Chapter Text
Sleepy Hollow, 1799
For the first time in years, he dreamt of his mother.
It was an old dream, a dream of a childhood memory marred by pain, misery, and sorrow. He glimpsed her sitting by the fireplace, her long brown hair flowing in the firelight as if it were a halo, her head swaying like a leaf in the autumn breeze. She held a thin stick in her hand, drawing strange circles in the ashes of the roaring fireplace.
“This will keep you safe, my son,” she’d say in her dulcet voice. “It will protect you from all who seek to harm you.”
In his dream, Ben would gaze upon his mother’s graceful movements, the markings on the ash a mere ambiguous vision, too complex to register in the mind of the then seven-year-old boy, the realization of his mother’s occupation floating just beyond his reach.
“You will be safe, Ben,” her voice echoed, as if she were somewhere in the distance instead of right in front of him.
“Will I?” the young boy asked, apprehension coating his voice.
“Yes,” his mother promised, “I will protect you for as long as I can, my son.” Her voice grew dim, like a fading light threatened to be consumed by darkness. “And when I can no longer protect you, someone else will come and help you.”
His young eyes welled with tears, the thought of loss unbearable. “Nobody can help me,” he sniffed.
“That is not true,” his mother said, hopeful even in his dreams. “I have dreamt it. As have you.”
Uttering those fateful words, she turned away from the fire, looking at him over her shoulder, her eyes filled with kindness as her presence vanished, until there was nothing left but an empty and dark void.
“She will help you, my son,” the voice echoed in the darkness. “You are meant to help her. And she is meant to help you.”
~*~
Benjamin Solo should have known the dreams would start again, just as he grew close to completing the arduous journey from the city of New York, to the isolated hamlet known as Sleepy Hollow.
He came to life with a gasp, as if fearing this old dream would suffocate him by wrapping its gnarly tendrils around his neck, the pale expanse of skin just barely exposed by his dark shirt and pristine white cravat. The confines of his carriage only contributed to the suffocating atmosphere which seemed to reign supreme in this part of the world.
Ben chanced a glance outside his window, the falling golden leaves a mere distraction in comparison to the sight that stretched before him. The tree was unmistakably ancient, having sprung from the earth centuries before Ben’s time, a gnarled monstrosity that had lost almost all its branches and leaves until it resembled a nefarious trident.
The Devil’s own instrument in the flesh. If Ben were a religious man, he would have crossed himself then and there.
All too soon, the tree fell away from view, and the forest made way for the houses which dotted the autumnal landscape, wood and stone structures of varying heights and sizes. The houses were Dutch and English in style, some relatively new, yet others miraculously still standing after the triumphant end of a war marked by sacrifice.
A war that had claimed almost all his kin.
The carriage stopped in front of an imposing country manor, the largest in this old and venerable settlement. To the untrained eye, the stone walls and steep roof did nothing to distinguish the large house from its neighbors in style, but in Ben’s estimation, there was something in the air that set this building apart from its neighbors.
An ancient oak tree rose to the left of the entrance, an old thing that seemed to have prematurely lost its leaves. Under normal circumstances, without the pressure of an impending investigation into a string of horrific murders, the old tree would have contributed to the manor’s stately appearance. Yet now, the fading sunlight and the bare and gnarly branches gave the manor an eerie appearance.
As Ben opened the carriage door, a cold gust of wind slapped him in the face, and a strange unsettled feeling took root deep in his chest, as if the oaken branches had sprung from their resting place and threatened to devour him whole. The oak was a miniature version of the trident-shaped tree which had greeted him in the forest, yet nonetheless, it unsettled him as much as its older and larger sibling.
Abandoning the safety of his carriage, Ben looked up to catch a better glimpse of the house, all stone and large windows, with old grey shutters that looked as if they had survived an eternity of rain and hail.
While the manor’s exterior looked grim and lifeless, the inside was beaming with life, if the candlelight blazing from behind the thick glass windows served as any indication. Ben vaguely registered the sound of chatter, infused by the unmistakable notes of a few violins, in what seemed like a lively performance of a country jig. It was as if Sleepy Hollow had forgotten the string of beheadings which had been plaguing them for weeks, culminating with the ghastly murder of the esteemed van Hux family just earlier this week, as September made way for the month of October.
