Author's Ledger: Hello my fair readers! I am proud to say that this is the next to last installment in Icabod's saga. I would like to inform you that this has been finished for quite some time, but my internet was down and I had to wait for my father to come home before it could be repaired. I thank all of my faithful readers and especially my reviewers, you have made this so much more enjoyable for me. As you are all undoubtedly anxious to find out what happens, I leave you to read. Good day.
Danbamina
Helen looked at her surroundings. She was in the Western Wood, but where exactly she had no idea. A small hut had been set into the side of a rock outcropping. She slowly got to her feet, her head felt strangely fuzzy. Leaves and twigs stuck to her velvet dress, she brushed them off as she further analyzed her situation. The gnarled branches of the barren trees gripped at her hair and clothes as she pushed her way to the clearing that the hut and rock outcropping were located in. She stumbled and let out a startled cry. But someone caught her around the waist.
"Careful, my love." Michael told her setting her on her feet again. Helen could smell whiskey more strongly on his breath and clothing now. She stepped around him cautiously and peered at the hut, it looked kind of cozy.
"What's in there?" She asked him pointing at the hut.
Michael laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, "Come on and I'll show you."
"Why can't you just tell me?" Helen paused and thought for a moment, "Or is it a surprise?"
Michael nodded and smiled sweetly down at her, "Yes, it is a surprise and we wouldn't want to ruin it, now would we?"
Helen shook her head and stepped from under his arm, the constant need he had for physical contact was starting to irk her. She wished Icabod was there, and then maybe Michael wouldn't be acting the way he was. Michael closed the distance and took her hand in his. Helen sighed and allowed him to hold it, why bother? He guided her gently towards the small hut, taking his sweet time about it.
Helen let her mind wander as Michael babbled about the surroundings and the beauty of the place. Helen's mind was at the house on the hill with Icabod, Liz and Masbeth. She wondered what they were doing at the moment. Were they out looking for her? She didn't know but she hoped they were.
"Here we are. Come on inside, Helen, my love." Michael pulled Helen into the dim, dirty interior of the "cozy" hut. Helen gagged as the smell of the place hit her full in the face. She could taste it, metallic and slimy, all in her mouth. She covered her nose and mouth quickly.
"Shouldn't you open a window or something?" She asked her voice more nasally than usual as she pinched it closed.
Michael nodded and opened a window, staring in a sloppily sweet way at Helen as he did so. Helen looked around as the mid-day light flooded into the house. The light spread over the muddy floor and into every corner except one. Helen peered curiously into that particular corner and noticed the reason for the stench that pervaded the air and what exactly it was, rotting flesh. Human heads sat piled neatly in the shadowy corner, staining the surrounding ground with blood, and inevitably causing the floor to be muddy. Helen struggled to keep her gag reflex under control as she headed swiftly for the door.
Michael barred her way; she covered her mouth, lowered her head and barreled into his soft stomach. Their combined weight sent the flimsy wood of the door crashing down. Helen recovered quickly and ran into the woods. The fresh air calmed her churning stomach enough to where she didn't feel the need to regurgitate any longer.
Helen leaned against a white-barked tree, the horror of what her latest discovery meant slowly sinking in. Michael had been the one to cause all the deaths. Helen looked hopelessly at the bright blue sky that seemed to mock her from above the twisted and gnarled branches of the woods. Helen cringed as she heard Michael blundering around in the woods nearby.
"Wherever you are, Icabod, come and find me. Please." Helen breathed as a few tears leaked reluctantly from her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, "I need you." Helen brushed at her cheeks and stepped from behind the tree and into Michael's line of sight, squaring her shoulders she went to him.
"There you are! You can't just go running into these woods. The Hessian could be lurking anywhere." Michael chuckled wickedly, "But you don't really have to worry do you? Not so long as you're with me."
Helen took his hand in hers. Repressing the shudder of disgust and looked up into his kind, clear blue eyes. They were clouded by the whiskey and his beautiful brown hair was mussed and had twigs and leaves stuck in it, "You shouldn't go about like that….dear. Let's go back to the clearing and stay away from the hut and I'll clean you up. How about that?"
Michael smiled warmly at her and kissed her on the mouth for a long moment, "Of course, my love, my darling, my Helen." Michael led her away through the trees and Helen concentrated on the image of Icabod riding to her rescue with Masbeth in tow. She could only hope, but she didn't dare to. It could easily all be naught but ash.
***
Icabod quickly saddled Gunpowder, Admiral's reins dangling from his hand as he did so. He was glad that the old draft horse was cooperating with him. Perhaps the animal sensed the urgency and tension that pervaded the air. Icabod didn't know and didn't really care; he got into the saddle and looked over at Masbeth who was just mounting Ghost. Masbeth looked over and nodded tersely. Icabod returned the gesture and brought Admiral's large head close to his own face.
