Vinnie's World | Literary Articles: The Fall of Ichabod

Home > Articles > The Fall of Ichabod

The Fall of Ichabod

By Vinnie Apicella

Sleepy Hollow is a quiet little valley located in the State of New York near the Eastern shore of the Hudson. It is marked by small tree-lined streets, dusty trails, and murky swamps. Its inhabitants are simple-minded country folk, susceptible to outlandish bouts of storytelling and fictional accounts of ghost-riders and gun-toting villains riding through for an occasional pillage on the way to parts unknown. My name is Ichabod Crane and it is here I have sought to lay my weary head a while and steal away from the world and its distractions, to pause quietly the plight of my troubled life and ponder my next move.

I am no ghost rider... I have arrived here under the pretense of instructing the children of the vicinity, but in actuality, I am on the run from the law. In my hometown of Greenwich, Connecticut, I am a wanted man. I am accused of thievery. Of this crime which I stand accused I can attest that such is the life of a wandering spirit set about to no one chosen path of so-called moral means. I am still a relatively young man of 34 years with no family to speak of. My education was earned on street corners and local pubs. My youth passed quickly.

Little did I know upon my arrival here of the wild imaginations people carry with them. Nary a moment passes when an excessively spun yarn does not fall from the laps of settlers of all shapes and shades. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots and twilight superstitions.

After securing my position in the local schoolhouse, it became known to me what a large distinction exists between myself and the rest of the townspeople. They looked up to me soon after my arrival as a figure of authority and intellect. They know nothing of my past. I am an elegant dresser. They will be easy prey.

Among the richer of tales that exist in this sleepy land is one that follows the exploits of a figure on horseback--a headless horseman--who is thought to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper who lost his head in battle during the Revolutionary War. He is known to randomly appear in the valley, after dark, atop a devilish black steed.

It is alleged that this "spectre" returns nightly to the original scene of battle in a quest to find his head. He moves with such speed and agility, few could offer accounts of his appearance in great detail. And none dare ever approach this supposed spot alone or after night fall. Some call this superstition; I call it silly. I believe in no such spirits. My initial intentions upon arriving were yet to be determined. However, now I intend to amass a great fortune at the expense of these unwitting dupes.

Upon arriving at the farmhouse which I would call home for an indeterminate number of weeks, I begin plotting my course. I should like to stay long enough to secure enough money to travel further north to the Canadian border where I will find sanctuary and a life of luxury. I mustn’t be hasty yet I dare not delay more than a moment necessary for fear the authorities may enclose upon my whereabouts.

My plan must be successful on all counts. What if I can somehow produce this ridiculous headless horseman that they so greatly fear and expose him for what he really is, dare I say, nothing more than a quick-witted and agile rider with a fancy for an evening’s frolic at the expense of these pathetic creatures? What might that be worth? Ha, the notion of such a horseman without a head is itself so brilliantly conceived; I wish I had thought it up myself… Ah, but then what kind of a living could thus be earned for such a frequent evening’s entertainment?

Nonetheless, I must work to dispel this notion of the haunting spirit of Sleepy Hollow so that I may escape this ghastly town while these wretched inhabitants would be free of their accursed spirit once and for all. Everybody would end up happy and I would make my departure the next day at dawn while no one would be any the wiser. Now I must hasten to put my plan to action as it won’t be long before the law catches up.

"Mr. Crane, I must say you have certainly shown yourself to be a man of superior character and elegance. I would be delighted if you would attend our gathering this evening at my mansion. You would make an honored guest."

I thought momentarily at this kind offer from the stately gentleman named Van Tassel, a substantial Dutch farmer characterized as among the social elite in a town devoid of more than a few.

"I would be honored sir," I replied, knowing perfectly well that this was exactly what I needed to have everyone together at the same time. I could lay it all down upon them at once; about my previous life as a master marksman perfectly well-equipped at hunting evil spirits. Then surely there must be at least one other in attendance whom I might entice as my apprentice; an obligatory guest to my own private affair who might be easily quieted for a few coins and the promise of prestige.

Later that evening, I arrived at the castle which was introduced by a sprawling garden and gate. I was greeted heartily by farmers in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, and magnificent pewter buckles. Soon after, I was engaged in countless conversations surrounding such ancient superstitions of ghosts and apparitions. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long settled retreats. It was exactly what I was counting on...

It wasn’t long before I befriended a relatively gay, if inevitably naļve young fellow by the name of Blanchard. I could see by the look in his glowering eyes and his careful attention to my every word that he needed some element of excitement; something extraordinary should occur in his life. And for these last several moments, I represented exactly that. These stories certainly had their place for him and he had evidently digested one more too many than he’d have liked by his discontented look when the others rambled on.