“It seems I have arrived at an inconvenient moment,” Ben said to the driver, who, in the absence of a servant to greet them, unloaded the worn travelling trunk strapped to the back of the carriage, grumbling at the inconvenience.
The burly man deposited the trunk on the ground and, on impact, mud splattered across Ben’s face.
“Quite so,” Ben remarked, using his sleeve to wipe off the offending spots in absence of a handkerchief.
If the driver seemed troubled by his rude gesture, he showed no indication, his posture as straight as a rod, his arms crossed in full expectation of the generous payment Ben had promised.
Reaching inside one of his coat pockets, Ben obliged the man, producing a small leather pouch filled almost to the brim with coins. He handed the money over to the driver, who grumbled a thank you before quickly departing, urging the horses on with firm resolve. He drove as if fearing the wrath of the mysterious figure responsible for the gruesome murders, unspeakable crimes which had been haunting Sleepy Hollow for several weeks.
Soon enough, Ben was left alone at the entrance, his trunk almost swimming in muck and grime, with no servant or master in sight to welcome him. Indeed, he remarked as he stared at the large well-lit windows, contemplating the celebrations he could glimpse from within, his arrival was not wholly unexpected.
The local magistrate, Orson Van Krennic, had written to ask for the authorities in New York to send a constable to aid in in the investigation. The event took place only a few days before Van Krennic’s untimely demise, beheaded by a mysterious figure that villagers dubbed as the Headless Horseman, a stout figure wearing a Hessian uniform, sitting atop a black steed that knew no rest. The letter had also been signed by Lor van Tekka, one of the prosperous elders in the community, who had graciously volunteered to provide the police constable with the necessary lodgings and tools to aid in his investigation.
Van Krennic’s missive had gone unanswered for weeks by the New York authorities, people who held much more power and influence than a novice inspector such as Ben Solo could ever dream to possess. These powerful men were all convinced the so-called Headless Horseman was a hoax, a trick concocted by the British to meddle with America’s hard-won independence. It was only the van Hux murder that spurred them on at last, the loss of a well-known and influential family beyond the confines of Sleepy Hollow, arising suspicions of a conspiracy. The supernatural element detailed in Van Krennic’s letter remained, still, in the realm of disbelief.
As Ben looked up to witness the approaching darkness, the final sunrays retreating as if in fear of a foreboding omen, he wondered if the deceased magistrate’s words held a glimmer of truth. The locals currently partaking in the merriment of the van Tekka household, however, seemed unaffected by the recent events, and Ben could not imagine them organizing such a festivity to honor his arrival.
Taking in his dismal surroundings for one final moment, Ben climbed the wide stone steps leading up to the entrance. For a few seconds, he regarded the wide door before finally making his arrival known, his knuckles meeting the wood in a firm knock. He knocked six times, yet, despite his efforts, no reply came.
The turn of events did not surprise Ben in the least. He surmised that the servants were busy looking after the guests, and that the loud country jig made it impossible for anyone else to hear his desperate knocks. The cold wind grew in intensity, causing the branches of the large oak tree to sway menacingly close to one of the windows, though even that perilous movement had no effect upon the manor’s guests and owners.
Drawing up his collar, a bold thought crossed Ben’s mind and, before he could think better or it, his gloved hand gripped the door’s handle and pushed it down. The door mercifully opened, creaking ever so slightly, though even that small noise did not alert the occupants of an intruder.
Ben entered the house then, taking in the large hallway and staircase which seemed to dominate the room. Next, he observed the old stone walls decorated with a variety of paintings, a few common hunting scenes and some smaller portraits of men and women he immediately identified as ancestors of Lor van Tekka, simply based on the appearance of their clothing. To Ben’s left, there were a few doors, all closed, likely leading to the kitchens or some private family parlors. To his right, however, stood a large open doorway, and Ben could glimpse a few men and women engaged in a country dance at the back of what looked like a large drawing room, couples who appeared far too busy to pay mind to any new arrival.
However, what interested Ben most was the view located close to the front of the room. The whimsical sight seemed at odds with the tumult outside the manor, as well as the monotonous dance at the back of the room.
The view left him breathless with anticipation.
