occhi_bella (occhi_bella) wrote in story_arc, @ 2007-10-11 23:30:00 |
|
|||
Current mood: | crushed |
Entry tags: | fifteen set 03, ichabod crane, occhi_bella, sleepy hollow |
FIC Aftermath - Chapter 12
Cross-posted to occhi_bella and unknown_fandom.
Title: Aftermath
Author: occhi_bella
unknown_fandom Set: 15-03
story_arc Theme: Spell (10-03, #1)
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow (movie)
Character: Ichabod Crane
Rated: M
Warning: Non-explicit implications of rape and incest. Spoilers
Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow and its characters do not belong to me. I make no money from this.
Link to Story Archive and All Chapters
Summary: Ichabod departs for New York with Katrina and Young Masbath, but their journey is delayed by unexpected complications. Picks up at the part where the Hessian disappears into the Tree of the Dead for the last time with Lady Van Tassel.
Chapter 12
Having written his thoughts on the contents of Abigail’s ledger in his own, he set both ledgers aside and now focused his full attention on his wife. He approached Katrina where she sat beside Stephen’s bed and took her hands in his, lifting her to her feet gently.
“Some honeymoon,” Ichabod murmured wistfully, drawing her into a tight embrace. “I’ve been so concerned about him, and so wrapped up in clues and interrogations. I’ve hardly paid you any mind.”
The dejected expression in her eyes when he had dismissed her earlier remained in his memory and he was feeling more than a twinge of guilt about it.
“Oh, Ichabod, that doesn’t matter to me. It’s Stephen’s life that’s important right now.”
“I do worry about you, too.” He sighed and slowly shook his head. “As soon as the snow began to fall I should have insisted that we stay in Sleepy Hollow.”
She pulled back and her warm brown eyes stared directly into his dark, intense ones. “This is no one’s fault. Chance brought us to this place and tangled us up in this situation. Maybe it was meant to be and what this town needed; someone such as you to bring sense to it, to bring the truth out into light.”
“I only hope that Stephen does not perish because of it!” he cried.
“Shh.” She reached up and smoothed down his hair, attempting to soothe him. “Yes, and it is for this reason that I want to help. Why won’t you let me help, too?”
“Katrina, I don’t want you risking your life. A spirit already has possession over Stephen. If you get involved and try to allow it to enter you do you think it would hesitate to overtake your will and refuse to let you be?”
“It is angry and vengeful but not at Stephen, or you, or me. I don’t think it will harm me…”
He interrupted her with a long sigh and his voice was gentle when he spoke again. “Oh, my love, it’s already harming him. I know you want to help. You’re the most loving and courageous spirit I’ve ever known. But…sometimes I wish you weren’t so brave. Then again, I suppose you wouldn’t have ventured out into the Western Woods if you weren’t.”
“Magic and the spirit world is something that I understand, Ichabod, and I have more experience than you in that province.”
“And your white magic is sublime.”
“Don’t underestimate me then. I trust my own instincts and intuition. What I sense about the spirits that inhabit Stephen, and yes,” she added, catching the shocked expression that crossed Ichabod’s features. “There is more than one. Probably Abigail and Emily, at least, as Mr. McKinley suspects. They are not malevolent…”
“Then…you are in contact…”
“No, I can only sense their presence and their essence. Their…feelings.”
“But the witch of the Western Woods…well, I’m not certain whether it was black magic, but I did see that she had beheaded a cardinal. I cannot imagine you doing so, not after what you said to me on that day we stood together in the ruins of the old cottage.”
“I said that they’re my favorite,” she answered with a soft sigh. “And that I wouldn’t have the heart to cage one.”
“Nor behead one, I’m certain. In fact I can’t imagine you cutting off the head of any creature in order to cast a spell.”
She shook her head but averted her eyes.
“Would you?” he asked in disbelief.
“No. But…only the claws of a raven. After they’re already dead,” she added quickly. “It is a key ingredient for some remedies…”
He exhaled, releasing a soft shaky laugh. “Is that what you add to that horrible-tasting potion you’ve had occasion to give me to help me sleep?”
“Yes,” she answered, raising her gaze to his again.
“I should think that the herbs without the raven’s claw would be sufficient to put one to sleep.”
The remark was meant as a light-hearted quip, but it didn’t come across the way he’d intended. Tears began to well up in her lovely eyes.
“Do you think less of me then, Ichabod?”
“Of course not!” he exclaimed. “Never…”
Feeling like a cad he reached out and gently wiped her tears with his hand. Then he wound his arms around her, pulling her close again and tenderly kissing her lips.
“Forgive me. I meant it as a joke, but I suppose I’m not very adept at those. And perhaps this is not the time for one.”
