Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/665735.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Gen, M/M
  Fandom:
      Sleepy_Hollow_(1999)
  Relationship:
      Ichabod_Crane/Original_Character
  Character:
      Ichabod_Crane, Other(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Child_Abuse, Child_Abuse_Aftermath
  Series:
      Part 2 of Ichabod_and_Robert
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-02-01 Words: 17620
****** From the Past ******
by Heathersparrows
Summary
     Constable Crane receives his foster father's diary, recalling dark
     secrets from his childhood.
     Another take on Ichabod's traumatic past, which has left its marks on
     him.
From The Past
 
 
“... Your sorrow’s over now.
Around your wounds begins your peace of mind.
Don’t give up and do not cry
When those demons get you.
I’ll be yours till the end of time.
Please believe me when I say you’ll be fine.”
 
Vanessa Paradis,
“When I say”
Robert Williams woke up and was treated to a rare sight: His lover Ichabod
Crane still sleeping beside him. Being a light sleeper, Ichabod usually was up
at dawn, reading a book, a newspaper, or making notes about something. He then
usually sat in the room next to the bedroom, which served the two men as a
study in the flat they shared.
Robert listened to his lover’s deep, calm breaths. The night had been quiet.
When his relationship with Ichabod had begun a year ago, a dream had become
true for Robert. But even then Robert Williams had known that “happily ever
after” was something out of a fairytale, and that a relationship had to be
worked on every day. In his twenty-year marriage to his wife Mary (she shared
the flat below the two men with her lover Katrina, Ichabod’s wife) he also had
learned about inner demons (some he had not known before), created by a
childhood and a first marriage without love, and two years in a whorehouse.
Thus he had been well prepared for a fight with inner demons haunting his
relationship with Ichabod Crane: For restless nights, when his lover could not
sleep, for nightmares about his childhood, which made him wake up screaming,
for talks in his sleep about cases he was working on, followed by Ichabod
suddenly jumping up and taking notes, for nights Robert himself spent without
sleep in fear for Ichabod, who was on a night shift. – Robert had seen how
easily a human life could be snuffed, when he had lost his first lover in a
fight with muggers. He had no wish to repeat this experience. So he could not
help his fear.
All in all, he could cope very well, Robert thought. It would never be easy
with two sets of inner demons in a relationship. What really got to him was
that Ichabod enjoyed everything they did in bed together, enjoyed it immensely,
but felt ashamed afterwards. Not always, not when he was fairly relaxed. When
the day had been hard, however, when he needed to relax the most, he sometimes
pushed Robert away after they had made love, angry with his lover for doing
what Ichabod himself had asked him to do, urgently asked of him just a while
ago. Angry with his own body for reacting as a healthy young man’s body would
react – if he was aroused by another man making love to him. Angry with himself
for having lost self-control.
Robert assumed that that was the horse’s mouth: losing self-control. Self-
control was very important to Ichabod, because he had an extreme nature: Shy
and gentle, very sensitive, and on the other hand snappy and imperious,
bordering on the disrespectful. Still able to blush after a year, when Robert
admired him in bed, but also very passionate. Never purposeful and mean, always
serious in his quest for truth. A harmless spider drove him up a chair, but he
fearlessly faced his superiors and dangerous thugs alike if it had to be in his
view. – The extremes even showed in his bodily appearance: Slightly built, of
middle height, almost too thin, but with relatively wide shoulders and strong
hands and arms. –Robert knew he had grown up with a doctor and his wife in the
country, and probably the doctor had seen to Ichabod exercising his body or to
enough bodily work to serve this purpose. -
Ichabod always apologised later for tearing himself from his lover’s embrace,
for pushing Robert away, for fleeing from the bed, dressing hastily, running
from the apartment, coming back late or early in the morning, disappearing into
the study, immersed in his own world, not to be reached by his lover – but he
could neither stop this strange behaviour nor explain it.
Robert was a very calm person. His childhood had been a happy one, his parents
had married late in life and had been grateful and delighted with joy when
their marriage had been blessed with a child. They both had been very loving
people. Robert on the other hand had never been a wild, willful child.
Being not only gentle, but wise people as well, his parents also had seen to it
that Robert would be able to care for himself fairly early in life. They had
known they would not be around forever. – In fact, they both had passed away in
a month’s time when Robert had been sixteen, and shortly afterwards a life had
begun for Robert his parents could not have prepared him for. -
Be it as it may, Robert was still grateful to his parents for loving him, thus
giving his life security and stability. Robert was able and willing to pass on
the love and stability both to his wife and his lover, who both had not been so
fortunate in their respective childhoods. But sometimes Robert doubted himself,
his ability to make his lover happy – not to satisfy him, no doubt about that,
but to make him happy – if Ichabod Crane could be made happy at all. And
sometimes it seemed, as if Ichabod needed a much stronger man – to feel safe
and protected, which would perhaps enable him to be more relaxed. – Robert had
known this feeling from his first lover, George. Lying in the arms of a man who
easily could maim and kill you, and who would never do so, who would protect
you against all evil instead, was an erotic thrill not to be underestimated.
Except that it had not worked out in real life – the strongest man could be
killed – but nevertheless –
//Enough, Robert. You don’t even know if this is what Ichabod really wants, so
why do you trouble yourself with these thoughts?//
He treated himself to a good look at his delicious lover instead. Ichabod lay
on his side, his back turned to Robert. He had pushed the cover away and wore
no night-shirt. In a foetal position, the beautiful curve of his back, the
swell of his buttocks, and the sole of one foot were visible to Robert.
Mr Williams withstood the temptation to trace the curve of Ichabod’s spine with
his fingers. It would wake him up, to be sure. The slightest touch did.
For the first time, Robert could clearly see the scars on this lover’s back. A
lot of them were hardly visible any more, especially on the small of Ichabod’s
back or on the perfect buttocks, but enough was left to be seen, pale old scars
crisscrossing back and shoulders, traces of beatings by Ichabod’s real father,
the Hon. Reverend Ebenezer Isaac Crane, the Witch Hunter.
//This was not the usual correction of a child.// Robert thought. //This was
torture. What must he have gone through as a boy?//
Ichabod never spoke of his real father. He spoke about his foster parents and
sometimes even of his real mother, but never of his father, and Robert
suspected that it had a lot to do with his father when his lover behaved
strangely.
Ichabod stirred, turned around, now facing Robert, his eyes still closed. His
eyebrows lifted, his eyes moved rapidly behind closed lids, his dark long
lashes fluttered, he pursed his lips. His right hand, which had been closed to
a fist, opened, showing the punctured scars in his palm, three punctures in a
row, four lines down.
“Good.” he said, still in his dream.
Robert hardly dared to breathe, for one hasty movement could wake the young
man, and Mr Sparrows wanted to enjoy his lover’s innocent beauty a while longer
–
Ichabod’s eyes opened. There was fear in them for a second, then he recognised
his lover and smiled shyly, sitting up, pushing the mass of tangled black hair
away from his face. Then without a word he got up quickly to wash and dress.
Robert did the same, although he would have preferred another beginning for the
new day. Ichabod made tea for them both, and after a hasty breakfast,
consisting of a piece of bread, a cup of tea and an apple, he left for the
Watch House. Ichabod was no man for mornings.
Robert followed him to the Watch House and hour later, but Ichabod was already
out on duty.
There was a small parcel in the mail, addressed to “Constable Ichabod Crane,
New York Police”, and Robert managed to hand it to his lover before Ichabod
finished duty.
In the evening, after a meal together with their wives, Ichabod sat down at the
desk in the study, the parcel in front of him. Robert looked in, saw that
Ichabod was occupied with the parcel and tried to withdraw again, but Ichabod
called him back.
“You said it came with the regular mail?” he asked.
Robert nodded.
They both looked at the parcel. It was wrapped in grey paper, bore red
splotches of sealing wax without the imprint of a seal. “Constable Ichabod
Crane, New York Police” was written on the front, given as the sender was a
“Francis b. Rutherford, Notary, Malvern, Mass.”
