The Rain and the Light
Helena, New York. June, 1824.
Red-gold light blazed through the cracks in the rough board walls, giving shape to the dust that hung in the air and dazzling Owen’s eyes.
“Ichabod urged his horse to a gallop,” Tom spoke in a low, breathy voice. “But still, the Headless Horseman gained on him, closer, closer.”
The light dimmed suddenly, and the shadows thickened. The sun must have set.
Owen sat in a pile of hay, his legs prickling where it poked through his trousers. He leaned in toward his brother, pushing his weight into his hands, and the rough chaff dug into his palms. His face felt hot, every muscle clenched as he listened to Tom’s story.
“He could feel the horse’s breath on his neck, and he spurred his mare on. Terror flowed through his veins.”
Owen’s eyes darted to the far wall, where the wooden ladder descended into the darkness. It would be easy to run over there, to climb down and get away, escape to the comforting presence of the cow chewing her cud.
“Are you scared? Want me to stop?” Tom sneered.
Owen shook his head and balled his fists, forcing himself to look his brother in the eye. “No.” It was just a story. Just a story.
Tom’s chin dipped, and his brows raised knowingly, as if he could see right through Owen’s bluff. Then he began again. “Ichabod looked back and saw the blood dripping from the horseman’s neck, glistening in the moonlight.” His voice fell to an ominous, gravely whisper, a tone he’d only achieved recently since his voice had dropped. “The bridge came into view. If only he could make it there he’d be safe. Safe. But—” Tom’s eyes darted to the far wall, and widened as if something terrible were there.
Owen looked back. There was nothing. “But what?”
His brother’s mouth spread into a slow grin. In the gloom of the hayloft, his eyes seemed whiter, and bigger than usual. His teeth too. “He wasn’t fast enough. The Headless Horseman threw something at him—something round and warm and fleshy.”
Owen’s breath stopped. “His-his head?’
“Who knows?” Owen smirked. “Whatever it was, it knocked Ichabod clean off his horse. He cried out, a great scream, and he fell to the ground.”
Something cold was pulsing through Owen’s body. It was his blood. It had to be, but it couldn’t be. Blood was warm, not icy.
“Ichabod’s horse turned up at home that night, alone. All they found the next morning was his hat, by the bridge. And a smashed pumpkin.”
Owen opened his mouth to say something brave, but his chin was shaking too hard. He would cry, and Tom would never let him hear the end of it. He clamped his lips together and tightened his jaw. But it couldn’t erase the image of the bridge, the smashed flesh. The empty hat.
The riderless horse.
Tom showed no sign of jest. His brother’s face was a mask of horror, his eyes stared at Owen, liquid in the darkness… or were they glowing? Owen held his breath, as silently, stiffly, his brother stood, arms spread, fingers reaching, then Tom lunged. and Owen's heart flew into his throat. He screamed and jumped up, almost slipping on the straw. He made for the ladder as fast as he could.
Tom’s footsteps pounded behind him.
Owen flew over the rough hewn boards. Almost there. Almost—
His shoe came down but there was no floor. He was tipping, falling. Weightless. The dim light of the hayloft disappeared and darkness rushed by his ears.
He landed with a thump on his back.
Hay tickled his cheek. Rough wood sloped up on either side of him.
The manger. He’d fallen through one of the holes in the floor where hay was thrown down to feed the cows. He’d picked his way by it earlier, when they’d first climbed up to Mr. Everleigh’s loft, but in his fright he’d completely forgotten about it.
He drew breath, but found he couldn’t—his chest seemed stuck.
He tried again. Fear surged in his stomach. But he mustn't panic. This had happened before. He just had to wait—
The sound of Tom’s cackling laughter filtered down to him, and his brother’s pale face loomed in the hole, far above. “Watch out, or the cows’ll eat you—”
“Thomas!” Another voice, from nearby. A female voice. An angry one. “What’s going on?” Prudence, Mr. Everleigh’s daughter. That’s who it was.
