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Ichabod was alone in a vast house that echoed with emptiness. He knew it had once held love and laughter, but the people who had inhabited it had scattered, leaving him to wander wearily in the dark, a lost soul. He needed to escape, but no matter which room he entered, and there seemed to be hundreds, the outside doors and windows were sealed. Finally, through one of them, he caught glimpse of a light. It was distant but strong, burning blue in the night. He desperately wanted to get to it, so when the window refused to open, Ichabod drove his fist through the glass, shattering it into millions of sparkling fragments, each reflecting a face he’d once known. His hand dripped blood, bright crimson even in the shadows, but it didn’t hurt. Instead the light seemed to be drawing his blood to it, pulling it out into the night, pulling him…
Ichabod woke up with a start when one of the coach’s wheels hit a hole. The other two passengers didn’t look up from their newspapers. Once again in his many visits to these parts, he was not the only passenger on this long trip north. He’d overheard the two gentlemen sitting across from him tell the driver that they were going to Sleepy Hollow too.
“Heard there’s good land available,” one had said. “Good location, just outside of town. More people will be drawn to it, so now is the time to buy.”
“You had better hurry,” the other man replied. “I know a half dozen speculators interested in these parts. The good land is going fast.”
Ichabod had to admit that was true. Over the years the area had changed: the village had expanded both in size and in popularity. There were several hostelries now, hotels that served food, shops that sold goods imported from New York City and elsewhere. Reasons for businessmen to come and invest.
Sleepy Hollow had spread to the north and south along the High Street and eastward into the cornfields, but it hadn’t yet encroached upon the Western Woods. That foreboding tangle of trees still stood, secrets and other things that people preferred not to recognize concealed in the mist. Rumor had always had it that if any enterprising newcomer tried to buy or build on that land, the headless horseman would ride forth and pay him a midnight visit. Afterwards, the newcomer was more than willing to choose a new site.
They had miles to go before Ichabod’s stop, but he wasn’t keen on resuming his nap. The dream about the blue light had been coming to him more and more frequently, ever since his sweet Katrina had passed. It disturbed him to remember that his life was now so empty. For years they’d had each other, and young Masbath, and their children, Malachi and Sarah. Then young Masbath had been lured away back in 1812 by the excitement of fighting in the war and had been killed far from home. Malachi had married and fathered two children of his own, but he was now a successful lawyer in Boston and had no time to spend with his parents. Sarah had wed an adventurous man and followed his dreams south. As far as Ichabod knew, the couple were living in the territory of Florida. One child able to visit but unwilling; one willing but unable.
Katrina’s death had not been a surprise. She’d been secretly ailing for years but had held the illness at bay through her charms and spells. When they failed, Ichabod had called on science, bringing in doctors who practiced the most advanced medicine available. In the end, neither had prevented the disease from eating away at her body. She’d died in his arms on the first day of spring.
Feeling a familiar melancholy overtaking him, Ichabod turned to the scenery passing the coach’s windows. It was fall now, the season he liked best. The road they took was as familiar as the street on which he lived, his destination as welcome as his own hearth. He was eager to arrive, as always.
He and Gregor had spent two weeks together each of the past thirty-odd years. Katrina had divined his reason for traveling to Sleepy Hallow early on, but she never complained or tried to prevent his annual absence, for which Ichabod loved her even more. His time with Gregor was precious to him in a way he didn’t try to explain. He knew his presence in the Tree of the Dead was vital to Gregor as well, in a much more material way: if Ichabod missed a year, Gregor’s spirit might not survive till the next. The horseman’s existence had extended far beyond the witch’s original curse; both he and Ichabod believed that was due to their annual trysts, and neither was willing to test it.
Unknown to his lover, Ichabod had come to Sleepy Hollow on several other occasions. Seeing the small hamlet grow year to year, anticipating that one day fear of the legendary Horseman would fade enough for greedy men to begin decimating the Western Woods, Ichabod had purchased an acre of land surrounding the Tree of the Dead. He’d erected a small headstone beside the Tree as his excuse, and he’d borrowed some of Katrina’s magic to mark the boundaries of his new property. He’d set up a trust with a bank in town to make sure the parcel was never sold or changed. In his will he had included a substantial bequest to the town on the condition the tree was never cut down or dug up. It was all he could do to protect their future.
