Chapter IV
The Conversing
She tried to cover her mouth with both hands, but giggles seeped out anyway. Isaac scowled.
"It's not at *all* amusing, Lady O'Farland--" Charlotte tried to regain composure.
"You're right. It's not--" As he tried to get to his feet, another book toppled off the shelves and onto Isaac's head. Charlotte
snorted with pent up laughter. He glared at her as he managed to gain his balance, rubbing his skull with slender fingers.
"It is *not* humorous, Lady O'Farland." She nodded, still hiding her snickers.
"I know, I know..." After a moment, Isaac allowed a small smile.
"Perhaps it is a bit funny." Charlotte grinned and sat down on the plush armchair.
"It was priceless." He winced, still massaging his head, but succeeded in keeping good spirits. Isaac sat down behind the desk
after receiving a nod of approval from the girl.
"And I am sorry for not having a strategy yet," he said, folding his hands in his lap. Charlotte thought for a moment, then sighed
lightly.
"I'm sorry too." Isaac looked up at her.
"For what?"
"For acting like that. You see, I'm still not completely sure what's going on, and everything's just all confused." She kept her
gaze down on the fallen books and skull so as not to look at Isaac. "And I'm not sure about this Headless Horseman thing
either. It's probably just a psycho, you know. A serial killer." She inspected the gold writing on the cover of a book called
Physics in Action while he spoke.
"How do you deduce that?"
"Well, for one, there aren't such things as ghosts." No reaction from Isaac. "And for another, men go crazy all the time. Postal
workers, teachers, doctors... They just snap and start committing murder." As the words came out, they made more and more
sense to Charlotte. "The murders are usually very precise and organized, with very specific details. I read one book where a
man killed ten people, following a nursery rhyme about Indians." Then it slid into place. "That's *it!*"
"What's it, Lady O'Farland?" Charlotte jumped up.
"Some nut finally decided that the legend of Sleepy Hollow should be made truth and just started lopping off heads!"
Silence.
She looked at Isaac, waiting for a response.
"Don't you think so?" He inhaled through his nose, then leaned forward on the desk with his elbows, his fingers entwined.
"No." The word was short and blunt, as if he'd made up his mind completely.
"What?"
"I said I do not think that's what is occurring here." Charlotte frowned.
"And why not, Mr. I-Fall-Into-A-Bookshelf-And-Become-All-Knowing?" Isaac seemed to be contemplating.
"It doesn't seem plausible." She snorted.
"What, books plunging down onto your head makes you a psychic?" He frowned slightly, creasing the skin of his brow.
"No. It just doesn't seem logical that a town of reasonably sane people could just suddenly produce a raving lunatic." She
smirked.
"And a Headless Horseman does?" Isaac's frown deepened and Charlotte backed off. "All right, then tell me more about the
story--what happened afterwards, I mean." After a moment's thought, he nodded.
"Very well. The morning after...the event, townspeople began wondering where Crane had gone off to. They searched high and
low, but found no trace of the schoolmaster--save the hoof prints of his horse and some smashed pumpkin."
"And that man? Bones, you said?"
"Ah, yes, Abraham Van Brunt. His nickname was Brom Bones, for his strength. He helped in the search, but, like the others,
found nothing. He married the Lady Van Tassel and lived a full, happy life." Isaac didn't seem to like the taste of the words in
his mouth. Charlotte mulled this over a little.
"Is there anything you can tell me about the Horseman?" He looked up at her, raising his eyebrows a bit.
"Nothing you would enjoy."
"Well, I really don't like any of this, but tell me anyway."
"Very well."
He sighed lightly, forehead furrowing in concentration.
"There are different tales, but what seems to be the foundation of truth on this being is that he was a Hessian cavalryman, sent
from Germany. This was during the Revolutionary War, so he had been employed by the English king to push back the
advancing Americans. He was as foul in life as he is in death, for though he was being compensated for his loathsome work, he
relished the kill. The Horseman was notorious for his attack--he wasted no time in driving his enemies through. No, he simply
lopped off the heads and went on.