~*~
The young lady wore a pale-yellow gown, the bodice embroidered with green vines that wrapped around her thin waist like a serpent. Her long hair was tied neatly at the back, brown curls cascading over her shoulders and down to her elbows. She was blindfolded, the thin scarf matching the color of her dress, and her slender arms reached out as she tried to catch one of the young men standing nearby.
Ben gazed at her delicate movements, enraptured by this vision of spring, so unusual and unexpected in these dismal and foreboding surroundings.
“If you let me catch you,” the lady proclaimed with a saucy smile, “I will give you a kiss.”
As soon as she made her announcement, the men tripped over their feet to get to her, shoving and stepping on each other’s toes.
“You are all too eager,” she laughed, the sound a dulcet melody to Ben’s ears. “Perhaps I will reconsider my offer.”
Ben’s feet moved towards her before he could think, taking long strides as if he feared to lose her from his sight. The reaction stunned him, so new and illogical to his rational mind that he had no knowledge how to decipher or control it.
The lady latched onto his arms, her fingers digging into his biceps.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, a new and delighted smile etched on her half-covered face. “Who is this?”
Her hands wandered upwards, dangerously close to his collar and the exposed skin just above his cravat.
“You’re wearing a greatcoat, so you must have just arrived,” she mused, her lips slightly parted as if she were uncovering an intriguing riddle. “Did you arrive for my sake?”
Soon enough, her fingers journeyed upwards, resting on his jawline, tracing it ever so gently. Ben gulped, her touch sending warm tendrils coursing through his body, like the sun’s rays during the most enchanting of spring days. She inched closer, and he could smell her scent then, a tantalizing mix of lavender and bracken, a wood nymph sprung from the nearest river, waiting for him to worship at her altar.
“Who are you?” she murmured as her fingers stroked his cheeks, so close to touching his lips, parted as they were to exhale the shakiest of breaths.
She bit her lower lip, a sign of evident concentration. “Do not tell me,” she continued. “Or you will ruin all the fun.”
As she traced his aquiline nose, Ben’s eyes darted across the room, observing how the couples ended their joyful country dance, visibly interested in the curious sight that lay before them. The musicians steadily ceased playing their violins. A group of elders sitting in one of the corners of the room stopped their conversation, squinting as they watched the scene unfold. Meanwhile, the young men vying for the lady’s interest openly gaped, envious at the attention lavished upon the unknown intruder.
His left eye twitched, a childhood habit Ben always failed to temper. To say the unrelenting stares made him uncomfortable was an understatement, yet his heart pounded with anticipation, preening under the lady’s attention.
“I don’t think I know you, sir,” the lady in question said, but her tone was far from offended, maintaining the melodic and elegant sound that enraptured Ben so effectively. She was both wood nymph and siren, a delectable and irresistible union.
If she noticed the sudden silence that stretched across the room, the siren gave no indication. Her manner maintained its cheerfulness, unbothered by the judgement of the world. She appeared content to enjoy her innocent game, a simple and uncomplicated merriment that clashed with the tumultuous waves raging within his soul. His heart pounded, as if she had dragged him from the safety of the shore and thrust him into the depths of an endless ocean.
“But that does not matter,” she told him, shaking her head, letting those long brown curls dance around her face. “I shall welcome you with an open heart.”
She went on her tiptoes and kissed him, her lips soft and inviting as they touched his right cheek, a breadth away from the corner of his lips. If he had tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, he would have brushed his own lips with hers, tasted her sweet moans and claimed them as his own.
Ben stilled at the last thought, waves of panic washing away those heady and confusing thoughts, desires which clashed with the nature of his profession. He was a man of logic, a novice police constable set on proving himself to his superiors, not a lovesick callow boy enraptured by a beguiling wood nymph with the voice of a siren.
“Rey,” he heard one of the elders exclaim, his tone laced with disapproval. “Stop this nonsense.”
“There now,” the wood nymph said after the too-brief kiss, her charming smile unaffected by the man’s chastisement.
Rey.
The one-syllable name danced in Ben’s head, as thoughts of how well it suited her burst forth like a powerful ocean wave. Her dress was the color of sunshine, her smile the foreteller of dawn, her scent the embodiment of the warmest months that seemed so out of reach in this part of the world.
“I am merely welcoming our guest, father,” Rey said as she untied the blindfold. “Like the gracious host that –”
She dropped her blindfold, her hazel eyes meeting his brown orbs, her lips parted as she exhaled a shaky breath that matched his own.
