Mirrors- Ichabod

The mirror was still fogged from his shower, a twenty-first century common practice that he still found a complete miraculous luxury. Toweling off, he pondered why they didn't think of this concept in the eighteenth century. Gently, he reminded himself that Washington did tell his other commanders to see to it the men washed, but what he lacked to inform them was how often between marching and battle.

The feeling of being clean and dry gave Ichabod a merry way to begin the day and he always eagerly anticipated the shower. What he disliked more was the task of shaving. Abbie had brought him a Gillette razor packaged in that "infernal" plastic. After attempting to trim his beard to his liking, he found all the safety and anti-irritation features were a nuisance, not letting him get a clean line. Ichabod decided it was because the company name obviously hailed from France and, of course, they could not abide by a rough shave.

The Mach 3 razor was not much better, as he found is more unpredictable and harsh, much like the Germanic sounding moniker. Serendipitously, Ichabod had found an antique double-headed razor that Corbin used to have in a bathroom drawer. He could get good clean lines just like the single bladed, strap sharpened straight razor he had in his previous life.

Wielding it like a surgeon, he scraped away the foam from his cheek, craning his neck like a goose to tighten the skin. Ichabod did appreciate modern shaving foam; it made his job just that much easier and he liked the condition it left his skin in. As he rinsed the blade from the first pass, he recalled how he had hosed the bathroom in soap the first time he attempted to wrest shaving cream from the can. Smirking at himself, he thought was a mess that had been!

As he passed over his left cheek, his sharp blue eyes caught the tiny, thin scar right at the hairline, extending back into his brown locks. Ah, that scar, he mused, I remember when Father told the servants to light the wall sconces for the party, and I made the valiant attempt to help as a lad of five. Oh how Mother had been so scared when I fell from the chair, glass cutting my forehead!

He continued on to shave his neck and tidy the line there. There were bruises in the shape of two hands around his throat; a reminder of Henry Parrish's kind help. Tenderly, he cut the straggling hairs of his beard as not to aggravate the bruising. He was reminded of another mark on his flesh, a white, straight line of about four inches long that was only noticeable when he stretched to shave. Now there is a daring yarn to spin, he recalled with a small frown, eyeing the streak just below his beard line.

It was from boarding school, where he and another boy named Jonathan had quarreled over the untoward comments Jonathan had made about a young lass their age. Ichabod and his friends had been walking across the yard between buildings at class break, their coats pressed and brass buttons gleaming in the spring sun. Their hair was neatly curled above their ears and blue ribbons tying back their long hair, as was the fashion.

The young lady was with her friends, carrying baskets of early spring flowers and a few other sundry items they had purchased from the market, not far away. Ichabod never learned her name, but she was pretty in a pale yellow gown, her chestnut hair tucked up in her bonnet and a rosy complexion. The girls chatted amongst themselves like songbirds, when they crossed paths with the boys. Jonathan said something crude to the girl in yellow, and she and her friends looked at him in stunned silence. Ichabod saw a glimmer of a tear in her eye, which to him demanded a reproof.

"Jonathan! Apologize this instant!" Ichabod demanded, standing up straight with his taller-than-average fourteen-year-old frame.

Jonathan, who out weighed Ichabod by at least twenty pounds, leered at the upstanding Crane, "I meant what I said to her, bookworm! Pretty little poppet!" He cast a suggestive glance at the young lady who was cringing behind her basket and friends. Ichabod thought he heard her whimper.

Crane never saw a duel before or even a true fight, but he knew the customs and his outrage to defend the girl's integrity ran strongly in his blood, "Then I challenge you to a duel to restore this lady's honor, you military mongrel!" Crane spat and watched as Jonathan, son of a low ranked military officer, colored hotly.

What Ichabod didn't count on was that Jonathan was going to cheat and lunged himself headlong toward Crane. The boys circled the two combatants, jeering one or cheering the other. The girls stayed back but tried to catch a glimpse of the action.