By the time the coach reached his stop, Ichabod had pulled himself out of his depression. His heart always rose upon arrival, and as tired as he was, his step would have had a spring in it if not for his damaged leg. Several years earlier he’d broken it badly in pursuit of a criminal in New York City, resulting in the permanent need for a cane and his permanent re-assignment to desk duty. Since the latter meant he could spend most of his time in the police laboratories, he didn’t really mind. He felt he’d done some of his best work in recent years.
Night was beginning to fall as he left town and entered the woods. He was still some distance from the Tree when the mist appeared, adding to the October chill. Ichabod smiled at Gregor’s acknowledgement of his arrival.
A few meters from the Tree, the large, dark figure of Gregor appeared in front of him on foot as if formed from the mist. He bore a ghastly grin, but Ichabod had gotten used to seeing his sharpened teeth and knew they were no threat.
“You came,” the Hessian observed, his usual greeting, as he pulled Ichabod to him. He buried his icy face in Ichabod’s neck, nuzzling possessively. Ichabod shivered for reasons other than the cold.
“Always,” he breathed. “I’ve missed you.”
“And I you.”
Niceties out of the way, Gregor made a sudden movement and they were inside the Tree of the Dead. The underground cave was dimly lit but warm from the fire burning in the hearth, a pot of water boiling. Ichabod saw that the place had been cleared of spider webs and rat droppings, two things he had complained about repeatedly in the past. It touched him that his dead lover always sought to make him more comfortable.
He leaned up for a kiss, braced for the touch of frigid lips. At first it had taken nearly a full week to warm his partner’s chilly flesh, but Ichabod knew ways to hurry that along. He slid his hands inside Gregor’s coat, under his shirt, and stroked with intent until he could feel the other’s body respond.
Gregor’s reply was a deeper kiss that lasted until they were on their old straw pallet, locked in an embrace that barely allowed for movement. Whether their clothes had come off physically or magically, Ichabod couldn’t say. He just knew that his body was finally pressed against that of the only person he’d ever loved besides his wife, and the only person he would ever love again.
Ichabod was alone in a vast house that echoed with emptiness. He knew it had once held love and laughter, but the people who had inhabited it had scattered, leaving him to wander wearily in the dark, a lost soul. He needed to escape, but no matter which room he entered, and there seemed to be hundreds, the outside doors and windows were sealed. Finally, through one of them, he caught glimpse of a light. It was distant but strong, burning blue in the night. He desperately wanted to get to it…
He awoke slowly, content for the first time in months. Gregor was sitting beside him on the pallet, tenderly washing him with a sponge and gloriously hot water. Ichabod exhaled a breath he’d been holding for too long.
“How has it been?” he asked, guiding the other’s hands over his body. Gregor’s fingers were slightly less icy than before.
“Quiet,” Gregor said with a shrug. “No men have tried to claim the woods. They don’t come near the Tree or the headstone.”
“Good.” Ichabod had told him why the stone was there. It was merely inscribed ‘RIP’, with no name or dates. He let strangers assume it was the Horseman’s. “Have you seen how the hollow has grown?”
They spoke of the changes in town as they finished washing each other. Ichabod had conceded long ago that he liked touching the hard planes and angles of the Hessian’s body, so unlike his own. He liked Gregor’s firm muscles and broad shoulders, his strong arms and large hands. He’d never felt like this about any other man, or even thought about such things, but there it was.
“Have you heard any rumors of the village expanding to the west?” he asked, refocusing on the men’s words in the coach.
“They do not dare.”
“When was the last time you rode forth?”
“Not since summer.” Gregor paused before continuing. “I sleep more soundly when you’re not here. I see signs of trespassers when I go out, but no one has challenged my property. I have not had to appear to them.”
Since the Hessian’s concept of time was otherworldly, Ichabod assumed that meant that he might not go out for months at a time, but that when he did, the legend of the ruthless Horseman still prevailed. Most of those who’d encountered the fiend during the killings of 1799 had since died, but they’d had ample opportunity and motivation to pass their stories along to others. Tales of ghosts were always in vogue.
Ichabod’s stomach reminded him that he, for one, was still alive. “Do I smell soup?”