Owen tried again to breathe. His lungs still felt stuck, but he managed a slight sip of air. Not enough.
Then her face came into view above him. Her eyes widened. “Owen. Are you all right?” She glanced up at the trap door. Tom’s face had disappeared. “Did you fall through?”
The sound of Tom’s snickering came from above, and Prudence turned back up toward the sound. “Thomas? Are you up there? Did you push him?”
Tom’s face came back into view, hovering above them. “Nah… he fell. Wasn’t my fault.” Once again, Owen’s brother disappeared, and Prudence looked back at Owen. She was a big girl of thirteen, four years older than he was.
“Are you alright?” She asked softly. “Can you climb out?”
He nodded, and took another breath, deeper this time, but shaky. Tears pricked at his eyes. He wiped them with his shirtsleeve, and scratched his face with the hay that was stuck to him.
She extended a hand, and Owen took it. Her palm felt warm and soft against his, strong too, as she heaved him up and over the wooden lip of the manger and onto the dirt packed floor of the barn.
“Th-thank you.” He managed, taking his hand back and brushing it on his trousers. He was covered in hay. Mother would be cross. The tears threatened again, stinging at his eyes. He blinked. Blinked again.
Prudence had a woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and her hair done up, more like a woman than a girl. She frowned at him and picked a piece of hay out of his hair. “You must be more careful.”
“I know. I—”
“It’s all right.” She smiled and put her hand on his arm. She had a pretty smile. It made Owen feel warm inside. Like the sun. “I’ve come to call you and Tom in for dinner, but—are you crying?”
“No. I—” He wiped his eyes again. “I musta got some dust in my eye.”
“Awe, he’s blubbering alright.” Now Tom’s voice came from behind them, where the ladder led down from the loft. “Scardy cat, that’s what he is. Little baby.”
“Stop it.” Prudence spoke sternly over Owen’s shoulder. Tom must have made a face, because her eyes narrowed. “Did you frighten him?”
“Just told him a story is all. Kids like stories don’t they?”
“A story.” Prudence leveled her gaze.
“About Ichabod Crane, and the headless horseman,” Tom stalked into Owen’s view. His pale face loomed and and his voice took on an eerie, mocking quality, “and a smashed pumpkin by the side of the road…” Owen balled his fists, though there was no stopping the tears now. They streamed hot down his face.
Prudence’s lips tightened into a stern line as she addressed Tom. “You should be ashamed of yourself. He’s only a child.” She glared at Tom as he laughed and capered out of the barn. Owen tried to push past her and follow, but she stopped him with a hand to his arm. “It’s just a story, you know. Nothing to be afraid of. Your brother is a beast, though.” Again, that tightening of her lips, then a softening.
The way she looked at him, the kindness and the safety of it… The warm sunny feeling, forced something loose inside, and Owen sobbed even harder.
“Oh, you poor boy. He’s really frightened you, hasn’t he?” She spoke as if to herself, then opened her arms. “Come here. It’s all right. I promise.”
Owen should have been stronger. More of a man. He shouldn’t have let the story get to him, or been careless enough to fall through the hole, or even been crying in the first place. He was a baby. Father would wrap his knuckles if he knew. Mother would shake her head in disappointment. Send him to bed without supper. But… but as he blinked up at Prudence through the blur of tears, her face looked so kind. As if—as if she understood.
He ducked his head and burrowed into her arms.
And oh, it was nice here, with her wooly shawl pressed against his cheek. She smelled sweet, like strawberries.
She ran her fingers through his hair, combing out the hay, murmuring something too low to hear.
And eventually the tears stopped. His breath evened out.
“There now,” she pulled back and smiled that sunshiney feeling down on him, then wiped his cheek with her thumb. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
Owen nodded. “P-please. Don’t tell my parents?” He sniffed. “That I cried?”
Her head fell to one side, and her smile faltered, though her kindness stayed fast. “I won’t. It will be our secret.”
The Rain and the Light is coming October 21, 2026.