Before long everyone’s thoughts shifted to the favored "spectre" of Sleepy Hollow, The Headless Horseman. "Headless Horseman! Ha..." I thought to myself, there’s a laugh, but I didn’t dare emit the slightest smile. These people were deadly serious. Countless stories followed in varying detail, but each arrived at a similar conclusion—that of a tall, ghastly, shadowy figure atop a black steed appearing near a wooden bridge over a deep part of the stream not far from the church, shaded by overhanging trees that occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was the favorite haunt of the horseman, and the place where he was most frequently encountered. And the place where he would meet his doom… if I had anything to do with it.

"Mr. Blanchard, I am curious to know your opinion of this Headless Horseman fellow that everyone speaks of. Can you recall ever witnessing this horseman yourself?"

The young man’s eyes lit up at the suggestion and in apparent awe to be addressed by such a noble figure as myself.

"I can’t say that I have sir, but he must exist. It’s all anyone ever talks about here. And I surely would like to see him with my own eyes."

Splendid. That was all I needed to hear. Behind my leadership and his eagerness, young Blanchard and I would make the perfect team to pull off my biggest caper yet. And the best part about it is he’d never know he was involved in any wrongdoing. Quite the contrary, we would disprove this phantom theory once and for all, I’d feed him some of the spoils, and after I’d gone, he’d be the new talk of the town!

I fancied myself as quite a swordsman and shooter, very adept at handling a steed of my own. After dinner, the townsfolk were up for a good show and I was just the chap to give it to them. My silver-seated six-shooter spun smoothly about my forefinger as I took steady aim atop and center of poor Longfellow’s scalp where the apple lay. After a few mutterings of William Tell’s bravado, courage, and pinpoint accuracy, I split the apple into perfect pairs atop the trembling figure who’d momentarily crumpled before breathing a sigh and shaking my hand. Since these people were susceptible to such stories as the Sleepy Hollow "spectre," they would have little difficulty consuming the one about Ichabod Crane, "spectre slayer," "ridder of evil," "champion of the desperate and chapfallen."

"What if one were to rid you of this accursed headless horseman once and for all? What would it be worth to all of you?" I asked the closely gathered crowd still awed by my dexterous use of weaponry only moments before and who stopped talking long enough to absorb every word. I directed my stare to the higher ranking hobnobbers in attendance and was met with equal seriousness. I gazed into varying looks of rigidity and disbelief, yet my brief but impressive demonstration of marksmanship and swordplay, convinced them enough that I could deliver on my promise. They soon softened their tone and I was promised a goodly sum for my services.

"It’s high time Sleepy Hollow residents stopped living in fear and stood up for themselves. We’re not in the dark ages anymore," I cried.

"I submit to you that your 'spectre' is no such spectre at all but simply a man... a dark-minded madman who seeks pleasure from the fears of others. He laughs and mocks you through goblin-colored eyes and he appears only under the cover of darkness to conceal his true cowardly identity. Dare I say, has he chanced yet once to appear before the light? Ha, and there my friends, you see… worry not, you shall be relieved of your ghost once and for all by midnight tomorrow, or I swear by all that’s holy, I shall stammer off in shame, never to return!"

My declaration was met with a mix of nervous optimism and yet disbelief, although no one questioned me afterwards. They could see that I was a far superior class of gentleman who says what he means and they bought every line. And more importantly, they were willing to buy my services straightaway, willfully granting an advance on my fee after further convincing of the measures and means I would need to successfully capture this ghost, including the purchase of a fleet steed and ample arsenal. Upon completion of my work, I would soon be filling my purse with more money than I could ever remember handling in one sitting!

My plan was to first survey the area the next evening where this horseman makes his appearance while at the same time, confer with my only too eager apprentice who gleefully accepted my token of appreciation and the promise of adventure. Young Blanchard and I would put on a show for the ages. It would be late and dark and no one would dare approach closely enough to know the difference as this perceived phantom and I did battle. Yes, Mr. Blanchard indeed possessed enough size and stature to strike an imposing horseman.

I shall see to it that he is as ghastly a creature as they describe... even more so. Ah yes, they’ll have a fright more than even they could have imagined. He and I shall do battle, but it must be convincing enough that all who bear witness will be left without doubt. Then of course I will appear to run him through, toss his slumped carcass atop my own noble steed, and prance this pathetic being right past the wandering eyes of the outlying townsfolk before breaking like the wind and into the night.

The next evening I decided to arrive even earlier than originally planned; I wanted to gather my thoughts and make sure the stage was properly set. In less than four hours, the townspeople would begin to arrive, stationing themselves on the outer perimeter of the forest-like dip, well out of harm’s way while Blanchard and I went on with the charade.

