“Yes,” he said, his voice nothing more than a whisper.
I frowned. “It is not I who would need to forgive you for that.” As I watched him, the guilt tugged at me. “You do not forgive yourself for doing it?”
“I don’t know,” the Horseman said, his voice heavy. “I know it ended her suffering.” His body straightened up so he could lift his head with his hands to meet my eyes. “But I know the way that you might suffer. It would have been more merciful of me to not have saved you.”
I frowned at that, slowly reaching out one hand to lay it ever so gently on his leg. It felt solid and warm as any living human body. “I am glad you saved me,” I said, brimming with truth. “Even if I am unsure why you did.”
He was silent for a long moment before he rose to his feet. “I am going to walk the grounds. Stay here where it’s warm, and rest.”
And then he was striding away from me with powerful steps, out the door before I had much opportunity to formulate a protest.
I explored the church, which was quite small, but the Horseman had made it into a rather cozy sort of place. I inspected many of the figurines I found. Some of the tiny details were exquisite, especially for someone who was working without his head in the proper place. I wondered if perhaps that helped, being able to be closer to the work, though it was an odd question I was not about to ask.
I peered out the windows, able to see part of the churchyard with its gravestones through the rippled glass. I was not going to receive a burial. The villagers would torch my body after Katrina took my head. That was not a comforting thought.
When the Horseman returned, I asked him about the black steed he rode, since I had not seen it since I had fallen off of it on our return. “His name is Daredevil,” he told me as he set down a handkerchief full of fruit for me to eat. “He does not reside here. He only appears at night, and when I have need of him, as if my desire conjures him. And both he and I can only leave this sacred ground once the sun has set. At daybreak, he will vanish.”
I realized that was why the Horseman had come for me when he did after I had left in my impotent rage. He had had to wait for the sun to set before he could leave the safety of the churchyard. “What if you are out at daybreak?”
The Horseman chuckled sardonically. “I am transported back here, to this church. It is probably best that way. When I am not on hallowed ground, I am vulnerable to the witch. She and her minion are the only ones who can harm me.”
“What about Baltus?” I asked curiously.
“His power is weak,” the Horseman said. “He is barely a witch at all. Katrina’s magic comes from her mother’s side.”
We sat in companionable silence while I ate the fruit. I offered some to him, but he refused. “I do not need to eat or sleep. But you do, so any food I have here is for you.”
“Is it hard, to not do the human things you used to do?” I asked. I knew I would miss eating if I were not able to anymore.
“A little,” the Horseman said thoughtfully. “I think it would not feel like such a loss if I were not alone with my own thoughts all of the time.”
“I am often alone too,” I said. “I mean, before all of this, of course. I thought I liked being alone. But I do not think I could bare the solitude you have faced.”
The Horseman gave a little chuckle. I started to ask him another question, but I realized that in the entire time I had known him, he had not once mentioned his own name or that of his family. “What is your name?” I asked suddenly.
He blinked and stared at me with wide eyes. “My name?”
“Yes. Before you died.”
He was silent for a long moment before he finally said, “It has been so long since anyone has asked me that.”
I noticed he did not answer the question. “Do you not remember?” I asked in surprise.
He gave a small shake of his head. “No. I think, when Katrina cursed me to be forgotten by the townspeople, she erased my name too.”
“So you do not even recall your own name?” I said, aghast.
“No,” he said gravely. Something flared in me, hot and sad. This man had had his life cut brutally short, living a lonely, exiled life in the woods of Sleepy Hollow, and he could not even remember who he was before that happened to him. “I’m sorry,” I said.
His dark eyes met mine, giving me a small smile. “Thank you.”
“I… What shall I call you?”
“Everyone calls me the Horseman.”
Another bit of sadness swirled in my stomach. “But that is not really who you are,” I said. “Everyone should have a name.”
He blinked. “You really are remarkable, Ichabod Crane.”