“Can you make anything of it?” Robert asked.
Ichabod shook his head, tapping the parcel lightly with a penknife.
“Malvern, Massachusetts is the village where I grew up, but I have never heard
about a notary called Rutherford living there.”
He took the parcel, and to Robert’s amazement, sniffed at it.
Ichabod met his lover’s astonished look.
“Remember the case from last year, where we could prove that the paper of a
letter was poisoned? It had a particular smell of almonds.”
Robert looked at him doubtfully.
“Aren’t you going a bit far? I mean –“
Ichabod shrugged.
“Maybe you are right. – No unusual smell here. Hm. Might as well open it.”
He carefully broke the seals, unfolded the thick paper, revealing two sealed
letters and another, smaller parcel, sealed as well.
Robert admired the slightly prissy, concentrated look on his lover’s face. So
typical of Ichabod Crane!
“Address and Sender repeated on the first letter, same handwriting as the
cover. – Second letter – that handwriting is familiar – “ His voice trailed off
and he smiled sadly.
“Dr Sullivan.” he explained. “My foster father.”
“But you told me he died almost five years ago. Who would send you anything
that has to do with him five years after his death?” Robert asked.
“i don’t know, but I think I’ll know soon.” Ichabod answered.
He took up the small parcel.
“Dr Sullivan’s handwriting on this as well.”
Robert stood and went for the door.
Ichabod looked up.
“Where are you going?”
Robert stopped at the door and turned around.
“This looks like something personal. I don’t want to intrude.”
Ichabod’s dark eyes met his.
//After a year of being my lover, the young man still doesn’t know how much
havoc he can wreak with such a look!// Robert thought.
“I’d appreciate it very much if you’d stay, Robert.” Ichabod said.
Robert would have been unable to leave even if he had really wanted.
“if you want me to stay, I’ll stay of course.” he answered.
“Thank you.” Ichabod said and occupied himself again with the letters. He
opened the one which bore the unknown handwriting and read it, then handed it
to Robert.
“Dear Sir,” the letter began.
“The first thing to do is to ask your apologies for sending you only now what
should have reached you a long time ago. After a long illness, my predecessor,
the Notary Joseph Jenkins, passed away two years ago.
When I took over my late colleague’s affairs, unfortunately I found a lot of
unfinished business, no doubt due to his long illness. – Among the unfinished
affairs I found the enclosed letter and parcel from Dr Francis Sullivan, your
foster father, given to my predecessor to be taken care of and to be sent to
you after Dr Sullivan’s death.
The only details known to me are your name and your occupation. – Please accept
my apologies for not sending these documents by messenger. I do not have the
means.
I still hope they will reach you in due time, though.
Again asking your apologies for the delay,
I remain your obedient servant
Francis B. Rutherford, Notary
Malvern, Mass., October 16, 1800”
Robert imagined Notary Francis B. Rutherford, no doubt a very young man, faced
with his predecessor’s unfinished affairs: a small dusty room, an Augias Stable
of unsorted documents, letters, notes, papers. – He did not envy him.
“So Notary Jenkins is dead as well.” Ichabod said thoughtfully. “He hadn’t been
well when I saw him last after my foster father’s death. I thought everything
had been settled after I sold the house. He never mentioned these documents
then.”
“Perhaps he had not found them yet, still sorting through Dr Sullivan’s
papers?” Robert suggested.
“This might be the reason.” Ichabod agreed. “My foster father had been living
alone for the last few years.”
“Did you ever visit him?” Robert asked. “The only occasion I remember you asked
for a few days off was when you had learned about his death.”
Ichabod bowed his head.
“We did not part on friendly terms.” he said curtly.
He took his foster father’s letter and opened it. Reading it, he turned very
pale, which frightened Robert.
“What is it?” he asked. “Did something go wrong?”
Ichabod pushed the letter over to him.
“I’m afraid to open that parcel.” he confessed. “Will there never be an end?
Always another dark secret from the past to be uncovered? – I’m so tired of
this!”
“But on the other hand, knowing yourself as you do, you know it would be more
vexing for you not to know.” Robert answered.
He read Dr. Sullivan’s letter.
“Malvern, January 24, 1796
My dear Son,
It has been almost three years not that you went to New York to join the Police
Force. You know, I did not approve of your decision, because I had other plans
for you. – Forgive an old Irishman for being so stubborn.
Having thought it over for the last three years, I came to the conclusion that
you must do what you think best. No doubt you will bring what you have learned
in your years of study to good use in the Police Force.”
//Tell the High Constable.// Robert thought. He was convinced that more crimes
would be solved if the High Constable listened to the advice of Constable Crane
an would grant Crane’s wish to put his methods to the test more often.
He read on.
“As my health fails me more and more over the last few months, I feel the time
has come to put my house in order, before I join my beloved Sarah, your ‘Little
Mother’.
Maybe I’ll have the chance to see you again before I go over to the next world,
to make up to you in person for my harsh words and my selfish wishes for your
future – but this is for God to decide.
In any case, this letter and my diary about how I found you and about your
first years with Sarah and me will be handed over to you after my death by
Notary Jenkins, if I shall not see you again before I die. – I have also
written about a strong suspicion I have regarding your first father’s death. –
Some of my findings will shock and hurt you – forgive me – but they are nothing
but the truth. –
The diary contains the notes of a doctor, and you were very ill when you came
to us, my son, broken in body and soul. You may have forgotten, and it was good
you forgot a lot in growing up. But some old ghosts from childhood tend to come
back to haunt you when you have grown up, so it may be better to know them. –
Never be ashamed of what you read. You have mastered all illness and hardships
to become the noble young man you are, passionate and gentle. – One advice:
Don’t forget to look for trust and love in your life, dear son!
My love and my good wishes will always be with you, and forgive me for not
approving of your decision at first. Your life is yours to lead!
Your loving Father
Francis Sullivan, M. D.”
Ichabod pushed a few strands of dark hair away from his face. His eyes were
almost black and burned when he looked at his lover.
“You know me well, Robert. – Of course I have to open the parcel. – But I don’t
know if I want to be alone when I read my foster father’s notes or if I should
ask you to read them together with me.”
Robert’s green eyes looked for a moment into his lover’s dark ones, before he
lowered his eyelids.
“In other words: You don’t know whether you trust me enough,” he said.
//I sound like a bad actor in a bad theatrical play.// he thought at the same
moment. //How can I try to talk him into trusting me to a degree he doesn’t
feel? – It’s just a bit disappointing, and I let myself be carried away by the
thought that I’m good enough to share his bed, to bring this exquisite young
man to heights of lust, and to be excluded from his guilty feelings afterwards.
And he is still frightened to trust!//
He became aware of his lover’s eyes resting on him.
“You are angry with me.” Ichabod stated.
“Hm,” Robert said.
//Who could be angry with you for long?” he thought.
“And you’re right,” Ichabod continued. “You deserve more trust from me.”
His fingertips touched Robert’s fingertips, the light touch sending a hot rush
through the lower part of his lover’s body.
“Forgive me.” He smiled one of his rare, shy smiles.
//How could I not forgive you, my Dark Angel?// Robert thought. //Robert
Williams, the sentimental fool, is wax in your hands, and you don’t even know
it. – And even if you knew, you’d never exert your power over me. It’s simply
not in your nature. – and this is one reason more to love you.//
Ichabod lit another candle and beckoned Robert over to his side of the desk,
making him sit down in the chair he himself had occupied so far, pulling over a
small stool for himself, putting a few books on the floor. In this way, they
could sit next to each other and read the doctor’s diary together.
It was a small, thin book, bound in brown leather, and sealed as well. It was
obvious that the doctor had not wanted these notes to be read by anyone except
his foster son.
//Notary Rutherford has been careless to send these personal papers away with
the address he gave. What if they had fallen into the wrong hands?// Robert
thought.