His end came, nevertheless, and it is still disputed as to how this appalling mercenary was slain. There are variations,
as I've said before. Some say his head was knocked clean off by a cannon; others insist it was with an ax. However, the most
likely story says his horse was shot while riding towards a battle. The Horseman mourned the loss and tried to escape into the
woods, but American soldiers caught up with him eventually. They chopped his head off with his own sword, then laid him to
rest in a grave not far from Sleepy Hollow. But no, he would not stay *in* the ground. He wanders the forest outside the town,
claiming any head that comes near, for he will not rest in Hell where he belongs. His is an angry spirit. The Horseman, I fear,
will not surrender until the injustice that he feels has been committed is righted."
Charlotte stared at him.
"My, you're a regular story book, you know that?" Isaac let another small smile surface.
"I do what I can." She propped her chin on a hand, as Isaac was now doing.
"But if he wanders the grounds *outside* Sleepy Hollow, why is he now *in* Sleepy Hollow?" He sighed lightly.
"That, I'm afraid, is yet to be clarified." Charlotte frowned.
"There are a lot of things yet to be clarified," she muttered. Isaac sighed again.
"I know. However, Lady O'Farland, I will try to discover the answers to these persisting questions. I can only do that if you trust
me." Charlotte watched a cardinal that had landed outside on the patio.
"I'm not completely sure I can do that." There was a small thud, as if something had fallen.
"What?" She turned to look at Isaac, whose chin had slipped off his hand.
"It just doesn't seem...*plausible,*" she said, stressing the word he had used before. "Do you know how hard it is to believe that
an angry ghost is terrorizing my neighborhood? I can't do that. I can't." Isaac folded his hands in his lap, surveying them as if
they held the answer to his problems. When he spoke, his words were tense and tight.
"And why not?" Charlotte observed the tiny bird hop around on the cold, hard cement before flying away.
"Well, for one, there is no evidence that ghosts exist." No opinions from Isaac. She continued. "For another, there is evidence of
normal, flesh and blood *murder*. But if the Horseman shows up at my door, waving his sword and lacking a head, I'll believe
you. For now, I can't be absolutely sure." Isaac pulled himself from his chair, making his way towards the French doors.
Charlotte followed. He stared outside at the numb, gray world. Then, finally, he turned to her. His face was stony and cold.
"If you do not believe in the apparition, then you do not believe in me." She frowned slightly.
"I know, and I don't mean to be so cruel, but it's not scientifically possible--" Isaac snorted angrily.
"Did you listen at *all* to my story, Lady O'Farland? You are acting just as Ichabod Crane did! He thought that science and
reason could protect him!"
"Science and reason are a good, strong truth I can believe in--"
"*No!* Crane thought that science and reason could protect him, but in truth, they bound and gagged him! Do you not *see?*" Both
had their fists clenched.
"Crane was just a character in a fairy tale, Isaac! I see *just fine!*"
"No, you do not! Charlotte, I can only help you if I gain your trust! Do you trust me, Charlotte?" Isaac seized her hands in his
silver ones, enveloping them in a metallic chill. "*Do you trust me?*" The ice was spreading up her arms. Charlotte tried to pull
away, but his silver hands would not let go. "*Do you trust me?*"
"I trust you, I trust you!" Isaac seemed to sober. He let her hands drop.
"Good. Because, Lady O'Farland, I will aid you in any way possible. But if you do not trust me, I cannot help at all."
Charlotte looked down at the ground, a small scowl on her face while she rubbed her hands.
"Don't do that," she whispered.
"Do what?" Isaac muttered, glancing out the window.
"Grab me like that. Your hands are so cold." He frowned, tucking the offending hands in his pockets.
"I'm sorry." There was an uncomfortable period of silence before Charlotte opened her mouth to speak again. Then the garage
door sounded, signaling the return of her grandfather.
"Oh, God. Grandpa's home." She opened the door and turned to Isaac. "You have to go. He'll freak if he finds you here." When
he didn't move, she put her hands at the small of his back and pushed him out. "Go!" Isaac stumbled outside, then
straightened and gave her a nod.
"I see I must leave you now. I will attempt to talk with you later, Lady O'Farland." He reached out as if to shake her hand, then
grimaced and pulled it back. "Take care, Lady O'Farland." Then, with something of a morbid smile, he added, "Don't lose your
head." A shudder ran through Charlotte, but she hid it and slammed the door, pulling closed the curtains.
"Charlotte! I've got the orange juice!" After a moment, she peered past the curtains to the dying garden. Isaac was gone.
"Coming, Grandpa."