Upon arriving I heard a strange noise. The air was damp and cold. I could hear the rustling of the leaves in the chilly evening wind. It was enough to startle any one of those others but not me, I thought. It’s only the wind. I walked cautiously toward the wooded area and toward the bridge. It was dark and I tried to plot my course while avoiding stumbling upon an unforeseen pit in the ground or loose brush.

Another noise... the night was dark but the evening moon scattered rays of bright light down upon the ground. I reached back with my left hand and confirmed that I had my seamless sword at close guard and calmly muttered to myself daring any man foolish enough to approach with injurious intent... I’d run them through and be a hero yet!

More scurrying sounds of wild animals and loose brush accompanied my slow movements through the wooded area. I couldn’t help but feel slightly apprehensive. "Blanchard?" I beckoned, thinking the overzealous youth couldn’t resist the same impulses as I, readying himself for tonight’s event. But no answer. I placed my hand upon my sword, which clung to my left pant leg. Half out of play and half out of fear I practiced drawing it, just in case some unwelcome guest approached. "Blanchard, is that you? I must inform you I do not find this the slightest bit amusing!"

Suddenly, a tall, shadowy figure appeared only a few yards away. Its outline cut an imposing figure from out of the dark. Again I thought of Blanchard, but if it really were he, I must admit he really overdid it with his costume. It was dark and he was still distant but that uniform was...

"Who goes there?" I beckoned, a tad sheepishly at this point.

"Identify yourself I say, or I’ll shred you to ribbons! Ah, ghosts and goblins indeed! You may have these soft-headed simple folk in your clutches but you won’t convince me. I’m beyond such childishness. Show yourself at once!"

This figure and I stood several feet from each other with neither of us approaching.

"I’m determined to put an end to this charade once and for all and I will not leave this village in shame. Whether you call yourself Blanchard, ghost rider, or Devil himself, you will be the evidence I need to ride into the sunset friend, and I will fulfill my promise to produce a corpse, one way or the other. Now step forward and identify yourself."

"I understand you’ve been looking for me," came a grim voice as if from beyond. The figure darted quickly toward me and before I could react, he was within three feet of my person and at least a foot greater in height than myself. My heart began to thump and I stood motionless for the moment. No, this was definitely not Blanchard!

"But... it can’t be... you... you’re not real!"

I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was this hulking figure in torn and tattered clothing, looking like he just stepped from the field of battle!? He held a sword at one side, and a sack in the other hand as he stood before me. From the shoulders down, he could have been any ordinary man... any ordinary... soldier? I tried in vain to get a look at his face but instead, saw darkness enshrouded in a black cape atop his shoulders. It was dark and I could well have been in shock, but I swear the figure standing in front of me was... HEADLESS!

"I mean you no harm."

I implored this being that stood far above me. My first thought was to flee, but my feet were frozen to the ground. My voice shuddered... "Are you truly the Headless Horseman?"

"Silence! Oh man of such gallantry and might," he spoke, his voice echoing a chilling, inhuman gruffness.

"Face your enemy and look into the eyes of darkness!"

I reached for my sword in a desperate attempt at fending off this being that appeared ready to lurch forward at any second, though he made no aggressive movement. In my apprehension, I instead fell backward, then attempted to gain footing to make a quick run for my steed that stood complacently in the brush behind me.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice cracking.

"I want my head!" came the answer, cold and dreadful.

"Your... HEAD?! But I don’t have it… I don’t know where..."

"Then I’ll have yours!"

In an instant, the headless figure swung his sword and lanced my head clear off, leaving me lying lifeless in the brush. I felt nothing yet still I could see. My spirit rose slowly above the scene that staged my doom, soaring beyond a headless body laying on the ground before him... my own! The horseman tossed my head into his sack and rode off into the darkness.

Later that evening I noticed young Blanchard, convincingly dressed as might a war torn soldier, scouring the woods, searching aimlessly for a clue to my apparent whereabouts. Soon, the many townspeople gathered round the outer edges of the woods as was previously arranged. Blanchard said nothing and soon dismounted his horse to begin wandering by foot.

From my perspective, languishing in what seemed a translucent-like state above the nearly bare-skinned tree tops I could see the young man kneeling above my own limp corpse a short distance away from my steed as the townspeople creeped in for a closer look. They were aghast to find this dead body... MY dead body, sprawled on the ground in the woods partially obscured by dirt and autumn leaves. Two of the men dismounted and cautiously approached the spot where my body lay. I could hear them muttering amongst themselves within a chorus of ooh’s and ahh’s...

One of the men addressed Blanchard, crouched before my body.

"Is he..." "Yes. I believe we’ve found him."

And the rest of the party dismounted to pick up and lay my body atop two horses and ride it back into town as I watch from this purgatorial-like perch in the sky serving an apparent penance set aside for con men from Connecticut.

"A moment of silence, please, for the conquering hero..."