"Listen to me, Admiral, Helen is somewhere in the Western Wood. We need to find her and quickly. Can you do that?" Icabod wasn't sure if the horse actually understood but Admiral made a bobbing motion that was as close to nodding as a horse could get and Icabod looped the reins over the black horse's head, tying them to the top of the bridle so he wouldn't trip, "Then go and find her."
Without another word Admiral cantered off, Icabod and Masbeth spurred their horses after Admiral. The large stallion kept to an easy pace until he reached the Western Wood, where he froze. Icabod and Masbeth pulled their horses to a stop and looked at each other worriedly, was it really a good idea to let a horse find a missing girl? Admiral flicked his ears this way and that, Icabod noted that the horse seemed to be trying to catch the wind in his nostrils. Suddenly, Admiral snorted and galloped off into the woods. Masbeth was the first to react and was in a second behind Admiral, Icabod right after.
Icabod ducked under branches that reached out to try and unseat him from Gunpowder's broad back with greedy, scratching fingers. Ghost's hindquarters rose and fell in front of Gunpowder's nose quickly as the trio raced at break-neck speeds along a winding path. Icabod stopped trying to pay attention to his surroundings and focused on Ghost's chestnut rump. He could hear Admiral's great, thundering stride just ahead of Ghost's lighter strides and Gunpowder's own loudly thudding strides. The combination of these sights and sounds put him into a sort of trance as they wound their way farther and farther into the Western Wood.
Icabod was almost thrown from Gunpowder as the horse balked to an abrupt stop behind Ghost and Admiral in a clearing. Hurriedly straightening himself, Icabod glanced at Masbeth. Masbeth raised a finger to his lips slowly and pointed at the white horse picketed on the far side of the clear, grazing calmly, still fully tacked.
"Is that Michael's horse?" Icabod whispered, not one for remember horses and owners.
Masbeth shrugged, "Who else owns a white horse in Sleepy Hollow, sir?"
"I don't know of anyone else. So then it would be safe to assume that it is, in fact, the doctor's horse." Icabod stood up in his stirrups and peered into the surrounding woods curiously, "He must be nearby."
Masbeth nodded and put a finger to his lips again, "Shhh. He'll hear you."
Icabod sat down in his saddle and tightened his reins and looked at Admiral, "I wonder why Admiral stopped running. Helen isn't here." He mused aloud.
"Shhh! I'm sorry, sir, but you have to be quiet or you could ruin the element of surprise." Masbeth cautioned sternly.
Icabod decided against saying 'sorry' and stared at Admiral in quiet. It wasn't long before a man appeared on the edge of the trees on the other side of the horse and thus remaining completely oblivious to the people and horses across from him. Icabod looked anxiously at Masbeth, and then squinted at the man. It was Michael Roberts, digging through his saddle bags in a hurried fashion. Icabod's eyes widened as the doctor pulled a human skull from the bags and rubbed a handkerchief over the cranium, carefully polishing it.
"Helen will be impressed by this, my dear Hessian." Michael told the skull in a loud whisper that carried clearly to Icabod and Masbeth.
Admiral whinnied loudly and charged forward towards the doctor before Icabod could do anything about it. Masbeth cursed and kicked Ghost into a run, but the tired animal wasn't able to catch up with Admiral. Icabod dug his heels cruelly into Gunpowder's sides and felt the stocky horse leap into a full gallop beneath him. Icabod bent close to the horse's surging neck and urged the Gunpowder to greater speeds. Icabod was gaining ground; he could hear Admiral crashing through the thick brush and tree limbs. HE caught sight of Michael running clumsily through the trees ahead with Admiral close behind. If it weren't for the impeding underbrush, the stallion would've trampled Michael by now.
Icabod yelled at Gunpowder and the horse went a little faster, drawing up behind Admiral. Quite suddenly, they were in another clearing, this one smaller than the first with a little hut set into the side of a rock outcropping. Michael was darting into the hut and Admiral was racing for the dwelling. Icabod pulled Gunpowder to a stop just outside of the trees and watched in horror as Admiral reared up and pounded his hooves against the door, screaming as only a stallion can.
Icabod dismounted and looked Gunpowder sternly in the eyes, "You stand here. And don't you move." He instructed firmly and left the old horse to stand sedately in the designated spot. He approached Admiral slowly, with one hand outstretched. Icabod dodged under the flailing hooves and grabbed Admiral's head, pushing the horse from the door, "Easy, boy. Whoa…" Icabod soothed the irate horse gently, stroking the muscular shoulder as he pushed the horse farther from the barely intact door, "Now you stand here." Icabod stated firmly before returning to the door.