Ichabod broke the seal and opened the book. The pages were tightly covered in
Dr Sullivan’s small, neat handwriting, which, in contrary to what is said about
doctors’ handwritings, Robert found very legible.
“November 3, 1782, the Hon. Rev. Ebenezer Crane’s House, Troubridge,” the diary
began. “Had an urgent call this evening to the neighbouring village of
Troubridge. A Gentleman presented himself at my house, giving his name as
Matthew Stewart, Schoolmaster in Troubridge. As their own doctor had done a
fall from his horse two days earlier, injured his head and broke an arm and a
leg, they are in need of my services in Troubridge. The Reverend has died
suddenly and the death certificate is to be made out.
I have never been to Troubridge before, although it is only ten miles north of
Malvern, but word got around that the deceased, the Hon. Rev. Ebenezer Crane,
had put up a hard regiment there. He had been an avid Witch Hunter in his
youth, and he was said to have his own wife suspected of witchcraft, delivered
her to the authorities, and they executed her as a witch.”
In a darker ink the doctor had added obviously later:
“Unfortunately, there is no doubt about it! I studied the notes about
witchcraft trials in Boston and found the name Elsa Crane, wife of the Hon.
Rev. Ebenezer Crane, of Troubridge, Mass. She died during torture at her
husband’s house, but may it be a faint comfort to you, my dear son, she
confessed to being a witch, but steadfastly denied having taught her dark arts
to her seven-year-old son, Ichabod! She saved your life!”
Ichabod sat rigidly upright, looking into a dark corner of the room.
“There is no longer any doubt now, “ he whispered. “No longer only my dream – I
knew my dream was right. My memory – “
Robert put his hand on his lover’s arm in a reassuring gesture.
They read on.
“I followed the Schoolmaster to Troubridge, and I do not like it. Some of these
small villages have an air of heartless cruelty around them, hidden behind a
mask of piety and righteousness. And such is the case here in Troubridge. It is
none of my business, tomorrow I shall be out of here, probably never to return
to Troubridge again – but I rarely have seen people I liked less. I am not
prejudiced, but these people get to me: the Alderman, Johnson by name, is a
vain, pompous man, the Schoolmaster, Mr Stewart, has something disagreeable
around him I cannot put my finger on.
The Reverend’s house is big, dark, cold, and neglected. We were greeted by the
Reverend’s housekeeper, a Miss Avery, a tall, middle-aged woman with a hard,
cold face. Looking at her, I strongly suspected she likes the bottle more than
her work.
I examined the Reverend’s corpse: A tall, slender man in his forties he had
been, fine features speaking of a good brain, but stern and hard even in death.
In my opinion, such a man could well be able to hand over his wife to torture
and death without hesitation, if he was convinced of her guilt.
The Alderman and the Schoolmaster were with me during the examination. Probably
to make sure nothing indecent happened to the body. – I am a stranger here, not
to be trusted. They make this clear enough behind their masks of friendliness.
It is awkward enough for them that hey had to turn to me as a doctor. – They
told me that the Reverend’s death had come as a surprise to them all. The
housekeeper had found her master dead in his chair in his study this afternoon.
As they said, he had no known history of illness. He had always been in good
health, working incessantly for the community.
Unfortunately, my examination of the body could not be as thorough as I would
have wished because of the two men being present all the time. I did not find
any signs that the death had been a violent one, no facial contortion, only the
usual rigor mortis, no scratches, no bruises. Of course, I could not strip away
the clothes to look for further marks. There was no unusual colouring of the
skin, eyeballs, or tongue. The Reverend’s heart must have stopped suddenly, and
this is what I gave as the cause of his death.
I have a strong intuition, though, that the Reverent did not die of a natural
cause. I cannot prove it. People do die all of a sudden. – The Alderman , the
Schoolmaster and the housekeeper all speak well of the deceased. This is
customary, but I also detect a certain fear in their words. The Reverend has
been a respected, but also a feared man. And men who are feared are also often
hated. – However, I am a mere country doctor and not a policeman. What should I
do, as I am not in the position to prove my suspicion in any way? – And what if
my suspicion is wrong after all? – Instead of getting involved too much into
the affairs of these people I shall be glad to leave first thing in the
morning. Only because it was already late at night when I finished my
examination of the body and signed the death certificate, I accepted the
Alderman’s invitation to stay in the Reverend’s house overnight. I was
astonished that he invited me thus, but I learned he executes the late
Reverend’s will: The house and all his possessions will go to the community,
and as the head of the community he can do what he things best with the
property. - He and the Schoolmaster stay as well, along with a few women from
the neighbourhood, who will help Miss Avery in the morning to wash and dress
the Reverend’s body.”
Robert looked at Ichabod.
“And where were you in all this?”
“I think we will learn if we read on.” Ichabod turned a page. He seemed lost in
memories.
“We all met in the spacious kitchen for a hastily provided meal, and I saw that
someone else lives here: I entered the kitchen, and a small, scrawny, dirty boy
was laying the table. I thought him to be a lad from the village, a servant,
dressed in what they thought best for the occasion, and did not pay much
attention to him at first. Then I noticed his walk: A slow hobble. His legs and
body were not deformed, as far as I could see, so there must be another reason
for his slow movements. I think it was pain, from an accident or a severe
beating, maybe. I looked closer at the boy: He did not look wilful or mean,
which would maybe justify a severe bodily correction. In fact, he looked
starved and neglected: stringy, unkempt black hair, much too long, a small face
with big, dark, fearful eyes, a shabby suit, made from good cloth, but worn too
long and too much, torn stockings, too large shoes. He smelled unwashed and
faintly of urine. What a wretched creature! – And why had I to think of Samuel,
my dead boy? Just because the boy here must be of almost the same age as Samuel
would be now?
I asked him if he was hurt, because of his walk. He flinched when I addressed
him, and said it was nothing. Then he tried to move faster and hold himself
more erect. That fearful look the dark eyes gave me between those matted,
unkempt strings of hair! He somehow looked different from the people around
here in a way I could not put my finger on. I asked him his name. Ichabod
Crane. I asked him further if he was related to the Deceased, and he told me
the Reverend had been his father! I was astonished to hear this. No one had
mentioned to me so far that the Reverend had a son! – And all the property goes
to the community. So the boy, an orphan now, will be reduced to charity. Not an
unusual fate. But why did the Reverend disown his son? The boy is too small to
have committed a crime so offensive to warrant such a measure. – Or is he
illegitimate? Then he would not bear the name Crane. He must be the fruit of
the Reverend’s marriage to the unfortunate woman he brought to trial as a
witch. Rumour has it that she was an Egyptian – the name some people around
here have for gypsies. This would explain the boy’s looks. – Who will take care
of him? – Why is he so neglected at all? Anyone with a bit of self-respect
should be ashamed to let his child walk around like that! And the Ron. Rev.
Crane was not a poor man, as I can see. Did he hate the boy, because he
reminded him of his wife? –
What is it to me? I feel that I am going to get more involved in the affairs of
the villagers of Troubridge as I intended! Should it be God’s will to show me
this unhappy child? And why?
As I said already, the boy flinched when I spoke to him and answered me in a
voice so low I could hardly understand him. Despite his neglected outward
appearance he had good manners and appeared to be bright, but he was very shy
and fearful. – I soon saw why: The housekeeper came in and seeing the boy speak
to me, she pushed him hard, scolding him for being a nuisance to me. I put
things straight by telling her the boy had not been a nuisance at all, but had
answered a question a I asked him, which was only polite. – She obviously has
no way with the boy. Why does she not look after him properly? –
The others came in. No one even spoke to the boy, recognising the loss he had
suffered. They kept away from him as if he had some contagious illness, or
plainly ignored him. Except the Schoolmaster. He sat next to the boy at the
long table, a bit apart from the rest of the party. I noticed how much he
touched the boy. Each time I looked, he had his hands on the boy’s arm,
shoulder, hand, or head. I did not like this at all, and the boy obviously did
not like it either. He seemed to become even smaller under the Schoolmaster’s
touches, and yet I saw him smile at the man.”
