind walls and tree trunks.
Not to be refused, the woman rushed
to aide her neighbors, using her musket to great effect. With forces too great
to withstand, she drew fire and focus, baiting the British into the forests of
Sleepy Hollow. Her bravery gave the militia time to restock munitions and men,
yet she was overtaken, her life extinguished in the woods not far from her poor
lodge.
When they discovered her crumpled
form, the townsmen yet prevaricated, too afraid to approach the body of the
witch. At length, guilt and the simple need for human succor trumped their fear
and they carried the wretch to her hovel. While there, the men discovered
Hulda’s last will, secreted between pages of her bible, her words telling of a
small store of gold and possessions to be distributed among the widows whose
husbands had fallen in defense of their country.
Newborn respect animated those who saw
her fight, avowing that witch or no, the woman earned a right to a Christian
burial, despite adamant refusal from the church. The pent up goodwill of the
citizenship poured forth changing the reluctant heart of church leaders, and Hulda, the Witch of Sleepy Hollow, is
buried close-by the north wall of the old church in a nameless plot.
Nothing is left of her humble
solitary habitation but a few stones in the side of an alder covered bank, and
a trace path leading to a walled spring, but her deeds, on and off the
battlefield, live on in the minds of every man, woman, and child in Sleepy
Hollow.
Gran lifted one hand,
modeling the large moonstone on her left index finger. Like the emerald on her
other hand, the ornate stone was one of her trademarks.
“This ring belonged to
Hulda. I’m not entirely sure how our family kept possession of the stone
considering its value and the witch’s history, but it has been passed from
generation to generation as far back as anyone can remember.”
Awe and curiosity must
have warred on my face, because the next thing I knew Gran slid the silver
clawed setting from her finger and held the ring out to me. “The heirloom will
go to your mother first, but there’s no harm in letting you trying it on.”
With a nod from my mom, I
put the clipping down and took the ring from Gran’s hand and held it up to the
light. The ornate stone winked in the
afternoon sun and imagination or not, I swear one of the silver claws caressed
the stone’s smooth surface.
“That’s funny, for a second it looked
like…” My sight blurred and indistinct images swam in front of my eyes. I
dropped the ring, the metallic clink thick and distant in my ears as its heavy
setting clattered to the kitchen table.
Heat sluiced up my arms and chest and
sweat formed between my breasts. A loud buzzing deafened my ears, and I cried
out, my hands covering either side of my head.
“Rowen!”
I knew my mother was up in a flash,
but Gran’s voice was what came through. “Sea salt and water! Now!”
The buzzing stopped and I
was no longer in the kitchen. My mother and grandmother barely shadows on the
periphery of my mind.
My
sight cleared and I blinked against the rain pelting my face. A light wind blew
curls of smoke into the raw chilled air, the white wisps rising from chimneys
dotting the far landscape. Dark clouds obscured any trace of sun, and I shivered. This
place was devoid of warmth, and my stomach clenched, knowing the bleak feeling
came from more than just the foul weather.
Dirty water pooled on either side of the pitted, muddy road where
I stood, each wind gust giving rise to the stench of barnyards and chamber
pots. My head jerked sideways, pulled by the sound of shouting from a single
rough cottage set back from the thoroughfare.
A woman stumbled backward out the cottage threshold, her coarse
clothing sullied and torn and her fichu and cap askew on her head and shoulders
as though manhandled.
“Please! NO!” she begged, slipping in the uneven sludge and
falling to her knees.
A large man in a sweat stained shirt and dark breeches loomed inside
the doorway. His ruddy face pinched in anger and his long hair fell in strands
on either side of his face, free of the ribbon still tied at the nape of his
neck.
“Begone, witch! Murderer! You killed my brother! Away w’ye!”
On her knees, the woman clasped her hands beseeching, “Please,
Lars…I’m innocent, I pray!”
His eyes flew wide and his fists clenched at his side. “Pray?” He
spat on the stone step. “Satan’s whore! Spin yer lies elsewhere!” He yanked a
small bundle from the frightened servant cowering at his side and flung the
parcel into the mud. “Take yer yarbs and yer devil’s tools w’ye and go before
I’m want of care and call the Dominee to have ye burnt!”
“Mama! NO!” A young girl slipped beneath the man’s arm, her
tearstained face puffy as she reached for the woman in the mud, her abject fear
and sorrow the antithesis to the happy daisy-chain gracing her fair head “Mama!
Please!”
“For the love of God, child! Avert yer eyes lest ye be lost, too! Wife,
take her!” He shoved the wailing child behind him into the house, pausing only
to rip the moonstone pendant from her small throat.
“No! Genève! Please, Lars! She’s my child! Please… I beg of you…”
The woman’s choked sobs rose as she sunk farther into the mud.
My heart clenched and the pain in my chest made it hard to breathe.
The woman’s heart was breaking and with each ragged gasp, every ounce of her
despair was mine as well.
“Get thyself up and take yer darkness from my door. Yer love for
the child spared ye the pyre, but my brother’s child has suffered enough from
yer evil!” He hurled the necklace at her suppliant figure, one single daisy
caught in the silver clasp. The pendant’s weight landed in the muck with a
muted plop. “And keep yer devil’s talisman! Genève will bide a good Christian
life even if it’s at the mercy of my fist!”
“Lars!”
“Begone!”
The door slammed and the woman fell prostrate, her hands clawing
the mud in her despair, her cries lost to the rain.
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