She leaned in and rested her cheek against his chest. He closed his eyes with a sigh and lovingly ran his fingers through her long flaxen hair.
“I love you so much, Katrina. Please don’t imagine for a moment that you’re lacking in any way.”
She lifted her head and leaned up to kiss him again. “Oh, Ichabod, I love you.”
He tightened his embrace, squeezing her in acknowledgement.
“And don’t worry. I promise you, I won’t be casting any dark spells.”
*******
James McKinley relented the following day, agreeing to bring Ichabod to Mary Greeley’s house.
“If she doesn’t wish to speak with you, I cannot help that, Constable,” he warned as they made their way toward her home on the outskirts of town.
They had to tread carefully. The temperature had dropped once more and the top layer of wet snow had now frozen over, so that the surface of the white ground was a slick, transparent sheet of ice. A thin layer of ice covered the stream as well and the men of the village had temporarily ceased their search for Emily’s body.
McKinley departed after Mary Greeley welcomed Ichabod into her home, claiming an errand that he had to run.
“How is your boy, Constable?” Mrs. Greeley asked, escorting him into a small, comfortable sitting room. He took a seat in one of two chairs before the fireplace and withdrew his ledger, pen and ink.
“Not well, I’m afraid.”
“I saw him walking that day. It was a terribly cold and wet day. A young lad…I thought he was going somewhere to play in the snow until I realized that the town was in ferment looking for a missing boy.”
“Yes.”
Ichabod began to yawn before he could stop himself and brought a hand up to cover his mouth. He was exhausted once again, after a harrowing night in Stephen’s room watching him writhe against the restraints, alternately gnashing his teeth, shrieking curses to the air and screaming until his throat was raw in the unfamiliar voice of a wailing woman.
“Excuse me,” he murmured, embarrassed. “I haven’t slept well and am quite exhausted.”
“No worries, Constable.”
“Mrs. Greeley, I don’t know how much you have heard about this situation…”
“All of it,” she replied, sitting down in the other chair. “I am at all of the gatherings in Jamie’s tavern, except on the days that I’m too ill to venture out.”
“Then you understand why I am asking questions.”
“I do. But what is it that you think I can answer?”
“You’re the midwife in town. Did you attend to Abigail when she was pregnant with Emily?”
“Yes, and I cared for her immediately after the child was born.”
“Did she suffer from any illness that you know of? One that might have been in the family, which she may have passed on to her daughter?”
“No. She was perfectly healthy and so was Emily.”
“You cared for Emily as well?”
“When she was an infant, yes.”
“This…forgive me…some of the questions I must ask will be quite delicate. There seems to be some evidence that Abigail…might have been beaten by someone.” He gulped. “Or worse. I know that she quarreled with her father. Perhaps he became violent with her?”
“And you think I would know something about that?” Her tone was sharp and she stared at him pointedly.
“Well…I don’t know,” he stammered, taken aback. “Do you?”
“No.”
“I…see.”
“Mark Jenner and his daughter were very close.”
“They were?”
“He was her hero and she was her daddy’s little girl.” Mary Greeley lowered her eyes and a shadow passed across her features. “This is a small town, Constable. I don’t like to gossip, and it would do nobody any good to stir up a scandal now, about people who have been dead for nearly a year.”
“Mrs. Greeley, please. What happened here?”
“There was a grisly murder that no one saw,” she replied reticently. “A culprit was never discovered. Mark Jenner was the pillar of this town and I don’t know of anyone that had it in for him. No one knows what really happened, other than the method by which they all died. And in Emily’s case we don’t even know that.”
“I believe that she saw the murders happen and ran away because she was terrified. What happened after that is still a mystery. I suspect she may have fallen into the stream and drowned.”
“Perhaps. Poor thing,” she murmured sadly, shaking her head. “She had not even reached her eleventh year yet.”
“Mrs. Greeley, I must ask you. Did you ever notice bruises on Abigail’s body during the time that you tended to her?”
“Well…I’m not one to talk, Constable Crane, but I trust that you will keep this all confidential.”
“Of course.”
“When she first came to me before anyone, including Abigail herself, knew that she was pregnant…yes, she did. But after that…well, it would be an animal indeed that would beat a woman knowing that she was with child.”
“Was…was there extensive bruising? Her entire body?”
“Not really.”
Ichabod sighed. “Dr. Thompson mentioned that some of the bruises looked like…fingerprints. No one has any idea who might have been doing this to her?”
She shook her head. “It could have been anyone. In her time she had many…companions. Someone may have grown angry with her.”
He frowned then opened the ledger to a fresh page. He began to jot down the main points of their conversation thus far.