Ichabod jumped up abruptly. The stool toppled, Ichabod’s hip caught the desk,
it swayed.
“Whoa.” Robert said softly, steadying the candlestick. He went over to Ichabod,
who now stood at the opposite wall, his forehead pressed against the cold
stone, touched his shoulder.
Slowly, Ichabod turned around, facing his lover.
“He knew it. “ he whispered. “He knew it all the time!”
Robert did not reply, just caressed Ichabod’s shoulder.
“It hurts.” Ichabod said, amazement in his voice. “It was wrong and I was
afraid of him, but on the other hand he – he let me be good for something at
least! For the others I was only bad and worthless scum, and he – I – needed a
bit of - something not to die!”
He turned to the wall again, his fingers clawing at it in agony.
“Why does it hurt so much?!”
Robert felt a helpless rage surging through him. He seemed to have a talent to
like difficult people with bitter pasts – first Mary, and now Ichabod. – he
could have killed Ichabod’s heartless father, the mean housekeeper, the
lecherous schoolmaster, people who had hurt his lover and who probably all were
long in their graves. Hopefully.
“You feel bad for something which was not your fault.” he said after a while.
“Don’t blame yourself, Ichabod. – Please.”
Ichabod brushed past him pacing the small room like an animal in a cage. Robert
knew these outbursts of pain and anger, and he cursed the late Dr Sullivan’s
idea of handing over his diary to his foster son and Notary Rutherford’s sense
of duty in delivering it to him. Now he almost wished the diary had never
reached its destination but had been destroyed on the way.
Ichabod stopped his pacing in front of Robert.
“I want to read on.” he said.
//Everything you want, my beautiful lover.// Robert thought. //I could not
persuade you not to read on, anyway.//
He nodded wordlessly, they took their former seats again and read on.
“November 4, 1782, the early hours of the morning.
Felt thirsty earlier and went to the kitchen to find some water. – The boy was
still there, cleaning up after our supper. I frightened him badly, entering the
kitchen so suddenly. He gave a low scream, and a wet stain formed on his
trousers - . My heart still hurts when I think of it. The boy is no half-wit,
and he was very embarrassed. – what frightened me about him was his rigid self-
control. I saw that he wanted to run away and hide, but good manners and fear
of being punished did not allow him to do so. He stood there, staring at me
with big, dark, frightened yes, fighting back his tears. What did he think I
wanted of him? - A very sad and lonely boy. And very brave. I had to think of
Samuel again. Why? My son never was that sad. He had no reason to be. He was
more of a boy, a child. An open and friendly nature, very daring. Too daring –
“
//Rigid self-control. Even then.// Robert thought. He saw Ichabod’s hand
tremble when he turned the page.
“I asked the boy for some water which he provided at once. Then I introduced
myself – belatedly, but our former encounter had been interrupted by the
housekeeper – and explained to him why I was here. – He did not seem to be very
sad about his father’s death, but I did not expect him to be anyway, as
frightened and neglected as he looks to me. – I asked him if he knew what was
to become of him. He said the Alderman had told him he belonged to the
community now, like the house and the rest of his late father’s property, and
he was to work for whoever would take him in. I asked further if he knew who
would that be. He hesitated, looking at me as if undecided about whether to
confide in me or not. I made it easy for him, telling him I was under the
impression some people here did not like him. He nodded. – After a while, in
which he obviously still pondered whether I was to be trusted he said they’d
call him Gypsy Bastard and Witches’ Spawn and they said his mother had been
burned as a witch, but it was not true, because she had died of a fever. The
Schoolmaster had told him this, and he also had told him his mother had been
the daughter of a Heathen Gypsy King, but his father had baptised her before
marrying her, and she had been a Christian and he was not bastard, because his
parents had been married when he was born.. – And the Schoolmaster would take
him in. – I asked the boy if he liked to be with the Schoolmaster. He shrugged
at first, as if to say that he had no word in this anyway. Then he added
hastily that the Schoolmaster was very good to him. But he looked unhappy. – I
asked him further, what about his father? He answered his father had been a
good man, very strict, trying to make him better. These sentences sound as if
learned by heart, as if he had been told these things over and over. As if this
was what he was to say if someone asked him. – Asked what he meant by trying to
make him better, he said, beating evil out of him! – If there is something I do
not like, it is excessive beating. In my experience, it has made no one ever
better, neither man nor beast!”
//True.// Robert thought. //Very true.//
He moved closer to Ichabod, feeling the warmth of his lover’s body emanating
from him. And the slight trembling. Robert moved even closer. Ichabod did not
move away. Robert turned the page.
“To lighten the mood, I changed the subject of our conversation by telling I
never had heard the name Ichabod. He told me his full name was Ichabod Isaac
Jacob Crane. It was from the Bible, he said. Of course it would be. I have
nothing against good Biblical names such as Isaac, Jacob, Abraham, Joseph. –
Maybe I am a stubborn catholic Irishman, but sometimes these Puritan
Protestants get to me. I know I should be ashamed to criticise other people’s
beliefs. – But calling a child Ichabod? He said it was from the Book of Samuel,
and I held my breath. Samuel again! – I asked Ichabod how old he was. Ten
years. He is very small for his age. Fine bones. Samuel had his height, and he
was eight years old when he drowned. – I do not know why I told the boy about
Samuel, my only child I lost over a year ago. He went too far out into the
river while fishing, a current pulled him away, and he drowned. They all helped
me looking for him: Old O’Banion and his boys, Hugh O’Leary, Matthew Archer,
Chris Van Galen. Paul O’Banion found him two days later. I cursed God for
letting his happen. (Which I did not tell Young Ichabod.) but God does not care
anyway. His ways are not for us to judge. –
Ichabod was very silent after I told him about Samuel. - I began to like the
boy.: His serious attention and a shy joy that someone spoke to him and took
him seriously. -The boy is bright, and he is mostly scolded, abused or ignored.
–
Out of the blue he then changed the subject himself and said his father had not
been well for the last two days. He had ended the Bible lessons (or should I
say the beating?) early. And he had never known his father being unwell before.
And Miss Avery had been unwell, too. I asked the boy if he had been unwell, but
he said no. I then asked whether his father and the housekeeper had eaten
something special. He told me the Schoolmaster had brought something to eat
again, dried mushrooms. He did this sometimes, bringing fish or a pheasant or
something else. He and the Reverend had been friends. – The housekeeper hat
made a soup with the mushrooms. I asked him if he had eaten from the soup, but
he answered he never got anything from the food the Schoolmaster brought. Only
his father and Miss Avery and sometimes Mr Stewart himself would eat from it.”
“Mushrooms!” Ichabod exclaimed. “Poisonous mushrooms: After twelve hours:
nausea, vomiting, diarrhea – after twenty-four hours: circulatory collapse. The
heart stops. A dissection of the body will show damages to liver and kidneys –“
He stopped.
“It looks as if the Reverend was poisoned,” he added. “Let’s see if Father
writes more about it!”
Robert well noted his lover speaking of his real father as “the Reverend” and
of Dr Sullivan as “Father”.
They read on.
“- And as if the Devil had willed it so, at this moment the Schoolmaster
entered the kitchen – looking for the boy? – anyway, he took Ichabod with him,
and I let him do it, because I was so engrossed in my thoughts about the new
aspects that had come up.
My feeling is true, perhaps something is wrong with the Reverend’s death. Maybe
the soup? It could have been an accident, an unfortunate accident – or purpose?
Miss Avery would gain nothing from administering poison to her master. Mr
Stewart? He was the Reverend’s friend? That’s what the boy says. – Ichabod
himself? He is a child, for God’s sake! – And I cannot prove anything. I only
have my inner nudge and what the boy told me, but not magistrate’s court would
take either as sufficient proof that a crime had been committed. For proof, I
would have to examine the contents of the Reverend’s stomach. And as I cannot
do this, I better forget the whole thing. I am not a policeman. And the
Reverend crane is dead anyway.”
