BackStage Utah

-Prelude-

My name is Katrina van Tassel. I am seventy-eight years old.

They call me Widow van Tassel, though I never married. They call me the town witch. There is no fondness in it, no teasing; they fear me now. The town witch with her white hair, wispy as cotton, who knows how to brew the things that no one speaks of. Tinctures and tonics to cure a broken heart or soothe broken skin; small things, but nevertheless no one in town understand them unless it is the dead of night and they are weeping at my door. Then I am not the witch; then I am God and can fix all pain. I saved a child once but its eyes were dark to the world, ruined from too much time spent inside the mother during birth. I was not to blame, but they pointed at me anyhow.

They say I was beautiful once, and it�s true. I still am beautiful, but it is hidden inside a skin wrinkled as a walnut shell. Sometimes I dream that it might fall away from me like a husk, and I will be new-born, able to regain my strength and my old ways�my youth.

I see the town from my window. I don�t venture out much. I see the boys, the strapping lads walking down the street as if they�re doing us all a favor by merely existing. So like Brom.  I see the schoolgirls down by the Hollow and they play among the trees, sunlight glinting on their braids. I remember the way Johanna laughed.

They left me here alone, to grow old and shrivel, a herb that had not been hung properly to dry. Useless and brittle. I am here with their fears, nestled in the hollow place they left behind in my chest. I feel as though everyone can see it sometimes, a gaping, ragged hole.

Still we all hear the hoof-beats at night. Mothers still lock their doors, fathers still keep their rifles handy (as if powder and shot can do anything to protect them). The Hessian has not taken anyone since I was eighteen years old; sometimes I wish that he would, if only to make them all feel what I feel, this horrible emptiness. But it would not cure me.

The skies are dark this Samhain. I am old and I am dying, like the memory of this town. The Hessian stirs, but I will speak not a word. They may deal with him as they see fit when he rides again, when the night wings sweep over their homes. I will keep my voice safe in its box, nestled in my throat.

Sometimes there is a bird standing in the river. I know it cannot be a crane, but I weep anyhow.


***

My name is Ichabod Crane.

I am in hell.




-Chapter One-

-Ichabod-

The first time I saw Katrina van Tassel, she was laughing. She was sitting on a rock outside the schoolhouse while the smaller children played around her. It was a gray day, snowing; the candles glowed in the windows.

It was a hearty sound, deep as a velvet gown, low in her belly. It surprised me; it was the laugh of a hale, sage old woman coming from the mouth of a girl. It seemed to take the winter air and turn it crisp, like the browned edge of freshly-made bread, and for a moment I remembered the busy streets of home. A place this child had never seen. Her laugh transformed her into something out of a dream, in her plain wool cloak and the soft fall of snow.

She was twelve years my junior, with hair like autumn. I didn�t realize until weeks later why her laugh was so singular.

No one else in town laughed like that.

Her father, Baltus van Tassel, was the town elder. Tarrytown was a quiet little place; they did not feel as if they needed much law enforcement or much governing. They lived in harmony with one another, save for the occasional small quarrel or long-standing family feud (which in Tarrytown meant strong dislike and perhaps a prank or two of a summer evening). All in all, there were probably thirty-five families in the township. They were a lively people, but somehow� somehow something never sat quite right. It was the strange glow in the children�s eyes, too wise for me to understand even while I gazed at it every day. I couldn�t comprehend it. When I hung the cross inside the schoolhouse above the door, Katrina�s small sister snickered from her desk at the front of the room.

It was Christmas-time when I arrived in town. I was deep in reflection, which happens often, but it is not often that I am quiet about it; anyone who knows me knows that I am a man who �goes on�, as my mother often put it when I was young. I can�t keep quiet; I must speak, sometimes to the detriment of whatever conversation I engage in. My tongue runs on along a few steps ahead of my brain and never pauses to let me catch up. It can be disaster. No, it is often disaster, and I often only make it worse by trying to repair it.

Arriving in Tarrytown arrested my desire to talk. It, at first meeting, was the epitome of peace and solace; locked inside its walls away from the rest of the world, some sort of Eden (if Eden had a farmer shooing his cow down the street or the strong scent of tallow coming from behind a farmhouse�or indeed, a farmhouse at all). Moreover, though, it was the pervading sense of twilight that silenced me; a gauzy purple haze drawn across the valley, no matter the time of day. As if dreams came there to sleep, or to die.



-Katrina-

He was tall, taller than anyone else in the township; his head in his black hat stuck out like a crow sitting atop a stump when he was in a crowd. His limbs seemed all at angles, as if he were formed out of sticks and linen instead of bones and skin. It was always startling to see him move, especially if he moved quickly; it seemed impossible that such a lanky frame could be commanded immediately into action without each limb consulting the other, organizing the dance, so as not to fall and bruise themselves. He made my mother want to feed him on nothing but buttermilk and bacon fat, so perhaps he might smooth out a bit. (This was before she found her utter distaste for him, squatting inside her like a fat, ugly toad.)