The Conversing
She tried to cover her mouth with both hands, but giggles seeped out anyway. Isaac scowled.
"It's not at *all* amusing, Lady O'Farland--" Charlotte tried to regain composure.
"You're right. It's not--" As he tried to get to his feet, another book toppled off the shelves and onto Isaac's head. Charlotte
snorted with pent up laughter. He glared at her as he managed to gain his balance, rubbing his skull with slender fingers.
"It is *not* humorous, Lady O'Farland." She nodded, still hiding her snickers.
"I know, I know..." After a moment, Isaac allowed a small smile.
"Perhaps it is a bit funny." Charlotte grinned and sat down on the plush armchair.
"It was priceless." He winced, still massaging his head, but succeeded in keeping good spirits. Isaac sat down behind the desk
after receiving a nod of approval from the girl.
"And I am sorry for not having a strategy yet," he said, folding his hands in his lap. Charlotte thought for a moment, then sighed
lightly.
"I'm sorry too." Isaac looked up at her.
"For what?"
"For acting like that. You see, I'm still not completely sure what's going on, and everything's just all confused." She kept her
gaze down on the fallen books and skull so as not to look at Isaac. "And I'm not sure about this Headless Horseman thing
either. It's probably just a psycho, you know. A serial killer." She inspected the gold writing on the cover of a book called
Physics in Action while he spoke.
"How do you deduce that?"
"Well, for one, there aren't such things as ghosts." No reaction from Isaac. "And for another, men go crazy all the time. Postal
workers, teachers, doctors... They just snap and start committing murder." As the words came out, they made more and more
sense to Charlotte. "The murders are usually very precise and organized, with very specific details. I read one book where a
man killed ten people, following a nursery rhyme about Indians." Then it slid into place. "That's *it!*"
"What's it, Lady O'Farland?" Charlotte jumped up.
"Some nut finally decided that the legend of Sleepy Hollow should be made truth and just started lopping off heads!"
Silence.
She looked at Isaac, waiting for a response.
"Don't you think so?" He inhaled through his nose, then leaned forward on the desk with his elbows, his fingers entwined.
"No." The word was short and blunt, as if he'd made up his mind completely.
"What?"
"I said I do not think that's what is occurring here." Charlotte frowned.
"And why not, Mr. I-Fall-Into-A-Bookshelf-And-Become-All-Knowing?" Isaac seemed to be contemplating.
"It doesn't seem plausible." She snorted.
"What, books plunging down onto your head makes you a psychic?" He frowned slightly, creasing the skin of his brow.
"No. It just doesn't seem logical that a town of reasonably sane people could just suddenly produce a raving lunatic." She
smirked.
"And a Headless Horseman does?" Isaac's frown deepened and Charlotte backed off. "All right, then tell me more about the
story--what happened afterwards, I mean." After a moment's thought, he nodded.
"Very well. The morning after...the event, townspeople began wondering where Crane had gone off to. They searched high and
low, but found no trace of the schoolmaster--save the hoof prints of his horse and some smashed pumpkin."
"And that man? Bones, you said?"
"Ah, yes, Abraham Van Brunt. His nickname was Brom Bones, for his strength. He helped in the search, but, like the others,
found nothing. He married the Lady Van Tassel and lived a full, happy life." Isaac didn't seem to like the taste of the words in
his mouth. Charlotte mulled this over a little.
"Is there anything you can tell me about the Horseman?" He looked up at her, raising his eyebrows a bit.
"Nothing you would enjoy."
"Well, I really don't like any of this, but tell me anyway."
"Very well."
He sighed lightly, forehead furrowing in concentration.
"There are different tales, but what seems to be the foundation of truth on this being is that he was a Hessian cavalryman, sent
from Germany. This was during the Revolutionary War, so he had been employed by the English king to push back the
advancing Americans. He was as foul in life as he is in death, for though he was being compensated for his loathsome work, he
relished the kill. The Horseman was notorious for his attack--he wasted no time in driving his enemies through. No, he simply
lopped off the heads and went on.