“– I am…”
“Please excuse my daughter, sir,” her father approached them, his wobbly gait betraying his advanced age far more effectively than his physical appearance.
The old man was quite tall, almost as tall as Ben himself, and his blue eyes were both alert and weary. He wore simple, yet well-made clothes which betrayed his prosperous financial status: black leather shoes with silver buckles, white silk stockings, light brown breeches and a matching brown coat and waistcoat, a pristine white shirt with ruffles and, finally, a white periwig that matched his snowy eyebrows. His choice of clothing contrasted heavily with Ben’s all-black and more practical attire.
“I am Lor van Tekka,” the man said, nodding in greeting. “And you are?”
“Right,” Ben said, running a hand through his black hair to calm himself. The warmth of Rey’s lips on his cheek persisted, despite the brief kiss she had given him. “I-I am Benjamin Solo, sir. T-the police constable –”
“Oh, indeed,” Mr. van Tekka exclaimed. “We were not expecting you, sir. Certainly not today.”
Ben furrowed his brows, attempting to ignore the incipient murmurs from the audience witnessing this exchange. “Surely, you must have received my letter?”
For a reason he could not explain, his eyes landed on Rey, only to be rewarded with her very confused, yet unsettlingly direct gaze, her hazel eyes so earnest and piercing that they seemed to peer into his very soul.
“We have received no letter, Constable Solo”, Mr. van Tekka continued. “It must have been lost in the mail. Otherwise, we would have been prepared to receive you properly.”
“You need not worry on my account,” Ben replied, his gaze finding it difficult to leave Rey’s own. She tilted her head to the right, her neat brows furrowed as if she found herself in the middle of solving a complicated riddle, a reaction that both puzzled and intrigued him.
Mr. van Tekka coughed, interrupting his reverie. He signaled two serving boys to help Ben with his luggage. “You must be exhausted from your journey, Mr. Solo,” he said.
“But New York is not that far away from us, father,” Rey interrupted, her gaze travelling down Ben’s body, sending a jolt of awareness through his tall frame. “Perhaps you could join us, Mr. Solo.” She bit her lower lip. “If you are not too tired.”
His heart pounded. “I-I could certainly join you, Miss van Tekka,” he said, his breath embarrassingly uneven.
“It is settled then,” Rey beamed as she turned to her father. “I will show Mr. Solo to his chamber.”
“Rey,” her father protested. “Your stepmother can –”
She shook her head, her brown curls dancing in the candlelight. “You need not worry on my behalf, father. Mr. Solo is perfectly safe with me. You cannot expect Phasma to play hostess on her birthday.”
“It is not proper, Rey –” he insisted, but she cut him off with a casual gesture.
“Mr. Solo is here to help us, father,” she said, her hands latching onto Ben’s bicep, her gaze meeting his with conviction, eagerness, and something primordial in nature. “I would trust him with my life.”
~*~
“You should be very comfortable in here,” Rey said, drawing up the curtains. She then opened the window, and a wave of fresh air bathed the bedchamber in an instant. “One of the servants will start a fire soon enough for you.”
“Thank you,” Ben said, eyeing his dirty travelling trunk, his mind occupied with thoughts of whether it would be necessary for him to change into something more appropriate for the festivities.
“You need not worry about your clothing,” Rey said, her silent steps traversing the room to stand beside him. “Your attire becomes you. I cannot picture you wearing anything else.”
She rested her hand on the worn trunk, unbothered by its sorry state. “By the time the festivities are over you will have a nice warm bed and bath waiting for you. I will make sure of it.”
He gulped, mesmerized by the sight of her small hand, watching as she fumbled with the trunk’s fastenings. “I-I believe we should go downstairs, Miss van Tekka. Your father will be worried.”
Rey chuckled, a melodic sound that seeped into his very soul. “Are you afraid of me, Mr. Solo?”
Ben furrowed his brows. “Should I be?”
“Never,” she shook her head. “I will protect you. Help you solve this case that has brought you here.”
Ben regarded her straight posture, her small shoulders, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath. “How will you protect me?” he asked. “You should not make promises unless you are certain you will keep them.”