Over the years they’d devised a way of keeping Ichabod fed during their sojourn without having to spend too much time on it. A cauldron sat on the fire, and each day they tossed vegetables, herbs, and whatever meat Gregor managed to scavenge into the pot. Ichabod, having tasted the other’s attempt at cooking, seasoned it himself. What started out as soup eventually ended up as stew.
Before he ate, Ichabod emptied the satchel he’d brought with him. Normally it held books, writing instruments, and one or two of his inventions. He’d learned long ago that extra clothing was unnecessary as long as his travel apparel was kept clean. This time he’d also packed several small portraits of his family, which Gregor studied curiously.
“These are your grandchildren?” he asked with a frown. “How is that possible?”
“They’re my son’s offspring,” Ichabod explained. “Jacob is four and Isaac is two.”
“And your son is a grown man?”
“Yes.” Now he saw the confusion. Gregor never aged, of course, and it often seemed that he didn’t realize his lover did either. When they were together, Ichabod felt as young and vital as he had the first time they’d met. There were no mirrors in the cave, but his body told him he was no longer the elderly, slightly lame, man he was the rest of the year. That man certainly couldn’t engage in the frequency of the sexual activities they enjoyed, so he never questioned it. “And my daughter is a grown woman.”
Gregor turned to the portrait of Katrina. “But your witch is still young?”
“That was painted almost twenty years ago. She is… was…” Ichabod had not planned how to reveal that he was now a widower. Months had passed, but it was still a fact almost too painful to voice. “Katrina passed away last spring. She was ill…” The Hessian just stared at him. “Nothing could save her, not her magic nor my science.”
“You’re alone now?” Gregor’s unusual eyes were always hard to read, but Ichabod thought he knew the man’s next thought. It was too soon to go there.
“No, right now I’m here with you.” Ichabod meant that to change the subject, and it did. He ate while Gregor looked through the books he’d laid out.
Every year he’d come, Ichabod had brought a few new books with him. At first they were intended to aid Gregor in reading English, but they’d quickly become a source of discussion and debate. Gregor preferred history books, especially about the countries he’d visited as a mercenary. Ichabod suspected he hoped to one day find mention of himself. Ichabod included books on forensics and the latest scientific inventions, partly because he wanted to share them with his lover, partly because he was rather proud that some of his own efforts were occasionally referenced. One corner of the cave now held a large library.
In short, their supernatural nest lacked for nothing.
Ichabod was alone in a vast house that echoed with emptiness. He knew it had once held love and laughter, but the people who had inhabited it had scattered, leaving him to wander wearily in the dark, a lost soul. He needed to escape, but no matter which room he entered, and there seemed to be hundreds, the outside doors and windows were sealed. Finally, through one of them, he caught glimpse of a light…
He woke next to Gregor, as warm as he could be wrapped in the arms of a corpse. The other appeared to be deep in his version of sleep, and Ichabod didn’t want to wake him yet. He needed time to think.
When he’d alighted from the coach, all his thoughts had been of seeing Gregor, but it had struck him since that there were other coaches at the inn, both public and private. Strangers canvassed the old shops, and new structures were being built on both sides of the high street, now paved with stone. Signs announced more land available to buy. Gregor may declare that the Western Woods were not being invaded, but he couldn’t know what plans were under development. Ichabod had wondered whether the charms protecting their tree would last beyond Katrina’s death; now he feared they had not.
“What worries you?” Gregor asked quietly. He might be oblivious to many earthly things, but he was always aware of Ichabod’s needs.
“Progress,” Ichabod said bluntly. “Could you bring me a newspaper?”
“I could. Why?”
“I want to know what lies in store for Sleepy Hollow.”
With a nod, Gregor rose fully dressed in an instant, and vanished from the cave. Ichabod didn’t know what time of day it was, but that didn’t matter: whenever the horseman rode, it was night.
He was back in an impossibly short time and handed Ichabod a newspaper dated three days later than expected. Once again Ichabod reminded himself not to try to keep track of the passage of time. He always knew when their time together was up, and that’s all that was important. At least until now.
The Hollow Herald was thicker than Ichabod remembered, a bad omen in itself. Amidst stories of minor incidents and local events were articles about the new businesses springing up in town. On page six he found what he’d dreaded.
