What in the hell was I doing?

For the hundredth time I asked myself that question. I drew my shawl closer around my shoulders and tightened my grip on Smoke's sturdy leather reigns. Not a sound issued from the cold darkness of the surrounding wood, but the moon- the glorious moon- lighted the leaf strewn path before me. My horse whinnied softly beneath me and shook his head, as if he too questioned my motives. I gently smoothed his mane and glanced up once more to regard the full moon. It became partially blocked by the swirling fog, and I shivered. Something inside me, however, caused me to plod on, regardless of the possible consequences.

I brought Smoke to a halt and slid off the saddle, tethering him to a tree just off the main dirt path. Up ahead, ringed in moonlight and shrouded ominously in a cloud of thick fog, stood the Tree of the Dead. My mouth went dry as I craned my neck up to its disfigured apex. The Tree alone added a gloom to the small clearing, as well as a sense of apprehension and dread.

I knew every inhabitant of Sleepy Hollow considered me queer. Indeed I often indulged myself with stories of myth and darkness. And it didn't help my mother had been accused of witchcraft when I was but eight. At that time I lived just outside New York. My father was a wealthy politician who loved my mother dearly. However, much riding on his public appearance and fearful of the Finger of the Church, he ultimately turned my mother over to authorities. I paused at the gnarled roots of the Tree, running my hand over the cold bark, careful to avoid the small crevices brimming with pools of blood. When my father discovered I had learned some of my mother's talents, he disowned me, still afraid of damage to his image. Ironically, his public was disgusted with his choice to disown me and his image fell hard. I learned, four years later, and from a taunting cousin, that he had killed himself a month after my departure to Sleepy Hollow. Indeed, he'd loved us very much.

When I arrived at the Hollow I found it far from the rustic little town I'd imagined it to be. It was a dark, dirty place, where no secret was safe- and my little secret had arrived before me. The roads still were dirt, most of the time mud, and a cloud of fear and suspicion hung as continuously as the fog. My Aunt Sarah's house was a small thatch roofed place that she shared with her eight children- her husband had long ago left her and she was more the bitter for it. Immediately it was obvious I was little more than a nuisance. To her I wasn't a member of her family, I wasn't the only child of her only brother, I was a servant. I shared the barn with the horses where I at first spent most of my time. I learned to avoid Sarah at all cost, except to do her bidding. She'd leave whatever scraps for me in the mud in front of the barn. And I hated her for it. But I discovered I could get along well enough in Sleepy Hollow, especially when I found dark corners where the inhabitants did not care who you were or where you came from. These were the women who practiced the dark arts, white magic, and rituals of blood letting for comfort. I found acceptance among them, and it was there I finally heard the story of the Headless Horseman. Where the townsfolk whispered his tales as if terrified that the mere thought of his name would conjure him, the witches spoke reverently of him. He was referred to as the Perfect Incarnation. Where the townsfolk spoke of a headless killer, a vengeful witch, and a crazy constable who married "a queer girl, queer like her mother", the witches spoke of them like curiosities, or better, idols. And I fell in love with the story and dreamed of the dark seducing powers of the Perfect Incarnation, held fast in his Tree, its trunk stuffed with the heads of his doomed victims.

Standing beneath it now, my fear slightly quelled, I allowed a smile. I had to see this man, this headless rider, in all his glory. I had to see the flash of his blade, hear the hiss of smoldering flesh. For all the years I'd been at Sleepy Hollow, this was the first time I'd worked up enough courage to approach the Tree. In all my wanderings of the Western Wood never had I dared follow the narrow horse path to the Tree. Now I knew I was ready.

I bent down just away from the trunk, pulling wood from the pouch at my side and igniting a small flame. As it grew in its contained circle, I fingered the lock of hair in my pocket. The comforting smell of wood smoke rose up, and I felt warmed by even the small flame. Long ago, Archer had stolen the skull of the horseman and held it as a reward to be won by its owner, a prize to be given when her murderous plan was complete. But as the story went, Ichabod Crane exchanged the head with the Hessian for his love, the young Katrina, and the Hessian returned to Hell with Archer in his grasp. I felt my body grow hot as I recalled Archer's demise, when the horseman administered to her the Kiss of Death, his filed teeth grinding into the flesh of her mouth. I fancied his arousal from blood paralleled mine.

In the moments before I began my incantation, a fresh wave of doubt washed over me. What if I had misjudged what excited the Hessian? What if my offering could not appease him? Would he kill me? Not that it would be such a loss, but the witches back in the Hollow were certain I could control him. They had even told me they had never met someone so strong such as myself. With a shuddering breath I began the incantation that would draw the Hessian from the grips of the Netherworld and into the mortal world. The woods grew still and silent. Was it my imagination, or did the fog that hung perpetually in the area, grow thicker and hug deeper? The smoke from the fire turned a repulsive green, and a stench arose from the Tree. Trembling, I glanced back at it. The roots were writhing, slowly pulling away from each other, creating a gap at the base. I could clearly see the heads, the flesh still as fresh as the day they were severed, the blood still oozing like a newly opened wound. I leapt to my feet as a rumbling issued from the Tree. The ground shook and my courage began to diminish. But turning back was too late- especially at the emergence of a hoof from the tangle of heads...