“Oh, but I will keep my promises,” Rey exclaimed, her hands reaching out to touch his own. Her warmth enveloped his cold fingers more effectively than the sun’s soothing rays. “I have seen you somewhere before,” she added, her voice now barely above a whisper. “In a dream.”
Her hands brought his own to her chest, so close he could almost touch her pale-yellow bodice with the swirling green vines, a Garden of Eden in the shape of a delicate fabric.
“In a nightmare,” she murmured.
Rey’s gaze met his own then, searching and oddly knowing, as if the riddle she had tried to piece downstairs finally revealed itself to her. “You are meant to help me. And I am meant to help you.”
His eyes lowered then, transfixed by the hopeful words coming out of her mouth, her lips the color of a pink and blooming rose just waiting to be plucked.
“You may call me Ben,” he whispered, his words trembling with renewed arousal, his hands scorched by waves of desire, his mind a whirlpool of emotions that were both novel and unexplained.
“Ben,” she murmured with a smile, testing his name on her lips.
How could one person beguile him so swiftly and thoroughly? The things she spoke of were illogical. Dreams and premonitions of things to come were nothing but the product of a fanciful mind. Yet, as Rey stood in front of him, her small hands clasping his own, pledging to help a man she had only just met, he was reminded of a moment from so long ago it might as well have been a passing shadow.
He’d heard those words before.
“You may call me Rey,” she whispered, her body moving close to his, so close his fingers now touched her pale-yellow bodice, all silk and gossamer and loveliness.
Her eyelids fluttered closed, giving Ben the chance to admire her long dark eyelashes. He bent down his head, inching closer and closer until his lips were a breadth away from hers. Rey’s inviting scent wafted up to his nose, lavender and bracken, carried by the night air like a gift.
“Rey,” a stern feminine voice exclaimed, and Ben pulled away from his seductive wood nymph as if he’d flown too close to the sun, the taste of her sweet lips denied to him.
Mortified, he looked towards the source of the interruption. The tall blonde woman standing in the doorway was around Ben’s height, her hair tightly pulled back in a simple bun, her dress a dark grey with silver embroidered thorns and roses.
“What is the meaning of this, Rey?” the tall lady asked, entering the room in a swift motion.
Rey bristled at the disruption, her hands balled into fists at the side of her dress. “Nothing that concerns you, Phasma. I was merely showing Mr. Solo his chamber.”
Phasma crossed her arms, the expression on her face betraying her displeasure, her brows furrowed, her stern eyes piercing. “You should be ashamed of your behavior. It does your father no credit,” she warned. “Go downstairs, now. He is asking for you.”
With a deep sigh, Rey lowered her head and departed, her fingers digging into her yellow skirt, muttering something almost unintelligible under her breath, a collection of words that sounded close to a curse that jarred with her previously sunny disposition. It was so unexpected that, under normal circumstances, Ben would have laughed himself into an early grave. Yet, Ben remarked as the temptation to fix his gaze upon his leather boots in perpetuity grew, the situation he found himself in was so deeply worrying, that he could not afford the luxury of humor.
What had he been thinking?
“I am so sorry for my behavior, Mrs. van Tekka,” he said, sweat gathering at his forehead despite the chill in the room.
“You must excuse my stepdaughter, Mr. Solo,” Phasma van Tekka said. “She is an incorrigible flirt and her father, bless his heart, spoils her rotten.”
She approached him, her hands resting on his travelling trunk, where Rey’s own smaller hand had been just moments ago. “Rey is an only child that came late into his life, you see,” her stepmother added. “I have tried my hardest to instill some proper values in this girl, but to no avail.” A deep sigh preceded the next statement. “She has, I am told, too much of her dear departed mother in her,” the lady of the house resumed. “Though, of course, the previous Mrs. van Tekka was far more subdued by the time she turned nineteen.”
The subject of birthdays spurred Ben forward. “I understand it is your birthday today, Mrs. van Tekka,” he said, eager to change the topic of discussion, as well as unwilling to have his own opinion of the daughter of the house tainted by another. “I wish you joy and prosperity,” he continued. “My arrival is indeed ill-timed, and for that, I must apologize.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. van Tekka dismissed his worries with a flick of her wrist. “It is most unfortunate that your letter got lost in the mail, Mr. Solo, but we are pleased to welcome you here in Sleepy Hollow. In fact, my husband wishes to see you in his study immediately.”