“Some of the land west of the village has been sold,” he stated, wishing the editors had provided a map. His acre was safe, but that might not be enough.
“I’ll ride again,” Gregor proposed.
“And scare whom? The owners live elsewhere. If local men won’t work the land, they’ll bring in outsiders.”
“I’ll ride every night.” His eyes glittered in the firelight. “If that doesn’t scare them off, I’ll kill if I have to.”
“No, please don’t!” Ichabod grasped his hand. “We’ll think of something else.”
Gregor’s gaze settled back to normal, a bit manic but not homicidal. “Before you leave?”
“Yes,” Ichabod promised.
~~~~~~~~~
They made love after that, and after Ichabod dined, and after they napped. The Hessian was able to participate whenever Ichabod desired it, and since Ichabod seemed to be experiencing a period of rejuvenation, they rarely left the pallet. It was both exhilarating and exhausting.
When not lost in carnal bliss, Ichabod dwelled on the dilemma facing them. He had an idea, but it wasn’t something to be suggested lightly. He had to consider every possible consequence before mentioning it to his lover. Once spoken, there would be no going back.
After what felt like days of mutually satisfying sex, Ichabod left their bed and sat beside the fire, his signal that he would like to converse or wash or read. This time Gregor correctly interpreted it as an invitation to talk. He sat facing Ichabod, his naked body no longer deathly pale.
“I have a proposition,” Ichabod said somberly, then sighed. “To be honest, it is something I’ve been contemplating since Katrina left me, but I could not justify it in my own mind.” He held Gregor’s eyes. “As much as I want to be with you forever, I do not believe in self-murder.”
The other clearly had not been expecting that. “I would not ask it of you!”
“I know that,” Ichabod assured him. “And even if I ended my life, there is no guarantee that I could spend eternity here with you. I had resigned myself to living alone and dying when my time is up. I’d like to imagine that my spirit could find its way back to you, but…” Gregor didn’t speak, just watched him closely. Ichabod braced himself for the hard part. “But if my death served a purpose… If my dying kept people from encroaching on our home and also allowed me to stay here…”
“How?”
“You would have to kill me.”
What color Gregor had gained immediately left his face. “Never.”
“I’m sorry to even propose it,” Ichabod swore, reaching for the other’s hands and squeezing them as he continued, “but I have no wish to go on living alone. There is nothing in New York City for me to return to. My house is empty.” The dream flashed through his mind, but he never spoke of such things to Gregor since the dead didn’t dream. “My work has been taken over by younger men. If I simply stayed here, there would be questions about my disappearance, and possibly a police investigation… and I would rather my children had closure regarding my death. It must be absolute, and it must be useful.”
“I will not do it.”
“Please think about it. I would not blame you. I would thank you.”
The Hessian stared at him for a long moment, perfectly, marmoreally still. “I have vowed that I will never hurt you.”
“I don’t want to be hurt, I assure you,” Ichabod replied quickly. “I am envisioning something fast and painless, and very public.” He waited, but Gregor remained motionless, reminding Ichabod that he was speaking to a corpse. He shivered but forged on. “My goal is to assure the people of Sleepy Hollow that the Horseman is here forever and that he is to be feared. Some know that I come every year, and they know who I am, what I did years ago. If I make it clear that I am here to vanquish you once and for all, they will take note. And if you kill me in your usual way--”
‘By beheading.”
“Yes, beheading.” He would have preferred not to speak that word aloud, but there was no way around it. “They will see that you are still here and still exceedingly dangerous. Can you think of another way to convince them?”
“I can burn their town to the ground.”
“No, no one else is to be harmed!”
“They may choose to avenge your death by hunting me down and destroying the Tree.”
Ichabod had thought of that. “Before you kill me, you must terrorize them thoroughly. Appear in the night, leave warnings that you will not let strangers take up residence in the Western Woods. There are people in town who remember the slaughter in ‘99. Most never knew the reason for it, so they won’t question the reason for your return. They’ll consider themselves lucky when your current rampage ends with me.”
Gregor appeared to start breathing again, although Ichabod knew it was an illusion. “It would mean that you could stay here with me forever?”
