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 hovered in the air and dazzling Owen’s eyes.
“Ichabod urged his steed into 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 the stalks 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 own mare on, but she could go no faster. 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, his brows rising as if he could see right through Owen’s bluff. Then he resumed his tale. “Ichabod looked back. Blood dripped from the horseman’s neck, glistening in the moonlight.” His voice sank into an ominous, gravelly whisper. “The bridge came into view. If only he could make it there, then he’d be safe. Safe. But— Tom’s eyes darted to the far wall and widened as if he’d spotted something terrible.
Owen’s head whipped around. 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. “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?” Tom smirked. “Whatever it was, it knocked Ichabod clean off his horse. He cried out, a great scream, and fell to the ground.”
Something cold was pulsing through Owen’s body. 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, near the bridge. And a smashed pumpkin.”
Owen opened his mouth to say something brave, but his chin was shaking too hard. He would cry if he tried, 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 rose, arms spread, fingers reaching…
Tom lunged, and Owen’s heart flew into his throat. He screamed and sprang up, almost slipping on the straw, then ran for the ladder as fast as he could.
Tom’s footsteps pounded behind him.
Owen flew over the rough boards. Almost there. Almost—
His foot came down, but there was no floor. He was tipping, falling. Weightless. The dim light of the hayloft disappeared, and darkness rushed past his ears.
He landed with a thump on his back.
Hay tickled his cheek. He blinked, taking in the rough wood that 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 past 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 a breath—but 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, and his brother’s pale face loomed in the hole, far above him. “Watch out, or the cows’ll eat you!”
“Thomas!” Another voice, from nearby. A girl’s voice, with a sharp, angry tone. “What’s going on?” She sounded familiar. Prudence, Mr. Everleigh’s daughter. That’s who it was.
Owen tried to breathe again. His lungs still felt stuck, but he managed a small sip of air. Not enough.
Her face came into view right above him, her eyes widening. “Owen!” She glanced up at the trapdoor. Tom’s face had disappeared. “Did you fall through?”
The sound of Tom’s snickering came from above, and Prudence lifted her head toward it. “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’s eyes returned to Owen. She was a big girl of thirteen, four years older than he was.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly. “Can you climb out?”
He nodded and drew another breath, deeper this time, but still shaky. Tears pricked 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, so strong as she heaved him up and over the wooden lip of the manger and onto the packed-dirt floor of the barn.
“Th-thank you,” he managed. Then he snatched his hand back and brushed 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.
A woolen shawl was draped around Prudence's shoulders. Her hair was done up so she looked more like a grownup 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.”
“Aww, he’s blubbering, all right.” Now Tom’s voice came from behind them, where he was descending the ladder from the loft. “Scaredy 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 gleamed in the dark, and his voice took on a sneering, 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. “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 be crying in the first place. He was a baby. Father would rap his knuckles if he knew. Mother would shake her head in disappointment. Send him to bed without supper.
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.
Eventually, the tears stopped. His breath evened out.
“There now.” She pulled back and smiled that sunshiny 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?”
She tilted her head, and her smile faltered, though her kindness stayed fast. “I won’t. It will be our secret.”