His end came, nevertheless, and it is still disputed as to how this appalling mercenary was slain. There are variations,
as I've said before. Some say his head was knocked clean off by a cannon; others insist it was with an ax. However, the most
likely story says his horse was shot while riding towards a battle. The Horseman mourned the loss and tried to escape into the
woods, but American soldiers caught up with him eventually. They chopped his head off with his own sword, then laid him to
rest in a grave not far from Sleepy Hollow. But no, he would not stay *in* the ground. He wanders the forest outside the town,
claiming any head that comes near, for he will not rest in Hell where he belongs. His is an angry spirit. The Horseman, I fear,
will not surrender until the injustice that he feels has been committed is righted."
Charlotte stared at him.
"My, you're a regular story book, you know that?" Isaac let another small smile surface.
"I do what I can." She propped her chin on a hand, as Isaac was now doing.
"But if he wanders the grounds *outside* Sleepy Hollow, why is he now *in* Sleepy Hollow?" He sighed lightly.
"That, I'm afraid, is yet to be clarified." Charlotte frowned.
"There are a lot of things yet to be clarified," she muttered. Isaac sighed again.
"I know. However, Lady O'Farland, I will try to discover the answers to these persisting questions. I can only do that if you trust
me." Charlotte watched a cardinal that had landed outside on the patio.
"I'm not completely sure I can do that." There was a small thud, as if something had fallen.
"What?" She turned to look at Isaac, whose chin had slipped off his hand.
"It just doesn't seem...*plausible,*" she said, stressing the word he had used before. "Do you know how hard it is to believe that
an angry ghost is terrorizing my neighborhood? I can't do that. I can't." Isaac folded his hands in his lap, surveying them as if
they held the answer to his problems. When he spoke, his words were tense and tight.
"And why not?" Charlotte observed the tiny bird hop around on the cold, hard cement before flying away.
"Well, for one, there is no evidence that ghosts exist." No opinions from Isaac. She continued. "For another, there is evidence of
normal, flesh and blood *murder*. But if the Horseman shows up at my door, waving his sword and lacking a head, I'll believe
you. For now, I can't be absolutely sure." Isaac pulled himself from his chair, making his way towards the French doors.
Charlotte followed. He stared outside at the numb, gray world. Then, finally, he turned to her. His face was stony and cold.
"If you do not believe in the apparition, then you do not believe in me." She frowned slightly.
"I know, and I don't mean to be so cruel, but it's not scientifically possible--" Isaac snorted angrily.
"Did you listen at *all* to my story, Lady O'Farland? You are acting just as Ichabod Crane did! He thought that science and
reason could protect him!"
"Science and reason are a good, strong truth I can believe in--"
"*No!* Crane thought that science and reason could protect him, but in truth, they bound and gagged him! Do you not *see?*" Both
had their fists clenched.
"Crane was just a character in a fairy tale, Isaac! I see *just fine!*"
"No, you do not! Charlotte, I can only help you if I gain your trust! Do you trust me, Charlotte?" Isaac seized her hands in his
silver ones, enveloping them in a metallic chill. "*Do you trust me?*" The ice was spreading up her arms. Charlotte tried to pull
away, but his silver hands would not let go. "*Do you trust me?*"
"I trust you, I trust you!" Isaac seemed to sober. He let her hands drop.
"Good. Because, Lady O'Farland, I will aid you in any way possible. But if you do not trust me, I cannot help at all."
Charlotte looked down at the ground, a small scowl on her face while she rubbed her hands.
"Don't do that," she whispered.
"Do what?" Isaac muttered, glancing out the window.
"Grab me like that. Your hands are so cold." He frowned, tucking the offending hands in his pockets.
"I'm sorry." There was an uncomfortable period of silence before Charlotte opened her mouth to speak again. Then the garage
door sounded, signaling the return of her grandfather.
"Oh, God. Grandpa's home." She opened the door and turned to Isaac. "You have to go. He'll freak if he finds you here." When
he didn't move, she put her hands at the small of his back and pushed him out. "Go!" Isaac stumbled outside, then
straightened and gave her a nod.
"I see I must leave you now. I will attempt to talk with you later, Lady O'Farland." He reached out as if to shake her hand, then
grimaced and pulled it back. "Take care, Lady O'Farland." Then, with something of a morbid smile, he added, "Don't lose your
head." A shudder ran through Charlotte, but she hid it and slammed the door, pulling closed the curtains.
"Charlotte! I've got the orange juice!" After a moment, she peered past the curtains to the dying garden. Isaac was gone.
"Coming, Grandpa."