“I wager it will be decades before scientific understanding outweighs folklore and superstition,” Ichabod said honestly. He would have preferred to believe otherwise, but his work in New York City said it all. Every second cadaver he’d studied arrived with coins covering its eyes. “It will give us time.”
The Hessian finally nodded. “Tell me your plan.”
Ichabod outlined his idea, elaborating as new thoughts came to him. He truly believed they could make it work, and as he spoke, he saw that Gregor was seriously considering it. By the time they sought their pallet, a complete scenario had been devised. It would require artifice and good timing, as well as the gullibility of the townspeople, but he fell asleep confident of all three.
Ichabod was alone in a vast house that echoed with emptiness. He knew it had once held love and laughter, but the people who had inhabited it had scattered, leaving him to wander wearily in the dark, a lost soul. He needed to escape… and did.
They made love again upon waking, fiercely and at length, both knowing that circumstances were about to change.
Then Gregor rode forth, galloping through the Hollow in the dead of night, deliberately making as much noise as possible. Daredevil’s hooves rang out on the cobbles, and his rider’s sword rang out on the walls and posts where billets advertising land for sale were shredded. Before he left the town, dozens of residents had opened their windows to see what the ruckus was, and dozens had slammed those windows shut in fright.
“I think they were more terrified of seeing my head than they were not seeing it,” Gregor admitted after describing his ride to Ichabod. He sounded rather smug.
“You smiled at them, didn’t you?” Ichabod guessed.
“More than once.”
It was afternoon when Ichabod left the Tree and returned to town, taking a room in the largest hotel on the high street. He spent the day seeking out those who knew him personally and by reputation and asking them what had occurred the night before. By evening people were seeking him out in the hotel tavern to tell stories of the Horseman thundering through the town. Some reported that he’d killed their livestock. Some reported that he was still missing his head. Some insisted it was not the first time he’d ridden and destroyed property that fall.
Ichabod listened avidly, taking notes and encouraging them to embellish their stories. When the throng had reached a near fever pitch, he pounded on the bar with his cane to quiet them. Everyone in the room listened.
“This cannot be tolerated,” he announced. “The Horseman cannot hold sway over this town! He must be put to rest as he was once before!”
Amidst a general stepping back of the masses, someone asked “How? You defeated him, but he is returned.”
“I will defeat him permanently,” Ichabod claimed. He was rather enjoying displaying exaggerated bravado. “I will see him in his grave once and for all! Who is with me?”
After various muttering, two stalwart young men came forward, both strangers to Ichabod. Neither appeared to be much over twenty years of age. “We’re with you,” the older of the two said with a quick glance at the other. “I am Samuel van Fleet, and this is my brother Eustice. We fear no phantoms.”
Ichabod clapped them both on the back. Samuel began preening for the crowd, toasting himself while Eustace was mangling his cap in his hand, attempting to put on a stoic front. They were perfect. “Good men. We go tonight.”
“In the dark?” Eustace asked.
“Of course. The Horseman only rides at night.”
“What will we do?”
“We will track him to his lair and put an end to him.”
“In the Western Woods?”
“They are his hunting grounds.”
Samuel had lost a little of his boldness. He quickly swallowed the rest of his pint. “Just the three of us? With what weapons?”
“Our wits,” Ichabod declared.
“And what else?” someone called. “You are an old man and no longer fit to fight him!”
He hadn’t expected that. Ichabod raised his cane, then slammed it down on the bar again to ensure he still had everyone’s attention. “I am as fit as I ever was! It did not take brute strength to defeat him the first time. It will not require brute strength now, just superior cunning. Anyone else? No? Then let us be off.”
Abandoning the cane, he led the way to the stable where horses could be hired. The brothers, along with most of the tavern patrons, followed him. Once the three were astride, Ichabod pointed west and set off at a rapid pace.
Leading the brothers on a useless hunt took all night. They never approached the Tree of the Dead, and they never caught a glimpse of the Horseman. They tracked one deliberately laid false trail after another, while the night grew darker and the brothers grew anxious. Eustace seemed torn over whether to ride ahead or bring up the rear, constantly moving from one to the other. Samuel armed himself with a sturdy tree branch and swiped at any unexpected sound or movement. By the time Ichabod declared the hunt a failure, both his companions looked ready to head home.