Robert looked at Ichabod. The seemingly calm face of his lover did not deceive
him. The young constable’s mind was working feverishly, probably glad to be
diverted from his sad past.
“He could not do a thing.” Ichabod confirmed his foster father’s words. “If he
had gone to the authorities to get a permit to examine the contents of the dead
man’s stomach, they would have laughed at him and probably would have
threatened him with a prison sentence for disturbing the Peace of the Dead! –
He had no proof indeed!”
“Probably so,” Robert said.
“We’ll never know,” Ichabod murmured.
“Probably, “Robert repeated. “But we’ll know what became of Young Ichabod.”
Ichabod did not answer, but turned to his foster father’s diary again. They
read on.
“November 4, 1782, Late afternoon, back in Malvern.
I met the boy again this morning, in the stables. He fed and watered the two
horses in there, mine and what probably had been the late Reverend’s horse. –
Shamrock nuzzled his hair, he flinched first, then his thin fingers stroked my
horse’s big muzzle. He flinched again when he noticed me. – What must this boy
have gone through to be so frightened? – The Schoolmaster had taken him away
last night. I had not hindered him. It had been late, and I hoped he would see
to it that the boy would get some sleep – I should not have left them alone, I
know that now. But I can not prove that he sodomised and abused the boy without
humiliating and frightening Young Ichabod even more. For the boy’ sake I do not
want this. What he needs now is a good home and stable conditions. And I shall
provide them for him. –
He stood in the stable this morning, shivering, taking all his courage
together. ‘You told me about your son yesterday, Sir.’ he said. And then
hastily: ‘You wouldn’t want another boy? – I could work for you, Sir!’
He did not look at me when he said this, he looked at the horses as if he had
not asked a question which was very important to him.
I took him up into my arms, although he is well beyond that age, but I wanted
him to look at me. He weighs next to nothing. His small face contorted into a
grimace of pain for a moment. He held himself very bravely, though, regarding
the fact that I know now in how much pain he is. He was slightly feverish,
shivering, his cheeks and forehead felt hot. His big dark eyes searched my
face, he smiled shyly.”
//My God, the poor creature!// Robert thought. And then: //I know that smile.
And it still is innocent! – I’m not surprised Dr Sullivan noticed that smile!//
He turned another page, curious how the story might go on.
“I saw him for what he was:” the Doctor wrote, “A creature of God, slowly
dying. And I know I can prevent this. Why not try? Giving this neglected boy a
home will be a good task for Sarah and me, to take our thoughts away from
Samuel, to ease our pain. –
I put the boy down, took him by the hand and went straight to the Alderman with
him to settle the matter. I was convinced now that it was the best for him if
he left with me at once, if we did not wait until the funeral was over. – It
was very rude of me, but suddenly I had enough of the people of Troubridge –
not as if they were worse than the people anywhere else – I just had enough for
the moment.
I found the Alderman and the Schoolmaster in the late Reverend’s library,
sorting through the books. The Hon. Rev. Crane is not in his grave yet, and the
vultures are already at his earthly possessions. – None of my business. –
The Alderman seemed relieved that I am willing to take care of the boy, but the
Schoolmaster’s face fell. Oh that look he gave me, a mixture of helpless rage
and fear! And how he looked at the boy! Maybe he suspected that the boy had
told me something, that I might know more than he would ever want anyone to
know, but he did not dare to say anything. – Had he not been very restless
during my examination of the Reverend’s body? My concentration had suffered a
lot through his nervous fidgeting, and I had been very sorely tempted to ask
him to leave. – Be it as it may – the community does not give a damn for Young
Ichabod Crane, but it looks good to give him to a married man, a doctor at that
– and have the Witche’s Spawn taken off their backs. The boy will be better off
with my wife and myself than with the bachelor Schoolmaster. That was what the
Alderman decided, and Mr Stewart could only look on. –
All the time while we talked about him, Young Ichabod looked at a spot on the
white wall, his shoulders drawn up, as if trying not to be seen. He stole one
shy look at the Schoolmaster, when the latter told me ominously the boy was
ungrateful and difficult to handle, and it might well be that I would regret my
decision one day. I did not do him the favour of acknowledging his remarks.
If my suspicion which can never be uttered should be true, he murdered his
friend, the Reverend, to get Crane’s under-age son into his power. And now I
have thwarted his plans. – I must repeat it over and over again: I cannot prove
anything, and God forgive me, should I have suspected an innocent man! – At
least innocent in regard to murder. – I do not think so, however. The
Schoolmaster’s wrath does not irk me much. The boy’s well-being is my first
concern. He is feverish and hardly in a state to attend the funeral.”
Robert looked at his lover.
“What do you think? Did he murder your father?”
Ichabod shuddered. His eyes had a faraway look. He was a ten-year-old boy in
Troubridge again.
The beatings “to make him better”. The pain. The hunger. Feverish – half in a
daze. Urine hot and wet in his trousers, running down his legs. The other
children staring in horror, some in mocking disbelief. Stones and mud flying,
hatred in their faces and voices, contempt. The feeling of being not human,
regardless of how much you tried to be good and how hard you worked. – Kneeling
in front of the Schoolmaster, naked and cold – the thing between his legs
smelled of urine. If you took it in your mouth or if you lay on your belly on
his bed and got it into your opening without crying – you had to bite your
wrist hard to manage – there was something to eat afterwards, and – above all –
the feeling of being good at least for something. A kind of sick triumph, even
in running away from the other boys. //I can do this!// and //He chose me, not
you!// - And yet it was bad, it set him even more apart from the others, and
the Schoolmaster was right: If he told someone, they would not believe him,
they would say he had bewitched the Schoolmaster, and they would kill him. This
was what they needed to kill him ...
Robert touched his arm, and Ichabod gave a low cry, slowly coming back. He
became aware that he had bloody bite marks on his wrist.
“I don’t know what to think, Robert.” He said, after Robert had repeated his
question. “And after eighteen years – how could I find out now if Dr Sullivan
was right?” he added.
//Dr Sullivan was right.// Robert thought, kissing Ichabod’s bloody wrist. //An
abyss of suspicion, silence, lies. Small wonder Sleepy Hollow brought Ichabod
bad memories!//
“November 5, 1782.
As I had hoped, Sarah welcomed Young Ichabod with open arms and an open heart,
although he is very shy, bewildered and frightened almost out of his wits, and
resembles a little scarecrow more than a boy at the moment – or perhaps just
because of that. She took him into her heart the instant she saw him. And
Ichabod even smiled at her. I am happy to see this. Deep in my heart I had
feared she would reject Young Ichabod and scold me for bringing home such a sad
caricature of a boy to take the place of our beloved son – without talking this
through with her first. But she can see the beauty and intelligence behind
neglect and abuse and will help me in bringing it to the surface.
Later –
I have just examined Young Ichabod. I have been a doctor for a while, and I
have seen enough bad things to be hardened, wounded soldiers, hunters maimed by
animals, accidents of all sorts – but what I have just witnessed and seen has
shaken me.
I explained to the boy what I was going to do. He nodded, as if he had
understood, but he seemed far away, his eyes not seeing me. He undressed fully,
then stood in front of me, that faraway look in his eyes, mechanically biting
his wrist. I tried to speak to him, to take his wrist away from his mouth. He
stopped biting himself obediently, only to start again a minute later. I
recognised, the only thing to bring him out of his stupor would be to get the
examination done as quickly as possible.
His back is a mess. It does not surprise me any longer that he walks so slowly
and with a hobble! A mass of welts, they have partly broken up and are
bleeding, some of them are even festering and inflamed. The welts extend down
to his buttocks, there are a few on his arms and legs, on his chest and even on
his stomach. No wonder he is feverish. – His lower arms are full of bite marks
he has inflicted on himself. And there are punctured symmetric scars in both of
his palms. I am at a loss about what would leave such scars. At the moment, I
cannot ask him about them, but later I shall do so.