I knew immediately that he would scoff at us if he ever knew. Looking at his eyes, a studious shade of green set in a thicket of eyelashes (likely his most redeeming feature), I saw a scientist. A determined, factual mind. A kindred spirit.

�Katrina,� Johanna whispered under her breath as we huddled near the stove in the middle of the schoolhouse. The winter was a cold one, and we had discovered by the second day that as long as we asked for permission and took our books, Master Crane would allow us to study near the cast-iron stove. Johanna�s blonde head was bowed over her reader, but her mouth was whispering to me.

�He�s not handsome.� She sounded dejected, but not without that soft degree of mischief that was always in her voice�it made her sound this time as if she were responsible for rearranging Master Crane�s limbs to appear so ill at ease. Johanna was an elfin thing, willowy, and it was not difficult to imagine her dancing eyes spiriting someone away. She was my best friend, though we were completely at odds more often than not.

�I�m not certain if I agree,� I answered, if only to provoke her. She hid a smile. �I find his angles to be peculiarly pleasing. No doubt he is a joy to dance with, if his enormous feet are any indication.�

Nearby, my sister Lisbet buried her mouth in her shawl to muffle her laughter.  Johanna spluttered, and Greta hushed us, hiding a smile of her own. Greta was ever more solemn than the rest of us, but her smile was something to behold when she chose to wield it. I believe I saw Hendrich stumble many a time when she glanced at him. We were all lovely enough, as young women are, and shared many common qualities, but our town was one that placed us in neatly-labeled bottles. To keep us neat, keep us orderly.

Greta was the prettiest of us, though not always the quickest; Johanna was the liveliest, though too soft at heart; and I was the brightest, though headstrong and rebellious.

�That headstrong and rebellious girl� is what Brom called me when he was feeling especially fond of me, which as we neared our adulthood was becoming all too common. He seemed always to be a presence at the corner of my vision, broad of chest and of smile. He was handsome, to be certain, and his nearness filled my belly with whisperings like sap running in the springtime, a feeling that chilled me and that I longed for all at once. It frightened me; it was powerful.

He was watching us laugh that day in the schoolhouse with a proprietary air. All the boys in town had it, that sense of ownership�they knew, no matter what we attempted, that we could not escape them forever. That someday we would carry their rosy babies on our hips and dust their flour off our hands when we baked their bread.

I didn�t know what I believed in, not quite. I was just seventeen. I knew that the village (and my mother in particular) expected Brom and me to make a match and live our days in harmony, churning butter and producing children, but my heart ached for him. How peculiarly sad to know that neither of us loved each other, but Brom would rather sacrifice his eternal love than his pride. I was his trophy, somehow�a thing that he did not understand but could obtain anyhow. It was not as though I was particularly difficult to comprehend� I was only young and wanted to make the world conform to my wishes-- but he and I were two different animals. He wished me to be what I wasn�t; to him, I was a wildflower to place in his garden and force to grow alongside the primroses.

But we were young, and it had not fully touched us yet. I still felt the stirrings inside me when he would fix me with his steady black gaze, because that was all I knew. Even if I longed for more, I didn�t know what it was I longed for.

Ichabod Crane�s arrival in our town was heralded much as the turning of the seasons often was; half with dismay, half with relief. I met him with the latter. It was strange, the sudden inclination, how I wished to embrace him when I saw him at the end of the path, in his long ill-fitting frock coat.

I remember it so fully, sitting in front of the schoolhouse and waiting for the new schoolmaster to arrive. The rock was my particular perch; hard and rough beneath the layers of my gown, my cheeks stung with the cold. I was laughing with Johanna and I looked up� and the green eyes were there. And they were watchful ever after. It was the barest, truest moment I can remember passing between us, save one.

We were formally introduced by my father. My papa, dearer to my heart than life, with his quiet chuckle and his soft belly. He was a gentle man, filled with good intentions that were always carried out. (�Never would he pave the road to hell,� my mother used to say with satisfaction.) Master Crane was making his rounds in the town and I understood why, though we had never had a new schoolmaster before.

�Thirty years,� my mother said as she swept the snow from the front steps. I was standing with her, tips of my fingers stuck in my arms to keep them warm, hopping up and down in the cold. She had scolded me to go back inside for a shawl, but I didn�t mind it; the cold was crackling on my skin and it made me feel brisk. Alive.

�I can�t dream of how Papa managed to find him,� I said breathlessly, my boot-heels knocking on the seasoned wood of the porch. �He is a fine schoolmaster, Mama, much better than the Widow Winship�she so often stared out the windows when she was meant to be listening to the first class and their reading.�

�She is too young, too empty-headed for such a calling anyhow,� Mama said with authority. �And still in mourning after ten years. It�s unseemly.�

�It�s dedication,� I declared, and we both laughed. �No, Mama� she knows it�s very simple. She will never find herself another husband in this town and so she chooses to pretend she is still in mourning.�

�Katrina, watch your tongue,� Mama scolded, but her eyes were twinkling. �At any rate, I am glad for the new schoolmaster. This town couldn�t have held its head up if its citizens had been educated by that young slip of a girl. And her husband��

I looked up so quickly that I felt the bones in my neck crackle. Mama was clucking her tongue softly, but she didn�t speak anymore. She only continued sweeping and I was relieved. Another disagreement was no way to spend an afternoon. I knew, with a trace of guilt, that they were my entire fault� but I could not bear it.