They reached the covered bridge outside town around three o’clock in the morning. Ichabod was thrilled to see that Gregor had managed to keep track of the time and was waiting on the other side as planned. He was seated on Daredevil, a large silhouette atop a larger shadow, together breathtakingly ominous in the dim light of the moon. A crash of lightening at that moment only added to the chilling effect.
“The fiend approaches!” Ichabod shouted, rushing forward on his horse. At the same moment, the Hessian began charging towards them, swinging his sword wildly. It was all Ichabod could do to duck in time, allowing the Horseman to pass him and attack the brothers. Looking back, Ichabod saw Gregor slice at Samuel and miss, then at Eustace. He succeeded in unseating the former, while the latter raced hellbent for leather across the bridge and home to his bed. Samuel sat up and watched the Horseman disappear into the woods.
“Come, we must follow him!” Ichabod shouted. He feigned racing after their prey but stopped and dismounted when Samuel made no effort to rise. “You’re injured?”
“No, but my horse has gone,” Samuel said. He stood up shakily and brushed himself off. “We’ve lost him for this night.”
Ichabod made a show of being disappointed. “Then tomorrow we try again.”
They returned to town where the residents were once more all atwitter over the doings of the Horseman. This time he’d purportedly thrown his knife at several people who’d tried to accost him, although no names could be produced. He’d slashed to pieces copies of the Hollow Herald that had sat outside the newspaper agency and had knocked flat several signs advertising property to let. His determination to prevent further development of the Western Woods had become very clear.
“Tomorrow night we’ll get him!” Ichabod told the townspeople. “Or die trying!”
That day it felt odd and cold not to sleep beside his lover, but Ichabod comforted himself with the knowledge that it would not happen again. He did not dream.
After dinner he steeled himself for what would be the greatest, and perhaps final, challenge of his life. He gathered a crowd in the tavern and again asked for volunteers to join him in his hunt for the fiend. Samuel and Eustace were not present, and no one else stepped up. Pretending dismay, Ichabod led them into the street, assuring them that he could locate and defeat the murderous Hessian alone. He was pleased to note that his knees did not shake, nor his voice quaver.
“I promise you, I will put an end to his reign of terror!” he insisted staunchly. “I have done it before, and perhaps I am the only one who can do it again! I will prevail!”
“How?” someone asked.
“He knows I am his nemesis! He will not get past me a second time!”
“Then stay in town tonight and waylay him as he rides.”
Ichabod nodded, impressed that someone had the sense to suggest that. “I will stake out the bridge and stop him as he tries to enter Sleepy Hollow—”
“Too late!” a voice on the fringe of the crowd shouted in a panic.
A second later the hoofbeats of a rapidly moving horse could be heard by all, accompanied by a sheet of lightning that filled the western sky. Most onlookers scattered into nearby buildings, but Ichabod raised his cane as if it were a weapon and stood his ground as the Horseman approached at full gallop. His heart was beating out of his chest, but he focused on the incredible figure his lover presented as he bore down on him, grinning madly and swinging his sword with a vengeance. Ichabod was close to fainting when the blade finally met his neck.
Utter darkness fell in less than an instant.
~~~~~~~~~
He awoke in the Tree, lying on the pallet. Gregor was sitting beside him with the biggest smile Ichabod had ever seen on his pallid face.
“Am I dead?”
“You are.” Gregor gestured to an object stashed in a corner of the cave. Even in the dim light, Ichabod recognized it as his own dissevered head. He swallowed, realized he didn’t need to swallow, then realized he didn’t need to breathe either. An instant later he noted that he could see without firelight, and although his skin was icy to his touch, he didn’t feel cold.
“This is going to be a fascinating experience,” he murmured, briefly wishing he were able to document it. “Tell me what happened after.”
“I didn’t stay long. They screamed and ran and fainted, as usual. I collected your head and came back to the Tree.” Since that hadn’t been part of their plan, Gregor added, “I wasn’t sure your spirit would be anchored here unless I kept your head.”
Ichabod nodded. “Good thinking. My body will probably be returned to New York City for burial.” He sighed at the thought of his children having to attend a funeral with an incomplete corpse but there was no help for it. “And then what happened?”