He suddenly fainted, from fear and exhaustion, I think. It hurts me to have
frightened him so! But, having made sure his fainting spell was not dangerous,
I used the time he was unconscious to make sure about my suspicion, without
having to frighten the boy even more. I was right. He is torn and bleeding. The
Schoolmaster must have sodomised him. – I am a Catholic, but what a grown man
does with somebody else who has given his consent of his own free will, is none
of my business. And if this other person is male or female I consider none of
my business either. To force a child, however, whose mind and body are not
ready for these things yet, to have sexual intercourse, I consider a sin,
because it disturbs the natural development of a young human being.
Furthermore, the boy is too small for his age and badly undernourished. – It is
sad enough that a lot of people don’t have enough to eat for their children –
but the Hon. Rev. Crane was rich. As a Christian, it would have been his duty
to see to his son being properly fed and clothed!
I know I am angry. Lord, I do not want to argue with your ways. Some people
have a bright, healthy son. They do everything for their child – and they have
to lose him in an accident. – Another man has a bright, healthy son. And he
hates his own flesh and blood so much, he starves him without need, beats him
half to death and leaves him to people who beat and abuse him even more! –
I informed Sarah about what I found out and to prepare her for what she would
see when she gave him his bath. She cried, and she suggested we should do
something against the Schoolmaster, before he does to another boy what he did
to Young Ichabod.
The boy looks better already. Sarah bathed him, and we took care of his wounds.
She cut his hair and found new clothes for him. Samuel’s clothes fit Young
Ichabod – a good thing I did not press Sarah too hard to give them away.
Later again –
Ichabod is asleep. I gave him a mild sedative to ease his pain and to assure a
good night’s rest for him.
Sarah and I discussed the Schoolmaster. We – or to be honest: I – decided
against accusing him for two reasons: One: He is a coward. He picked Young
Ichabod because he was neglected and without protection – an easy prey. Second:
We would have to prove our accusations, which would mean more examinations and
questioning for Young Ichabod – and as his mental and physical condition is not
stable, I do not want to submit him to this. And this argument also convinced
Sarah.
Maybe our decision is wrong – call me a coward - but the accusation of a person
of authority is an outrageous act, and it would cause a lot of trouble. Forgive
me, Lord, but I think it better if my wife and I save our energy to give the
boy a good home.”
“Goodness!” Robert said, when they had read so far. “Lord Almighty!”
“I had forgotten.” Ichabod said, and his voice sounded dead. “And I had not
forgotten. – Deep inside, it was always there. And believe me: I often feel as
if I was that helpless, abused little boy again – as if people would start to
throw mud and stones again. – Sleepy Hollow was just welcome home to
Troubridge!”
“But you are brave.” Robert said. “You face your fears. Again and again!”
Ichabod looked at him. And his look was loving and grateful as Robert had never
seen his lover look at him before.
“You know very well yourself, Robert, that there is no other choice!”
He shrugged, and turned to his foster father’s diary again.
“December 5, 1782
Young Ichabod has been with us for a month today. The wounds on his body heal
well. His soul will take much longer.
The first few nights when we looked in on him we found him on the floor. He was
afraid to wet the bed and to be punished. Sarah and I took turns to sit up with
him so he wouldn’t leave the bed. And when he wet himself, we had to clean up
and to prevent him from biting himself for it. – But he is much better already,
and the occasions when he wets the bed at night become rarer.
After the first week, when he was well enough to leave the bed, and he dropped
something, or accidentally did something else he thought undesirable, he became
rigid and looked at a spot on the floor, awaiting to be beaten.
He is still easily frightened, particularly of strangers, and sudden noises,
such as a window or a door slamming shut, cause him to wet himself (some of the
blows also may have done damage to his kidneys). Although Sarah and I never
scold him, he is very embarrassed by that. He flies into helpless rages,
scratching and biting himself. I try to speak reasonably to him, and mostly he
calms down. But Sarah’s efforts mostly show more results. She takes him into
her arms, and he stops biting himself, becomes quiet and enjoys the embrace –
before tearing himself from her arms, as if afraid of her love.
Moreover, he learns to feel again, to open to what his senses convey to him,
and to enjoy things: the taste of hot milk with honey (his favourite), stroking
Lilith, our cat, or Shamrock, the horse, to read a book I gave him and to look
at the coloured prints in it (he has a good mind, and he wants to learn, he
lately even takes the heart to ask me questions), to feel the cold winter air
on his cheeks and the warmth of a fire. He takes in the impressions, stops and
seems to think about them, before he shows a reaction, like a smile. – I
surmise the cruel beatings and what the Schoolmaster did to him made Ichabod
numb his senses to feel less pain. And now the process is reversing itself to
normal again. I trust in the power of self-healing. Ichabod is on a good way.
January 10, 1783
Young Ichabod’s back has healed. A few scars will remain however. It cannot be
helped. His kidneys are better. He does not complain about pain in this region
any longer. He has become more calm, rarely wets himself now when awake. – He
however does not eat much, and when upset cannot keep his food down. I do not
like that. If he continues to do so, I shall have to examine him further. What
worries me as well is that he still punishes himself when he thinks he has done
something undesirable. – There is a lot of bewilderment and rage in him. Who
would not be bewildered and enraged if beaten for reasons he does not know? And
treated in a way he has no words for? – Some people become mean in a situation
like that, for example towards the dumb creatures. Ichabod is never mean,
however. He is very eager to please Sarah and me. He loves to sketch, his
sketches show great talent and accuracy. It seems as if he eases his pain in
sketching. – He is starving for affection, and at the same time still afraid to
trust. Lately, he himself goes to Sarah and hugs her, putting his head on her
shoulder, out of the blue, then withdraws quickly, as if afraid of being pushed
away.”
//Don’t I know this from somewhere?// Robert thought.
Ichabod felt his lover’s gaze resting on him, guessing Robert’s thoughts.
“I know, I still do it.” he said. “I – I cannot – “ His voice trailed off.
Robert did not reply, but gently touched his lover’s hand.
The two men read on.
“I spend as much time with him as possible, let him ride Shamrock, water, feed,
and groom the horse, clean the stable. Sarah gave him the task to care for the
goat and the chickens as well, which he does punctually and carefully. The
animals seem to like him. – I take long walks with Young Ichabod, and when
summer comes again I shall teach him how to swim. I do not know if this will
make him too daring, and if my idea of preventing him to repeat Samuel’s fate
might backfire, but my instincts tell me I shall be doing the right thing in
teaching him how to swim.
He has been going to school for over a week now. I prepared our schoolmaster,
telling him a bit about the boy. Mr Moynahan is a young man, he has two small
boys of his own, and he likes his profession. So Ichabod had a good start. He
had been terribly afraid to go to school again, because of how the other
children treated him in Troubridge. But here he is not the Gypsy Bastard, being
laughed at because of his ragged clothes. What he feared most was to wet
himself, but the other children received him friendly, because Mr Moynahan had
prepared them a little, and so this did not happen. – Ichabod bravely goes to
school every day, and the other children treat him as one of their own – maybe
they find him a bit odd, as the schoolmaster says, but they do not taunt and
torment him. Maybe he even will be able to find comrades, if they know him
better. He is no longer afraid of going there, he has become more sure of
himself, and this means a lot to us.”
The two men ha read this far without any of them interrupting, sitting side by
side.
Ichabod sat motionless, lost in his thoughts. It had been better. Definitely
so. Suddenly you were a human being again. You could feel the love they gave
you. Oh, it was good, but if they would find out how bad you really were, they
would no longer love you. – After some years, the feeling still had been there,
although he had forgotten why he was so bad, what he had done to be so bad. –
you had to be vbery, very careful. All the time. That feeling had remained.
Robert took Ichabod’s hand and kissed it.
“You’re cold.” he said. “the fire has nearly burned down.”
He put some wood onto the small stove, then sat down again next to his lover.
“Shall we read on?”
“I forgot so much.” Ichabod whispered, shaking his head in amazement.