Ichabod, after being initially shocked and almost tripping over his own feet, squared up to fight the other boy. They had no swords or guns but fists. Crane threw a few awkward punches that missed, while Jonathan teased him mercilessly. It seemed that Jonathan had done a lot more fighting in his short life than Ichabod had. The sun was warmer than he expected and sweat leaked down Crane's shirt under the heavy woolen coat. The curls of his hair had wilted and become stained with dust. But they danced in a circle, occasionally making contact with knuckles and grunts. Ichabod didn't see the knife Jonathan had tucked up in the waist of his pants. With a final leap, the heavier boy knocked down Ichabod and sat upon him pressing the blade to his throat. A trickle of blood seeped from the cut and stung greatly with the sweat of battle, "And after I gut you, you bungling bookworm, I'll have some amusement with her."

The bite of the blade began to grow as Jonathan applied more pressure, a mad look in his eye. Ichabod was afraid to swallow, in case he helped the blade's action on his flesh. "You there! Boy! Get up!" an adult's voice roared out. Crane recognized it as the assistant headmaster.

Suddenly, Jonathan was raised up by the scruff of his coat, like a cat picks up a kitten. In his surprise, Jonathan dropped the knife, which fell point down next to Ichabod's arm, but sticking into the dirt rather than flesh. The other boys stood at attention, while the assistant headmaster grasped Jonathan roughly at the nape, his discomfort obvious.

Ichabod coughed up dust and scrambled to standing, his throat throbbing with heat. "What in the name of God is going on here?" the gentleman bellowed, his usually calm demeanor now like an erupting volcano.

Crane cleared his throat carefully; hands neatly behind his back also at attention even though he felt like a punching bag, and replied looking straight ahead, "Sir, we were traversing the commons here to our next lesson, when we encountered these young ladies. Jonathan thought it sporting to address one of them in the most ungentlemanly way. I felt it was my duty to uphold her virtue in light of his crude and unseemly remarks."

The assistant headmaster observed all of them carefully, his right eyebrow raised in a critical fashion. Ichabod didn't dare look at the man directly as he surveyed the group of boys still mussed and dirty. Taking several angry steps towards Crane, dragging Jonathan along by his neck, "So you felt it was your duty to intervene?"

"Yes sir." Ichabod answered and involuntarily looked the man in the eye, which was easy because he was almost as tall as the administrator. Ichabod quickly realized his impertinence, "Beg your pardon, sir!"

The assistant headmaster gave Crane a quick disapproving glance, then looked downward toward the other boy growling most menacingly, "Twenty days work in the scullery after lessons! And no weapons on campus! You are lucky I do not give you latrine duty, you cur." Ichabod kept his eyes forward but found it difficult not to smile. He looked towards Crane next and said clearly," And Ichabod, for brawling like a common street urchin, you get ten days in the laundry. Go to the infirmary and have that cut on your neck looked at."

Crane's lips parted to utter a protest because he clearly thought himself guiltless but his training prevented the gesture from getting farther, "Yes, sir."

"The rest of you fools get to lessons now! Hurry up, on the double!" he yelled and the boys dispersed like birds flushed from cover. Ichabod departed as well, but not as fast because he noticed the administrator still gripped Jonathan and faced the ladies. He was too far away to hear what was said but the larger man shook the boy roughly when he didn't say what was expected, Ichabod guessed.

The razor smoothed over the scar, and Crane looked at himself in the mirror, half expecting it to shatter and see Moloch standing there as it seemed to be his preference. But all he saw was a thirtyish man with thick brown hair and not such a scruffy beard now staring back at him calmly. The tendrils of that last memory wafted away pleasantly; Ichabod cultivated his hero role at the school, which gained him accolades within the school and the admiration of the fairer sex outside the school. Jonathan didn't stay much longer at that school, his father being transferred to the Canadian territory with the Royal Army. Served him right, Ichabod concluded.

As he let his thoughts wander, his eyes did as well looking over his lean chest with battle tested wiry muscles and his life "ending" scar. There were shrapnel pock marks here and there as well; signs of a life lived in conflict. Each mark told a story of fights won and lost, friends avenged and brotherhoods forged in blood. Taking in a breath, it came out as a sigh of resignation. Katrina was the last to touch his largest scar, and he liked to imagine he could still feel her fingers on his skin. Looking at this man, who has endured so much, he felt a weary sense of pride for being such a survivor but lonely at the same time. And so I live to fight yet another day, he thought firmly, so is my Fate, but not alone.

For more information about bathing habits in the 1700's see this link:

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