Ben nodded at that, relieved by the sudden arrival of an excuse to end this uncomfortable conversation. He bowed and immediately dashed out of his bedchamber, surprised he did not trip over his own feet in the process.
~*~
A servant carrying an armful of firewood directed him to Mr. van Tekka’s office, one of the many locked rooms Ben had noticed to the left of the hallway when he first entered the old manor. The music had resumed in the large drawing room, and, as Ben went down the stairs, he glimpsed three couples immersed in another country jig, Rey nowhere in sight.
“Are you looking for me?” a dulcet voice asked, and he turned around like a moth drawn to a flame.
Rey stood in front of the second door to the left of the entrance, the one he suspected led to her father’s study.
Despite himself, Ben quirked a brow. “I thought your stepmother told you to go downstairs.”
“I am downstairs,” she gestured with her right hand. “The only difference is that I am not in the room Phasma expects me to be in. Does that surprise you?”
He suppressed a smile. “Not particularly. But she is right, Rey. What happened in my bedchamber was most inappropriate, and I should apologize for placing you in this predicament. I –”
Rey rolled her eyes at his attempt to apologize. “Has my stepmother filled your head with all sorts of nonsense about my character? Has she told you what a wild creature I am?” She moved closer to him as she spoke, aware the music coming from the drawing room shrouded their conversation in secrecy. “Has she told you how my father spoils me rotten?”
His left eye twitched, an impulse he once again wished he could control, and Rey noticed his gesture, her own gaze so fixed upon his face. “Surely you can form your own opinion of my character, my dear sir.”
Straightening his back, Ben returned her eager gaze. “I am a police constable. It is my duty to remain objective and not let the opinions of others influence my investigation.”
Rey tilted her head as if discovering a new riddle to solve. It astonished Ben just how quickly he could associate her movements with her intent. “And what have you discovered so far?”
“I think you are a very odd person,” he replied.
Her chuckle was as biting as the cold autumn wind in his bedchamber. “You must have met stranger people in your profession, Ben. I assure you I am not that unusual.”
He wet his lips. “N-no, not so many. To be honest, this is my first serious case. The authorities in New York cared so little about your predicament, that they sent a mere novice to assist you. I fear I may disappoint you.”
The moment he uttered those words, Ben cursed himself. How quickly she disarmed him into admitting his fears, his insecurities…
Rey shook her head, her gaze maintaining its earnest quality. “I think you are just what Sleepy Hollow needs.” She placed her hand on his bicep once more, the movement unleashing a new flood of desire inside him. “You are just what I need,” she added, her voice a soothing murmur to his ears. “I told you before, Ben. We are meant to help each other. I’ve dreamt it.”
Straightening his back, Ben attempted to maintain his composure. He berated himself with the reminder that he came to Sleepy Hollow to investigate, not to succumb to a seduction by the most beguiling woman he had ever met. “Dreams do not subscribe to logic. All investigations are based on deductive reasoning.”
Rey shook her head again, the candlelight shining on her brown curls like a golden crown. “Not this one,” she whispered before withdrawing her hand in an evident sign of departure. “I assure you, Ben, this investigation will be quite different.”
~*~
By the time he took a seat in Lor van Tekka’s study, Ben’s mind had turned into a whirlwind of emotions. As he regarded his host, seated comfortably at his desk in a large oak chair, Ben could not have imagined a day as strange as this one. He departed New York assured that the case assigned to him would be a straightforward affair, a simple visit to a small village where he would immediately apprehend the Headless Horseman and uncover his identity. His success would be followed by a triumphant carriage ride home to New York, and the promise of a bright investigative future once he brought the culprit to justice. Otherwise, the authorities would not have been comfortable enough to send a mere novice to investigate a string of murders.
However, the moment he glimpsed the forests bordering the village, so much like the ones surrounding his old place of birth, Ben should have known there would be…complications. The dream he had had of his mother, a glimpse into the past which haunted him anew after years of almost dreamless slumbers, chilled the blood in his veins.