“Shortly afterwards, you appeared.”
“How long has it been?” He asked that automatically before recalling that time was not quantifiable any more. “I mean, have you ridden out since that night?”
“Yes. They are afraid to leave their homes after dark. I did some damage to the realtor’s building. No one has set foot in the woods since.”
“Then our plan may have worked.” Ichabod grasped the other’s hand, gratified to find that it no longer felt chilly to him. Then full comprehension struck him, and he pulled Gregor down into his arms. “We did it! We may be together forever!”
His partner’s response was a deep kiss, no longer restrained by fear of doing damage with his teeth. Startled at first, Ichabod quickly decided he liked the increased passion. He hadn’t thought they were capable of more intense love-making than they’d known before but being dead had its advantages. Immune to pain or fatigue, they lost themselves in a whole new level of carnality, oblivious to the world outside.
Afterwards Ichabod sank into unawareness, but he couldn’t really call it sleep. When his senses returned, he found Gregor still wrapped around him. He had no way to judge how much time had passed.
“Could you bring me a newspaper?” he asked softly.
‘You can get one yourself now.” Eyes closed, Gregor bared his teeth in a satisfied grin. “The Western Woods now have two spirits haunting them.”
“That’s true.” Ichabod hadn’t even thought of that perk. He stood up slowly, tempted to check every inch of his body to make sure it was intact. All limbs seemed to be functioning normally; his sexual parts certainly had. He felt as strong and able as a young man again. “How do I do this?”
The other shrugged. “All I do is wish myself outside and I’m there.”
“And clothing?”
“The same.”
Ichabod wished to be fully dressed outside the Tree and was. It was nighttime, and although the bare branches of the other trees around him indicated it was winter, he didn’t feel the cold. When Gregor exited the Tree on Daredevil a minute later, Ichabod accepted his hand and swung easily up behind him. Together they rode towards town.
The Hollow looked no different to Ichabod’s eyes than when he’d viewed it while alive, although the darkness seemed lighter somehow. The hour must have been after midnight, because the high street was deserted and the large hotel and tavern quiet. The realtor’s place of business was boarded up. Locating a newspaper, he scanned it for news of the Western Woods and was relieved to find no new plans. Then he noticed the date, two months later than he’d expected, and went back to read the rest of the paper. It was a bit of a shock to concede that the world was carrying on without him in it.
“I shall have to come into town for a newspaper whenever possible,” he remarked. Another thought struck him. “And perhaps to borrow books from the library.”
Existing as a spirit was an adjustment. Ichabod found he could take books from the Hollow’s lending library and return them at will. He also found he could bring paper and pen into the cave, but his desire to document his new state of being was in vain. He’d never realized it while alive, but some objects brought into the cave left it again virtually unchanged no matter what modifications were inflicted on them during their stay. Paper could be acquired, but nothing Ichabod wrote upon it survived its exit from the Tree. After carefully recording his transition from living to dead several times only to have the words vanish from the pages, he gave up. It was a sobering thought that he would never be able to influence the outside world again in any productive way, but it was the death he’d chosen, and he did not regret it.
They did not have to ride often. Ichabod’s dramatic demise had been noted, as was his reappearance as a phantom in the Horseman’s company. The possibility of being killed only to walk the earth a prisoner of the undead creature seemed to be considered a fate worse than death, and that kept interlopers out of the Western Woods better than any other threat they could have contrived.
At some point it occurred to them that the headstone was inaccurate, upon which Gregor once again proved adept with his sword. Scratching out ‘RIP’, he etched the words ‘The Dead Never Rest Here’ deep into the granite. Ichabod hoped the villagers would take that as the warning and reminder it was meant to be.
As time passed, they left the cave less and less often. Ichabod wasn’t certain, but it also felt as if their periods of awareness grew shorter and shorter. These periods seemed to be synchronized so it wasn’t an issue; he merely wondered whether this was what it had been like when Gregor occupied the Tree alone. With no annual visit to mark the seasons, no action in need of doing or date in need of observing, they did not miss being awake. When it occurred, they made love or were content to lay and talk quietly.
When wakefulness eventually faded forever, they shared death in each other’s arms. The Horsemen of Sleepy Hollow were finally at rest.