Masbeth trotted up on his tired horse and dismounted quickly, coming to Icabod's side, "What are we going to do now that he's in there?" Masbeth asked in a barely audible whisper.
"Go in and get Helen. Admiral nearly broke this door down for us." Icabod replied, at that moment the door decided to fall inwards. Icabod gasped, leaned to the left and vomited as the smell of rotting flesh hit him full in the face. He stood up to see Masbeth do likewise.
"You sure we don't want them to come out here, sir?" Masbeth asked in a strained voice between coughs.
Icabod nodded and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, "I'm sure. Come on." Icabod went bravely into the interior of the little hut. Something told him that something sharp was being flung at his neck; he ducked and punched out with his right fist. Icabod felt something soft give way beneath the pressure of his fist. A grunt of pain and a triumphant shout from Masbeth told Icabod they'd both hit the same thing.
A light flickered to life somewhere and Icabod noted Helen shakily holding a small, tallow candle and staring, wide-eyed at Icabod and Masbeth. Icabod looked down to see Michael curled up on the floor, massaging his stomach and jaw. He stood up and went over to Helen.
"Helen, thank God you're all right." He breathed out; taking in the terrified look on her face, "Well, mostly." He added, shrugging.
Helen shook her head, "No. I'm not."
"Why's that?" Masbeth asked, knotting a bit of string around Michael's wrists.
"He's coming." Helen whispered shifting her gaze between Icabod and Masbeth, "He's coming for you two. You have to leave, now, get as far away from here as you can!" Helen set the candle down on the window sill and pushed at Icabod's chest, "Go on! He's coming for you!" She cried as Icabod took an involuntary step backwards.
"Who's coming?" Icabod asked, confused, "Helen, it is over. Don't you understand? We caught him. No more Hessian prowling about."
"The Hessian is coming! He's coming for you. You need to run. Now!" Helen shouted hysterically, pushing harder against Icabod and causing him to take another step backwards.
Icabod reached up and gripped her wrists firmly in his hands and shook her roughly, "Stop it Helen! There is no more Hessian! We stopped Michael from controlling him any longer." Icabod tried to reason with her.
Helen shook her head, "That's what you think. But Michael did call him. Sent him after you two." She whispered, looking at her hands soberly. Icabod felt his eyes widen in a sort of frozen terror.
"Where is the skull?" Masbeth asked as Icabod stood frozen, staring at nothing, "Helen, where is the skull?"
"What skull?" Helen asked, looking over Icabod's shoulder at Masbeth.
"The Hessian's head. Where is it?" Masbeth repeated slower.
"Somewhere in here. I didn't see where he put it in the dark." Helen said.
Icabod wrested himself from his frozen state and whipped around to face Masbeth, "We have to find it." He nearly shouted, "Now!" Icabod ran into a corner and dug through the various items there furiously. No skull. He leaped for another corner and rifled through the bits and pieces of clothing that resided there. No skull.
"Gross!" Masbeth exclaimed disgustedly, stepping away from the third corner with at the skull in his hands, it was absolutely covered in blood. Icabod could see why, it had been buried in a pile of heads.
"At least you got it." Icabod intoned, fighting the urge to faint as Masbeth wiped the skull on his coat.
Helen shook her head in dismay, "What good is that going to do? He's still going to chop your heads off." She stated dismally.
Icabod sighed and took the skull from Masbeth, "This is the reason why he chops heads off, Helen. When he gets it back, he has no more reason to be in this world." Icabod started to explain.
"So, when he gets it back on his head, he goes back to his grave." Masbeth finished for Icabod, "Isn't that right, sir?"
Icabod nodded and tucked the skull securely under his arm, "Correct, Masbeth. Shall we go wait for him, then?" Masbeth and Helen nodded and they all three left the hut, dragging Michael behind them.
Helen looked over her shoulder at the sour-faced Michael and asked, "Why are we bringing him?"
Icabod shrugged, "Perhaps the Hessian would care for some company."
Masbeth chuckled darkly, pulling Michael over a large bump in the ground roughly, "Like last time, eh, sir?"
"Well, to a degree. At least, that's what I'm hoping for. Criminals are so hard to deal with in this world. And I'm sure the Hessian has his own forms of punishment for grave robbery." Icabod replied, a feeling of guilt building in his stomach. He realized that his current actions weren't really meshing with his true self, but what he said was true. If it happened that way, then it couldn't really be helped.
Helen looked at Icabod, "What do you mean by that?"
"Last time, the Hessian took the person who stole his head back with him to the grave." Masbeth informed Helen calmly, "She got what she deserved, really. She's the one who cursed him to begin with."
Icabod stopped walking and looked at Helen, concerned about her. She was staring, wide-eyed with terror at Icabod and Masbeth, her hand over her mouth and appeared to be breathing unnecessarily hard. Icabod walked over to her and placed a hand gently on her shoulder "Are you alright, Helen?"