Watching Mr. van Tekka fumble with a collection of business letters, Ben could not shake the strange feeling that something was afoot, from the suspicious disappearance of his own missive to the eerie atmosphere surrounding the house and its inhabitants. The logical part of his mind, the one that prided itself on its ability for deductive reasoning, singling him out as a police constable destined for greatness, urged him to be on alert, to not get distracted by his personal issues and baser urges.
The dreams of his mother and of a past he wished to erase would remain a carefully guarded secret. The temptation represented by Rey van Tekka and her beguiling advances would remain unanswered for the duration of his stay.
“How can one explain what has been happening in Sleepy Hollow for the past few months?” Mr. van Tekka began, setting down his letters on the mahogany desk, his weary voice interrupting Ben from his reveries and resolutions.
“One must start at the beginning,” Ben supplied, settling in his own seat. His right hand reached for his leather-bound notebook. It was a small item he always kept in the inner pocket of his coat, right over his heart, carefully nestled alongside a small graphite pencil.
“The birth of the Headless Horseman that has been plaguing our peaceful community may very well be associated with the birth of this illustrious country of ours,” Mr. van Tekka said, his tone a mix of pride and bitterness. “I assume you have heard of the Hessians, Mr. Solo?”
Ben nodded. How could he have not heard of these soldiers? They were part of the very fabric of this nation’s history, German regiments who had served the British during the American Revolution. They had all fought on these lands, even in the eerie woods bordering Sleepy Hollow, right next to the large tree shaped like the Devil’s instrument.
“The Horseman is one of them,” his host proclaimed.
“What makes you so certain?” Ben inquired. “Have you seen him?"
Lor van Tekka shifted in his seat. “To my great misfortune, I have. I glimpsed him as he sprung out from the woods one night with the head of one of his early victims. He must not have sensed my presence, otherwise, I am certain he would have made my wife a widow and my daughter an orphan.”
Ben stilled. “I-I assume the uniform gave him away,” he said, and van Tekka nodded.
“Moden Van Canady, the reverend, was his first victim,” the old man continued, the loss of so many innocents a burden etched clearly on his shattered face. His eyelids dropped, as if signaling an endless painful slumber. “We thought it was an isolated occurrence then. The work of some heretic bent on attacking the church. Van Canady, despite his position as a clergyman, was not particularly respected by the locals. He enjoyed the bottle more than he did his sermons.”
“Do you have reason to suspect he might have acquired drinking debts? Perhaps an enemy or two?” Ben asked, his eyebrows narrowed as he scribbled down the information van Tekka provided.
“Magistrate Van Krennic discovered nothing of the sort,” he answered. “No debts, and certainly no people who disliked Van Canady enough to kill him. So, we assumed his murder was the work of a heathen. A heretic.”
“But the other murders were not, were they?” Ben deduced, and his host nodded.
Clutching his hand on the armrest, van Tekka resumed. “Then came Galen Van Erso, the village physician and the man whose head I saw that evening, as I was riding home from Mr. Van Krennic’s house. Naturally, this increased our suspicions to a prodigious degree. Van Erso was a quiet man who lived with his wife and child at the edge of the woods, devoted to his family and profession.”
Ben nodded, the contents of the missive Van Krennic had sent him indicating as much.
“And then Mr. Van Krennic met his end,” the old host continued, “shortly after writing to New York for assistance.”
“The authorities distrust his story,” Ben remarked. “They believe it to be a ploy by the British.”
Mr. van Tekka gave a bitter laugh. “The events that have happened here defy the rational mind. You will find, Mr. Solo, that this investigation differs tremendously from what you are used to in New York.”
Ben clutched his notebook. Rey believed the same thing as well, her parting words still echoing in his ear, foretelling a dark and dismal future. He shook his head.
No, Ben said to himself. There must be a rational explanation.
“After Van Krennic, to our great surprise, nothing happened for almost a fortnight,” the old man added. “Until the gruesome murder of the van Hux family, earlier this week. Father and son, gone.” His voice shook, grief and indignation engraved upon his countenance.
Intrigued, Ben’s eyes wandered over the man’s face, an attempt to decipher the emotional reaction that lay before him.
“What happened to the heads?” he asked instead, holding his pencil in preparation for a satisfactory answer, the promise of evidence that would set the case on its right course.
Instead, Mr. van Tekka’s blue eyes bore into his. “The Horseman took them,” he replied, his gaze both grieved and soulless. “The Horseman took them all.”
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