I could not bear to hear another story about the Hessian.

The bread was baking and I was sewing by the fire when Master Crane arrived at our door. His knock was hard and sharp, and I could imagine his knuckles cracking painfully on the wooden planks. There seemed to be so little skin covering the bones.

My father crossed the room in a few strides and flung open the door. The cold night air rushed in and my mother rushed across the room with it, crying �Baltus!� as she shut the door behind the schoolmaster. His green eyes glowed quietly in the firelight and I gripped my needle too tightly, pricking my finger.




-Ichabod-

The stories here abound.

They are diverse, and they vary in detail. My scholar�s brain insists on collecting them all, stacking them like a deck of cards inside my mind and trimming off the loose edges.

Katrina�s face that night was a mask of restraint and propriety as her father�s good beer settled into my stomach. Unlike many men when they drink, I become a quieter fellow, more thoughtful.

How it is that God managed to stuff so much talent into one teeny little person like you, I will never know.

PLEASE more...


(I love the name Lisbet! SO Pretty!)

Last bit of chapter one-- the last paragraph above is rewritten a touch. (It is HARD to turn off my internal editor!!! AUGH!)

*************

-Ichabod-

The stories here abound.

They are diverse, and they vary in detail. My scholar�s brain insists on collecting them all, stacking them like a deck of cards inside my mind and trimming off the loose edges.

Katrina�s face that night was a mask of restraint and propriety as her father�s good beer settled into my stomach. She did not seem to listen too carefully to the conversation, as befit her station, but I could see from the tense arc of her neck and her slightly upturned face that she was paying very close attention. Her needle dipped in and out of the cotton as she mended the edge of a lace-trimmed cap, rocking in the hand-hewn rocking chair. I found it strange and difficult, suddenly, not to imagine her with a baby in her arms.


When I came to Tarrytown, I expected scrutiny. Everyone is skeptical of a new schoolmaster and his teaching styles, most of all those who have children under his tutelage. �I expected no less from the Van Tassels, and my expectations were met.

�It is not often we have visitors,� Elizabeth van Tassel said, refilling my mug and sitting down in the unoccupied rocking chair nearest the fire. Unlike many men when they drink, I become a quieter fellow, more thoughtful; I sink deep into my thoughts and become brooding. I could not afford that this night, however, not with Lisbet sitting at my feet, working her sums on her slate, occasionally stopping to ask me a question. Not with Katrina�s flickering glances, taking my measure at each opportunity. I set the mug aside.

�He is not quite a visitor, Mama,� Katrina said lowly, but she was smiling, and her mother smiled in return. It seemed impertinent to me, for Katrina to correct her parent, but at the same time, it was somehow pleasant; Katrina and her mother seemed to understand one another.

�No, Katrina, he is not,� Lisbet chirped, She was a young thing, twelve or thirteen years in age, with eyes big and shining and wispy hair that never seemed to stay neatly in its braids. �He is the first man to come here and stay since��

�Since forever,� Katrina said, not looking up. Her needle glinted.

�Forever is a long time,� I replied quietly, studying her profile.

�In thirty years. This, to someone of Katrina�s age, seems like forever.� Baltus stood and walked to the window. They all seemed strangely restless, save for Katrina, calm as a martyr.

�Thirty years, indeed�that is quite an amount of time,� I said, trying to make a conversation out of nothing. An awkwardness settled over us. I cleared my throat.

�Do people not native to this town find it inhospitable? It has seemed most adequate to me,� I said. Katrina�s hands stilled and she looked up for the first time.

�No, Master Crane. Some of us natives find it inhospitable as well,� she said, and her tone was strange.

�Katrina!� Elizabeth admonished her daughter sharply. Whatever kinship I had imagined was gone, and Katrina, rebuked, went back to her needlework. The hard anger in her face was bewildering; any girl I knew would have wept or apologized at such a harsh tone.

�Why not tell Master Crane our story?� asked Baltus, his voice broadened and deepened with beer. His wife�s eyes grew stony.

�What story?� I looked from Baltus to Elizabeth to Katrina, but none replied.

Another quiet settled over us, broken only by Lisbet�s chalk scratching on her slate. The log parted, crackling, in the fire.

�More beer for Master Crane, then,� said Baltus, rising.



-Katrina-

I knew that night that no one would tell Master Crane the story. And I knew then that I was glad, that one person in town would remain logical, untainted.

One person in this cursed town would remain like me.