Helen shook her head and stepped away from Icabod, looking down at Michael, "You can't blame him. He's not right in the head when he's been drinking." She whispered.
Icabod stared, dumb-struck at her for a moment and blurted "Are you being serious? Helen! He's been having people murdered just so he could have you as his own. Do you really feel sympathy for him?"
Helen nodded, "Just because he had people killed doesn't mean he has to be, Icabod. Is that justice? What if he was your mother and had been doing the same thing to get your father? Would you have had her killed too?"
Icabod felt as if she'd punched him in the stomach, he was silent, the memories of his own mother's horrible death playing through his mind. He shuddered and looked involuntarily down at his palms, the evenly spaced indentations seemed to stand out more now than ever. It wasn't fear or regret or any other emotion that he was experiencing, more of a restlessness, a heightened sense of his surroundings. The sound of the horses pounding their hooves and snorting impatiently, the wind in the trees, the feel of his clothes rubbing against his back, the way the woods brightened momentarily when the sun peeked from behind a cloud, and the smell of the damp earth underneath his boots all seemed so much more significant and clear to him at that moment than they really were. He stared at Michael lying on the ground with Masbeth's hand firmly hooked under his shirt collar and his legs splayed out before him. Icabod looked up at Helen and shook his head slightly.
"No. I wouldn't have." He breathed out. Helen nodded and brushed past him to go stand next to Admiral.
"Sir?" Masbeth asked tentatively, touching Icabod's shoulder with his finger tips, "I think it's time to go."
Icabod bent down and removed the string from his wrists, "If you can get away, get away. Hurry up now. I won't follow you." He instructed before standing up and wrapping the string around his fingers and heading for Gunpowder, "Come along, Masbeth. We've done all we can."
"But, sir…you're the Constable. You're supposed to uphold the law, take him to trial, have him sentenced and all that." Masbeth stated quickly, "Not let him go."
"I know that, Masbeth. He won't get far if the Hessian doesn't want him too." Icabod said coolly as he swung up onto Gunpowder and gathered his reins.
Masbeth reluctantly let go of Michael's shirt collar and got on Ghost, Helen rode up on Admiral to stand next to the two men. They stood still, watching Michael slowly get to his feet, completely unaware of the Headless Horseman standing behind him. Icabod glanced sideways at Helen who was biting her nails nervously as they watched the Hessian pass by Michael and come towards them. Icabod gulped and readjusted the skull in his grip. The edges of his vision were turning fuzzy and black, Icabod's head felt as if it was full of helium. He was viewing the scene from above, the Hessian standing before him, Masbeth and Helen. Waiting.
"Icabod…." Helen hissed, gripping his shoulder painfully. The momentary pain brought Icabod crashing back to his body.
Icabod looked at the skull in his hands for a moment, considering what he should do. It was awfully tempting to keep it, and use it for his own purposes. He looked up at the Horseman, waiting so patiently for his skull back or to kill Icabod. Icabod sighed and held the skull out to the Horseman.
Icabod opened his mouth to speak, but he stuttered, so he closed his mouth and took a deep breath. Icabod started to speak again, this time his voice was steady and decided, "I believe this belongs to you, Horseman." The Horseman swiped the skull from Icabod's hands and placed it on his shoulders.
Icabod watched with a sort of morbid fascination as the muscles, veins, and flesh of the head grew quickly back onto the skull. The Horseman glared at the trio with his piercing blue eyes, he hissed, baring his pointed teeth and then swung his sword around, coming close to Icabod's own head, before galloping off. A few moments later there came a terrified shout that was cut off mid-way, an evil cackle and then nothing but fading hoof beats. Icabod's weak constitution decided that it was time to give out and Icabod fainted, falling sideways off of Gunpowder.
Masbeth and Helen stared at Icabod's crumpled body lying motionless on the ground for a moment. Masbeth heaved a large sigh, swung off of Ghost and picked up Icabod's limp form. He slung Icabod in front of his own saddle and got up behind him. Helen picked up Gunpowder's reins in her left hand and trotted off.
Masbeth readjusted his arms around Icabod and gathered his reins more firmly in his hands, "Curse you and your overly sensitive nerves." He muttered, nudging Ghost forward and following Helen in the direction that they had come.
***
Author's Ledger: THIS IS NOT THE END! There is another chapter! I wanted to end it here, but I decided that some more closure (sp?) was needed for my readers, regard Icabod and Helen and what-not. Do my readers fully understand how much they mean to me now??? *chuckles* It's not just the self-esteem anymore, it's more like I feel as if I know you in some strange way....ah well, that was slightly creepy. Before I weird any more of you out, I'll go.
Your Obediant Author,
Danbamina