A pleasing land of drowsy head it was:
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye...
[James Thomson, 'The Castle of Indolence', 1748]
Darkness.
Light.
Sound.
…So very far away…
A strange, smothering heat…
Voices…no, a single voice –
Why is it so hard to hear?
– hushed and murmuring, ringing faintly in his ears; muffled and indistinct as if issuing from the end of a long, black tunnel…
"…remarkable. A wound like this should have killed him...but it needs no stitch, and there's hardly loss of blood…"
…Him…Who…?
Shadows flitting by – their writhing shapes weird and twisted – dancing impishly on the back of his closed eyelids; swirling, melting dizzyingly into a dense grey haze –
– dragging him down…down:
A covered bridge, painted silver by moonlight, wreathed in hoary fog –
The sight of it fills him with a nameless dread; try as he might, he cannot place it, cannot shake the emotion's clammy grip –
A horse's ghostly neigh sounds suddenly in the distance, floating to him on the misty air –
Terror floods him, clutching at his heart with icy fingers:
The Horseman comes.
Desperate, he makes for the bridge –
But a peculiar lethargy clings to his limbs, as though they labour through water, and he advances so slowly…too slowly –
Behind him, the chilling ring of a sword drawn from its scabbard, loud in its appalling closeness –
(No…)
Though the safety of the bridge's mouth now looms before him he cannot flee, his legs paralyzed and turned to lead –
(No!)
In the thrall of an unknown devilish power his mind lolls, slack and helpless, as he is compelled to turn –
(NO!)
– turn on the spot to face his Death.
Brandishing smoking steel, it glides – stalks – toward him; nearer, nearer! until he can see every tortuous twist in the leatherwork of the ghastly armour, his gaze travelling upwards –
(Oh, God!)
The gruesome spectre has no head.
Transfixed by horror, only his eyes move to track the hellish blade as it swings upward; higher, higher –
– and arcs down.
Ichabod Crane scrabbles his way back to consciousness with a wordless gasp; heart galloping and breathless, panting hoarsely, wild glazed eyes flying open onto –
The crumpled corpse of a brawny young man, cleaved in two, lying in its own blood on the rough wooden planks –
Sheets, smooth and cool; a small white bed…a little room, bathed in the wavering halo of candlelight –
Brom! Father in Heaven…
He struggles to rise, fighting the woozy blackness at the corners of his vision –
A sharp, stabbing pain erupts abruptly in his left shoulder, arresting his efforts, stealing the breath from his straining lungs –
It BURNS! Oh! How it burns…!
Searing black claws at him –
A smoldering devil blade of wicked argent glow, thrusting forward swifter than a striking snake –
– slicing, carving into his flesh; nerves laid bare and raw –
– the white-hot, ice-cold agony of hellfire pierces him through and through –
– somebody…someone screams, shrieks in torment –
Our Lady of Mercy…is that himself?
Words. An older gentleman's…The…Doctor…?
"…you must be still. The fever is on you…"
…Yes…
His strength has deserted him; the fire scorching the gash to his shoulder pulses in his veins, courses through his aching body –
He collapses, utterly spent, onto the thin pallet; drenched in a sickly sweat that plasters his thick unruly hair to the nape of his neck in soaked raven curls, writhing against the raging flames and the flickering images that assault him –
The ear-splitting crash of demonic thunder –
(…A cherubic apparition of flowing flaxen curls and rosebud mouth, arrayed in silk brocade of blushing cherry blossom…)
"…Wait! He's not after you – "
("The Pickety Witch, the Pickety Witch; who's got a kiss for the Pickety Witch?")
" – I'll get him!"
("…Pardon, Miss, I am only a stranger…")
The deadly clash of steel on scythe –
("…Then have a kiss, on account…")
A lightning flash blazes across the sky, turning night bright as day – close! too close –
(…Oh! the sweet, supple softness of the cupid's bow lips on his pallid cheek…)
The grotesque sliminess of loathsome scarlet gore as it splatters onto his brow – his chin – his eyes –
(…The intensity of those deep chestnut orbs, the luxuriant lashes so full; so large – near, so near…)
The hideous empty sockets of the Western Witch, like to the ancient barren hollows of a gnarled and wizened tree –
(…A doe's laughing eyes…warm and loving, coal-black as his own – Mother…)
– The hole he chopped into the rotten wood of the Tree of the Dead, gaping bloody like an open wound –
(…Her long, delicate fingers cradling the tiny child's hands of his boyhood: the thaumatrope whirls…faster, faster – the cardinal in the cage…)
– the clouded, murky stare of the severed heads hidden in its bowels –
(…Mother's eyes, huge, frightened, glaring at him from a slat in metal…shifting, blurring – not Mother's, now, but that dazzling nymph's – )
– Dear Lord! NO! – the Angel's golden crown has joined them –
Spine arching, he cries out in intolerable anguish, Her name risen unbidden to his parched and swollen tongue –
– but all that emerges is a feeble moan, a sigh – a prayer:
"…Katrina…"