“You had to survive.” Robert said.
Ichabod nodded without a further word, and they read on.
“June 9, 1783
Today is Young Ichabod’s birthday. He turns eleven. –
No one would recognise him now as the small, wretched scarecrow he was when he
came to my house eight months ago. He has grown considerably and put on a bit
weight. His body has developed through the work in house and garden and through
swimming. He likes both. He is still shy and tends to withdraw, but he is also
very brave. Mr Moynahan strongly advises me to let him go to Grammar School
next year, because he is an apt pupil, and I shall take his advice.
It gives me joy to see that Young Ichabod has settled in. He has found a friend
in the Alderman’s son, Joseph. Joseph is a bit slow, but tall and strong for
his age. They are an odd couple to see, but Sarah and I are glad that Ichabod
has found a friend. What happened to him in Troubridge seems but a dim memory.
This is good, it allows him to grow up more easily. Good – for now. We will
have to wait and see how he will cope with adolescence. And how far away are
the ghosts really?”
Ichabod smiled. “Joseph.” he said. “Big and strong as a bull. He never was
great with words. He simply came towards me and put his arm around my
shoulders. – I was too afraid to push him away. Later on I understood he wanted
to be my friend.”
“What became of him?” Robert asked.
“As far as I know he became a magistrate.” Ichabod said. “I saw him again at Dr
Sullivan’s burial. He has a good wife and three children.”
 
“September 23, 1783
We never heard a word from Troubridge again. Until now. Not that I would have
missed something. The Hon. Rev. Crane left his boy to the community, and
Alderman Jones as head of the community agreed to my taking Young Ichabod into
my responsibility. That Schoolmaster had no claim on the boy, and he never
tried to get Young Ichabod back, or to contact him. He had no legal means to do
so, and he knew I would be upon him the moment he would try. If the Hon. Rev.
Crane had appointed him as the boy’s guardian, the matter would have been
different. But the Schoolmaster never seemed to have given thought in his plans
to the idea someone else would want to take care of the boy. –
Today I heard from my colleague, Young Doctor Willoughby from Troubridge (the
successor of the other colleague I never met), that the Schoolmaster hanged
himself. He left no letter, no explanation. Nothing. No one can think of a
reason, as he was a respected member of the community. – A belated sign of his
guilt? Did he actually take Reverend Crane out of the way to become the boy’s
guardian? – Did he touch other boys and someone found out and threatened to
expose him? Someone more brave than me? – Whatever he may be guilty of, he
surely nearly destroyed the boy I hold as dear as if he were my own son.
Ichabod shall not hear about this. It might upset him.”
Ichabod had grown pale.
“I never knew what happened to him – until now.” he whispered.
“In my opinion he got what he deserved!” Robert stated.
Ichabod shook his head.
“He was good to me when nobody else was – in a way.” he answered.
Robert was seized by a sudden anger.
“You call that being good?!” His voice became loud and agitated. “Don’t you see
that he was a scheming bastard, taking advantage of your loneliness?! – How
easy it is to be good, when all you need to do is to provide a hot soup and a
hug for a boy starved for nourishment and affection, after you have used his
body!”
His green eyes blazed. “He was no better than these so-called gentlemen, who
address begging children in the streets, offer them a good meal and abuse –“
Robert stopped when Ichabod jumped up and headed for the door. He did not open
it, however, just leaned his head and lower arm against it for a moment, as if
all his power had been drained from him.
//Great, Robert. Just great. You make things even harder for him with your
anger. This is definitely what he needs now.//
“I’m sorry.” Robert said in a small voice to his lover’s back.
Ichabod turned around, angry tears in his eyes.
“I know you are right, Robert.” His voice was rough. After a while he added,
almost inaudibly now: “What do you think how I feel about it?”
Robert went to him, took him by the shoulders.
“But why do you feel bad? It was not your fault!”
“But I have to come to terms with it!” Ichabod snapped, freeing himself from
his lover’s embrace. He brushed past Robert and sat down at the desk again.
Patiently, Robert followed him.
“Forgive me.” he said. “It just makes me angry that you are still suffering
from it. Will you let your father and that schoolmaster rule your whole life?”
Ichabod did not answer that question. “Let’s go on reading.” he suggested.
“April 3, 1785
Returned from a week in Boston, where I visited an uncle. I met an old comrade,
Dick Flanagan, now Father Flanagan to a little community near Boston. -
He asked after Samuel, and I told him that Sarah and I had lost our only son
four years ago. I mentioned as well that we had decided to give a home to an
orphaned boy of the neighbouring village, and it turned out that he was well
informed about some of the inhabitants of Troubridge. He had lived there with
his parents, until he had been in his mid-teens, and they had moved to Malvern,
where I met him and we became friends and went to school together.
For a long time afterwards, he had not lost contact, however, to Ebenezer Crane
and Matthew Stewart from Troubridge, he had gone to school with as well.
I told Flanagan how I came to know Mr Stewart on the sad occasion of Reverend
Crane’s sudden death, and asked him about the two men. After Flanagan had
crossed himself and rested in prayer a few minutes for his deceased friend’s
soul, he caught himself. He told me he officially had not been allowed to speak
to both of them as a boy, because they were not Catholics. Ebenezer Crane had
treated him with contempt, because he was one. But he spoke to him, because he
might have liked Flanagan’s good brain, and so Stewart, who always did what
Crane did or said, spoke to him as well.
Even as a boy, Crane had been hard and unforgiving. His father, Isaac Jacob
Crane, was said to be a witch hunter, and Flanagan had not been astonished to
hear that Ebenezer had followed in his father’s footsteps.
Everybody who had known him had however been astonished to learn that he had
baptised and married a gypsy girl. And not some common gypsy girl, but the
daughter of one of their kings. She had run away, because her father had wanted
her to marry a man important to him, but hateful to her for some reasons. Under
gypsy law opposing her father’s will meant certain death, because she had
besmirched the honour of her family. It was said she fled along the road, her
father’s men behind her, when Crane and his men met them. – What had moved the
hard, cold young witch hunter to take her side will remain forever in the dark.
But if he had put something in his head, Crane would achieve it, even if this
would mean he had to fight the whole world, as Flanagan told me.”
//Don’t I know that attitude from somewhere else as well?// Robert thought.
“Crane’s men were better armed than the gypsies, and they overwhelmed them. –
Flanagan knew all this from one of Crane’s soldiers – Young Matthew Stewart.
Crane had asked the men what it was all about, and one had told him. Crane,
regardless of the risk that the girl’s father would not want to negotiate with
a stranger (it is said that gypsies consider everyone unclean who is not one of
them), and they would all be killed, told them he wanted to negotiate about the
girl.
But Stewart was sure the gypsy king had either been able to see the future or
had cursed them all in a most effective way, so the future became as he wanted
it to become. Flanagan had always wondered why Stewart had considered them all
cursed, but I told him the other sad news, that Stewart had hanged himself two
years ago, and no one knew why.
Flanagan crossed himself again and said Stewart’s beliefs had not been as firm
as his superstitions, and god have mercy on his soul. – Then he continued with
his story. The gypsy king sent back a messenger who told Crane that he
considered the girl no longer his daughter, and that she was no longer of any
value to him, so he could keep her and do with her what he pleased, and the
king would not pursue him. – I admit that this really sounded like a victory
too easily won for the witch hunter. Or this gypsy king must have matched
Ebenezer Crane in heartlessness. To cut all familial bonds to his daughter and
to leave her with people who would regard her a Heathen – or worse I must call
cruel. True, she had applied to the soldiers for help and had given herself
into Crane’s mercy of her own free will ... I am not superstitious, I do not
believe in wizards and witches and their curses. I do, however, believe that
heartlessness, cruelty, meanness and thoughtlessness exist, and that much evil
comes from them.”
Ichabod’s slender finger touched these last lines as if to underline their
emphasis.
“That’s what he taught me.” he said.
“I know.” Robert answered. “And Ichabod – you are not cursed. You’re a
blessing- not only to me.”
