CHAPTER 27

SCARIFCE FOR LOVE

Christmas day arrived before I knew it, and I awoke to the light tolling of bells from the Church across the way. A light snow had fallen like silk over the town, and from my window, I could see the town gathered outside the vast door of the Church, waiting to be seated for the Holy Mass. I noticed Mrs. Tate hunched over, wrapped in a raggedy shawl near the back of the crowd, and John standing awkwardly as all the young girls, donned in their finest ribbons, introduced themselves and wished him a happy holiday. He was polite of course, but remained distant from their charm. I recognized Katrina, in velvet green, near the front of the assembly, chatting and laughing aimlessly among other women.

Ichabod wasn't among the joyful crowd, nor would he be, and neither would I. He didn't attend services because of the demanding ways of his murderous father. He had abandoned his faith as a small boy, only at the minimal age of seven. The death of his mother had caused the death of his faith as well. I had never harbored faith. Not having the loving arms of a mother, or those of a father, I simply had neither reason nor incentive to believe in a greater power. To me, the world was a brutal and harsh place, and life was only the state before death – I knew no different.

A light drumming at the door interrupted the caroling bells and I jumped slightly.

"Melanie," Ichabod whispered when I opened the door. I wanted to leap into his arms and tell him how much I hated it here, how much I wanted to return to his home – my home. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him, above everything else. But I didn't.

"Good Morning, Constable." I opened the door and invited him in. He looked around the room, revulsion hinting in his eyes, but it quickly vanished when he brought his mind back to what he had come for.

"Melanie, I forgot to give you something when you left," Ichabod reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a cloth bundle. When he placed it in my hands, I felt the heavy weight of the coins as they settled into my palm.

"I don't take charity," I said crossly and attempted to hand the bundle back to him, but he refused to take it.

"It isn't charity."

"What is it then?"

"Please, Melanie, just take it and don't ask questions. "

I placed the heavy bundle in the front pocket of my apron and Ichabod grinned with satisfaction. "How are you fairing here?" he asked awkwardly.

I looked around and laughed. "I'm doing well, I suppose." I transferred my gaze to Ichabod. How I longed for his arms to hold me tight and his light kisses to sprinkle the crown of my head. I stared into his face. Dark bags hung from his bloodshot eyes, and his cheeks were pasted a deathly white. "You haven't been sleeping again, have you?" Ichabod opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it again. "I know you, Ichabod," I reminded him. "Just as you know me and the fact that I hate it here."

"What am I suppose to do?" his voice trembled and he clutched his fists. "I've done everything."

"Figure it out yourself, Constable." I tried my best to be assertive, but I sounded more like a whimpering dog then anything else. "You know, you're not the only one not sleeping."

"I have to leave," he said walking over to the door. "I have nothing more to say."

"Yes you do," I said. "You just didn't come here to give me the money. You're hiding something, Ichabod. I can see it in your eyes. What did you want to tell me?"

"Three words," he whispered and slammed the door behind him.

I stood like I had been shot, the life draining from my eyes. I was paralyzed, it seemed. Ichabod had come back to me. He came back to tell me three words, and I had been absolutely awful, practically driving him out of my room. My hand drifted to the bundle in my pocket and I timidly unfolded it on my bed. Hundreds of gold pieces emerged from the crevasses of the cloth and my hand brushed gently over them, afraid to touch them, like if I did, they would vanish into thin air. Sitting in front of me was more money than I had ever seen in my life and Ichabod had given it all to me. But why? Did me pity me? I knew he knew that I had not one dime to my name, but such a gift was unheard of. I had enough money, here in front of me, to pay my monthy rent for twenty years and still have more left over than I knew what do with. No longer would I stare through shop windows at dazzling, expensive gowns longing for something I could never have, or at the women who would wear such gowns with envy. I could afford any luxury I desired, and yet, I knew I still wouldn't be happy. There was one luxury, a priceless luxury, this money couldn't buy – and that luxury was love.

I wrapped up the coins again, and tucked them in my trunk. As I did, I noticed Ichabod's ledger resting on top of my heap of belongs, and it seemed to be calling my name to open its leather bindings and consume every word that flowed across it's pages.

And so it was I continued to read the ledger, engrossed, it seemed, by the by the sheer evilness that was concealed within those pages. Not only that, but through the eyes of a man with neither faith nor belief in the supernatural, and whose mind was so contradicted by the spirit world. My heart went out to Constable Ichabod Crane, that day, in empathy. For the man's life was shattered into a thousand tiny glass pieces, and though they were restored, he could still break again, just as easily, with the slightest breeze.

When I turned the page, I gasped sharply at what I saw. Ichabod had drawn a sketch of the tree. It was that surreal tree he feared so, and now I knew why. It was simply called The Tree of the Dead, and it was the Horseman's resting place, the gateway between two worlds, the gateway to Hell.

From this ledger, I knew everything about the sources of evil that possessed this little town. I knew that the Horseman's sword marks his grave, and if the skull is removed, then he would avenge the keeper of his skull, severing heads until his own is returned to him.

Suddenly, as I closed the leather cover of the book, I was hit with a revaluation. It was something brilliant and luminous, something that surged through my veins stronger and faster than any flame of passion. I knew my life would seize to exist without Ichabod. I knew better than anything else that we were meant to be together; dependent on each other like a flower's life is dependent on the sun. But in order for us to be together, to share the passion that yearns so deeply in both of us, someone's life would have to be sacrificed. And that someone would be Katrina.