Title: Longing and Memory
Author: occhi bella
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (movie)
Character/Pairing: Ichabod Crane
Rating: T
Prompt/Claim: sane/insane, fifth part of a multi-part story
Word Count: 1490
Warning/Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me.
In July New York ceased to be a colony and became the State of New York, having ratified the new constitution. By the time summer ended, Ichabod was settled in his new life in the city. The work he did was menial and mundane, but he was surrounded by books and Mr. Crawford was a decent enough boss. He even earned enough to set aside some pocket money.
Shy for all of his life and much more inclined to remain buried in his books and studies than in socializing, Ichabod hadn't acquired very much skill in making friends with peers. In a city filled with an overwhelming number of residents, it was easy for him to remain obscure. It also made him very lonely.
But Mrs. Thacher behaved in a somewhat motherly way toward him. She'd made every effort to make his room as comfortable as possible when he first moved in. It was a large room with a high vaulted ceiling, a bed, an armoire and a desk. One wall was fitted with several rows of shelves. The servants provided him with linens, towels and fresh water daily. A lot of light entered the room through the large round window overlooking Maiden Lane. Although he understood the payments he made to be for living quarters only when he moved in, the old widow made sure that he was at least fed breakfast and dinner daily. He usually skipped lunch, often using his money to buy a book instead. On many occasions Mrs. Thacher invited him to eat with her. He would listen attentively as she told him stories about her life in Europe as a little girl, her journey to America with her husband and about their life here before, during and after the Revolution.
After his encounter with the dissected corpse during the riot and thinking back on the hysterics of the crowd over it, his interest in the subjects of medicine, chemistry and anatomy became fired up again. The strides that could be made in medicine and surgery from the study of the human body, including corpses, were infinite. Soon they would be able to cure all manner of ills and diseases of the body, improving the quality of life and perhaps prolonging it significantly.
In addition, he had begun to read accounts of unexplained, sudden deaths in Europe where physicians were employed to work with the constabulary, examining the bodies of the deceased in an effort to determine whether they were in reality victims of a murder. Internal organs were studied for signs of damage by poisons. Powders and other substances of alchemy were mixed with samples of blood taken from the victim, the reactions studied to determine the presence of foreign substances. Ichabod was fascinated, especially after reading so many treatises on justice, crime and punishment. If one could determine the nature of a crime and the identity of the perpetrator with accuracy, even after a victim was deceased and unable to speak up, truly guilty men wouldn't be allowed to go free and innocent men would no longer be mistakenly condemned. It would be an amazing breakthrough in the system of justice and criminology, and there would no longer be any excuse to employ torture.
When he managed to save up enough money, he began to turn his room into a small laboratory. He started to experiment with chemicals, following guidelines in the many books that he read, learning through practice the methods that were discussed. Poring over anatomy books and taking notes, he committed to memory the names of every organ in the human body, every muscle group and learned how each of the systems of the body worked.
Until now his only ambition had been to leave home. For the first time, he began to consider a choice of profession.
oooOooo
"I shall have to speak with Mr. Crawford," Mrs. Thacher announced one Sunday as they ate dinner. "You are far too intelligent and capable. Your talent is being wasted on such menial tasks."
She had asked him about his job a few minutes before and he'd answered her very generally, not wishing to discuss the trite and mundane details of his job. After much prodding from her, he finally gave her a few more specifics about it.
"That's not necessary. But I thank you very much," Ichabod answered quickly. He knew she meant well, but he didn't wish to stir up trouble. Mr. Crawford might resent her meddling and take it out on him. That very thing had occurred when someone in town made a suggestion to his father one day.
"Are you planning to go to college then?"
Ichabod's brow furrowed in thought. Given the profession that he was now pondering, college would be a necessity.
"I should like to, very much. But college is expensive. I will have to see how much money I can put aside in the next few years."
"What about your parents…?" she began.
He shook his head. "We were never wealthy and I have not seen my father. If I attend college, it will have to be with whatever I earn myself."
Fortunately she didn't press further about his father. But her next question made him gulp involuntarily. "And your mother?"
"She died when I was seven," he answered tightly.
"Oh, I'm very sorry, Young Mr. Crane. You have not had it easy."
Her voice was kind and tender, and his throat began to constrict. He swallowed hard, forcing back the lump that was beginning to form.
Perhaps she noticed that he was becoming upset, for she changed the subject smoothly without prying any further.
oooOooo
Elizabeth Crane often visited Ichabod in bittersweet dreams, leaving him with the impression of images and times they had spent together. He couldn't remember them upon waking, but they left him feeling warm inside yet filled with longing and a melancholy ache in his heart. She'd been taken from him far too soon and he couldn't remember how or why.
His mother had been a very beautiful woman. Memories of her warm, serene brown eyes stayed with him, and he recalled her long, straight brown hair, which she always wore loose. Other women of the town swept their locks back into a tight bun, often covering their hair under bonnets. Although he couldn't truly remember many specifics of those times spent with Lady Crane he remembered that they had fun, that he felt safe and loved. He recalled the way she looked at him and how her touch felt, tender, comforting and full of love.
How was it possible for a son to have no recollection of how he'd lost his own mother? He was at a loss to explain that; after all, he was already seven years old when it happened and he felt certain that he ought to have some memory of it.
Even the funeral was a blur and his mind seemed to have retained only mere fragments. The sight of his father and the other elders dressed in black, looking somber and severe. Grey skies and a light drizzle. Sometimes he would close his eyes and try to conjure up other images from those days, but darkness seemed to blanket that time of his life. He had a memory of waking up in his bed to find those men standing over him, whispering. When he tried to speak, to ask them what was happening, his mouth felt like cotton and he couldn't utter a sound.
He fainted. It's not surprising. He's just lost his mother so suddenly.
But he's been unconscious for so long.
He's asleep now.
Will he be alright? Such a strange delirium is upon him. And yet he has no fever. Is this more witchcraft?
They didn't notice that he'd opened his eyes and continued to whisper agitatedly about him. He couldn't remember anything else. Perhaps he'd fallen back to sleep.
Living alone with only his father in the years after that, the house became so cold, with a gloomy and almost lifeless air. Reverend Crane barely spoke to him and their home was almost always as silent as a tomb, except for the times when blows rained down on his back because he'd inadvertently said or done something that infuriated his father, often with no warning at all. He never knew what he might say that would set him off.
But thoughts of those days with Reverend Crane only made him angry now. His purpose in coming to New York was to create a new life for himself, away from the abuse and restraints of his father, and from the narrow-mindedness of the entire town. Determined, he pushed aside those bad memories with an effort, resolved to never think of them further, and continued to occupy himself with his job and his self-education.
His life would have a purpose and somehow he would make a difference in the world.