“But I will tell you this,” she added, her voice drastically dropping in volume and pitch. “Mark Jenner and his daughter Abigail were very close. A little too much, if you ask me. There was something odd about it.”
He was completely confused. “Odd?”
“Yes, odd.”
“What do you mean by odd?”
“Odd. Exactly what I said. Something didn’t seem right.” She shrugged. “Maybe that is why Abigail behaved so outrageously when all is said and done.”
“And…he was trying to marry her off after she became pregnant.”
“She wouldn’t accept any suitors. A wild thing, she always was. And, between you and me, Constable, Mark Jenner wasn’t too anxious to see her married, for all of his effort.”
“But…he was attempting to…why would…I don’t understand,” he finally said helplessly.
“Neither did I,” she answered with a shrug. “But Mark seemed almost…like a possessive and jealous lover when it came to the men that Abigail…spent time with.”
Ichabod was more perplexed than ever now.
“Well, I thank you for your time, Mrs. Greeley.” He packed his ledger, pen and ink in his bag and stood up.
She walked to the door with him, bidding him goodbye, and he made his way along the path from her door to the road.
“Constable Crane!” she suddenly called out to him with such urgency that it stopped him in his tracks.
He turned to see her beckoning him back frantically and made his way toward her as quickly as he could without slipping.
“Mrs. Greeley?”
“Abigail’s bruises.”
“Yes?”
“Well…” Something was on her mind and he could see in her eyes that she wanted to tell him. Fear replaced the expression of longing to reveal a truth and she checked her words. “They did look like fingerprints. The bruises were very bad. Dark, as if she’d been seized with great force.”
Now that she had demonstrated a desire to open up more, Ichabod decided to press her. “Anything else?”
For a few long moments she stared at the ground, her head bowed. Finally she raised her head once more, glanced in either direction surreptitiously and then, in a voice that was nearly a whisper, she said, “The bruises weren’t on her torso or her arms.”
With that, she ducked back inside and slammed the door shut.
*******
Ichabod remained staring at Mary Greeley’s door, stunned and slack-jawed, for several minutes after it closed before finally turning and heading back to the tavern.
The bruises weren’t on her torso or her arms.
Seated at the desk in their room now, Ichabod had written this phrase down on a fresh page in his ledger and pondered Mrs. Greeley’s half-revealing, half-cryptic words. Dr. Thompson had not commented on any bruising of the face, and neither had Mr. McKinley. It seemed reasonable that they would have shared that fact with him, particularly the doctor. If, in fact, there was no bruising on her face either, that left her legs. And maybe her neck; a dress or blouse with a high collar would have covered any signs of injury.
Just what had happened to her? And what was she talking about when she wrote “she is the same age that I was”?
He wrote this sentence in his ledger and then stared at the page. In his mind, he replayed his conversation with Mrs. Greeley over, then set to writing down each of the strange, cryptic things she had said.
He was her hero and she was her daddy’s little girl. But I will tell you this. Mark Jenner and his daughter Abigail were very close. A little too much, if you ask me. There was something odd about it. Something didn’t seem right.
“What was she trying to tell me?” he murmured, utterly puzzled.
There was something in her words, a meaning that he hadn’t discovered yet. It was a characteristic that everyone here seemed to demonstrate in their speech. They didn’t actually reveal information, but hinted at it with provocative phrases that spoke of something important that he couldn’t put his finger on. He didn’t know if it was fear of a terrible truth or merely their habit of being secretive, as James McKinley had suggested, but it both baffled him and stirred his curiosity.
Mrs. Greeley’s account of Abigail’s relationship with her father was quite contrary to that of McKinley and Dr. Thompson. Although the doctor didn’t come right out and say it, Mr. McKinley did suggest that father and daughter didn’t get along, quarreled bitterly in fact, while Mary Greeley presented a father and daughter that were close; oddly so. And that something didn’t seem right about it.
The whole town was ashamed about an incident that occurred here. Was it the crime itself? Or something more? Perhaps others thought that the relationship between Mark and Abigail Jenner did not ‘seem quite right’.
He jotted all of his thoughts and questions down, then set his pen aside and rested his chin in his hands with a sigh.
Figuring out the exact nature of the relationship between Mark Jenner and his daughter and how it had changed was the key, Ichabod sensed. They went from being, in Mary Greeley’s words, “a little too close” to quarreling bitterly, according to James McKinley’s account. Then there were Abigail’s bruises, possibly inflicted by her father.
She wouldn’t accept any suitors…and, between you and me, Constable, Mark Jenner wasn’t too anxious to see her married, for all of his effort. Mark seemed almost…like a possessive and jealous lover when it came to the men that Abigail…spent time with.
Is that why they quarreled?
“Like a lover’s quarrel,” he mused softly.