Ichabod did not answer, and the two men read on without another word.
“Flanagan told me that neither Stewart nor anyone else ever had been able to
understand how Ebenezer Crane came to baptise and marry the gypsy girl. She had
indeed been beautiful in the way of the gypsies, with dark, wild eyes and a
mass of raven-black unruly hair – as Flanagan told me, her beauty had been
sweet and innocent, but it could not hide a strong, passionate strain in her
soul that also showed in her face – characteristics she has passed on to her
son, as it seems.”
//Indeed.// Robert thought.
“She surely was grateful to Crane, and as Flanagan told me, the Reverend had
been a good-looking man in his youth: Tall, with fine features and burning dark
eyes. (Even in death, and further advanced in age, the Hon. Rev. Crane had
looked better than some people who are still among the living, I must admit. -)
The gypsy girl had nowhere else to go. Stewart was convinced she had bewitched
his friend, because he never before had been moved by innocence and beauty. –
Be it as it may, Crane returned to Troubridge, became Reverend there, baptised
and married the girl, Elsa. And within a year she was pregnant. It was
observed, however, that Crane always remained cold and distant to her. This did
not change when she gave him a son. The child allegedly had been very small,
with a shock of black hair and big dark eyes. He had been ill a lot, learned to
walk late, but spoke early and could read when he was four years old. From his
rare visits, Flanagan remembered him as a serious child, very beautiful with a
heart-shaped face and huge dark eyes. And very shy. - It was said that Ebenezer
Crane did not suffer the boy to cry when he had hurt himself or for some other
reason. The child had to be kept absolutely quiet. For every little fault the
Reverend learned about, the boy was punished severely.
When the boy had been about five, his father turned even more had and
withdrawn. He must have begun to suspect his wife of witchcraft, following her
around or having her watched. Two years later happened what even w in Malvern
had heard about: Elsa Crane, wife of the Hon. Rev. Ebenezer Crane from
Troubridge, was accused of witchcraft by her husband. As witnesses he brought
Matthew Stewart, Schoolmaster in Troubridge, and a good friend of the Crane
household, and a certain Martha Avery, an honourable spinster, who lived alone
in a small cottage near the woods since her mother had died. She told the court
she had seen Elsa Crane and the boy, Ichabod, in the woods. Elsa had invoked
devils and demons, and the boy had watched. Probably she had taught him the
Evil Art.”
//Would you believe it?// Robert thought. //She must have hated Ichabod’s
mother. Maybe she had an eye on the Reverend herself.//
“Matthew Stewart however had denied her teaching Young Ichabod, insisting the
boy was innocent. – Did he have intentions on the boy even back then? It might
be possible. – Ebenezer Crane and his servants brought Elsa home as a prisoner.
The next morning he presented her confession, signed by Alderman Jones and
Matthew Stewart as witnesses. Elsa Crane had confessed to being a witch, but
had denied even under torture having taught her son anything. She as well had
insisted the boy was innocent. – She had been tortured! The scars in Ichabod’s
hands – what if he was tortured himself – God forbid! Or was he present during
his mother’s torture? – No. I do not even these monsters think capable of this.
But he must have been in contact with a torture instrument – somehow ? –“
“He knew!” Ichabod whispered, deadly pale. Without actually noticing, he bit
his wrist again.
“Stop it!” Robert said sharply.
Ichabod flinched, when his lover touched the fresh wound and the pale cars at
his wrist, but he did not withdraw his hand.
The two men read on. Robert felt like caught in a nightmare from which he could
not wake up. It had to take its course.
“Because Reverend Crane and Schoolmaster Stewart said they would have a strict
eye on the boy, he was left alone and not involved in the trial. Elsa Crane,
however, did not survive the night.”
A single drop fell on the page. It startled Robert, for it was red. He looked a
t his lover, alarmed again. Ichabod had opened his mouth to a silent scream.
Now his lower lip was stained with blood, his dark yes looked straight into a
hell of terror, his hands were balled into fists, his nails digging into his
palms.
//Neither Doctor Sullivan nor Father Flanagan, not even the Reverend Crane and
Mr Stewart knew that Ichabod had discovered his mother’s body. And Ichabod
himself had to forget to survive.// Robert thought. //It is too much even for
the grown man. What shall I do? God help me! I know, I may not be you most avid
follower, but help me! Please don’t let him go mad!//
“Ichabod.” he said softly. “Ichabod.”
No reaction. Just the stare straight into hell.
“Ichabod, this upsets you too much.” Robert tried again. “Let’s stop reading.
It’s late.”
Still, Ichabod gave no sign he had heard his lover’s words.
Robert tried to take the book away and close it, but Ichabod’s hand grasped his
wrist in a firm grip, almost hurting.
“No!” he hissed.
“Alright, alright.” Robert tried to calm him down. “I’ll leave it. Alright?”
“Alright.” Ichabod nodded and released his lover’s wrist.
Robert continued his silent prayer to God, when they read on.
“Ichabod does not know what really happened to his mother, and I’ll leave it at
that. The boy has suffered enough as it is. –
I asked Flanagan if he knew what had become of Young Ichabod. He told me, that
soon after the trial of Reverend Crane’s wife he had been moved to Boston and
had lost contact to the people of Troubridge for good. Young Ichabod had
continued to live with his father, who had taken in Martha Avery as his
housekeeper. Now that he had heard that the Reverend Crane was dead, he did not
know what had become of the boy and who might care for him now. – He was amazed
and glad when I presented thirteen-year-old Ichabod as my foster son.
Ichabod however, did hardly recognise Father Flanagan. He has seen him last
maybe six years ago, and some of his memory is in a haze. I also asked my guest
not to upset the boy by talking too much of Troubridge, because the years after
his mother’s death had not been good years for him. Asking why, the good Father
would at first hardly believe me how the Reverend had treated his son. With Mrs
Crane’s fate in mind, however, my story made more sense to him.
Their encounter was brief, Ichabod excusing himself soon with school work and
the tasks he fulfils in our household, Father Flanagan accepting his excuse
with more relief than regret.
When Ichabod had left us my guest uttered a few words about how much the boy
had grown, and how quickly time passed. We talked a bit more about this and
that. Tomorrow, Flanagan will leave for Boston again. I had no idea his visit
would throw so much light on the fate of Ichabod’s family ...
Flanagan is right. Time has passed quickly indeed. Ichabod has become an
adolescent, he has grown considerably, his body has become angular, his face
starts to loose the softness of childhood. In a year’s time, he will go to
grammar school in Boston, to come home only once a month. How time is flying
indeed!
He still does not eat much and is quite thin, and what really bothers me is
that he never really stopped biting himself, although the occasions have become
rare. –
 
May 12, 1787
Ichabod and Joseph both go to a private boarding school in Boston, and they
both have settled in well. They are still very good friends, and Sarah and I
are glad that neither of them had to go alone.
It has not been easy for us, especially for Sarah, to let the boy go and see
him only once a month – if we can make it up to Boston. – At first, Ichabod was
very homesick – he had found a family only to have to give it up again.
The teachers are full of praise for him. He has a quick mind and is easy to
teach. – As the Headmaster told me, he had however to be punished twice,
because he did not show any reason in these cases. He argued with the teachers
and found his punishment not justified. In one case, he had prepared another
chapter for the Latin lesson than the teacher had told the pupils to prepare.
Although the realised that he had not listened well enough to the teacher’s
words, he had found his punishment not adequate, because he had prepared a
longer and more difficult chapter.
In the other case he tried to defend a classmate. He had asked him something
during class, when talking was forbidden, and his classmate had just started to
answer, when the teacher caught and punished them. Ichabod had found it not
justified that his classmate was punished as hard as he himself, because he had
made him talk in the first place.
When summoned to the Headmaster in my presence, Ichabod admitted freely to
these two cases of disobedience, but did not show any regret or any sign of
changing his mind.
This is a new trait I did not notice in the meek boy so far. I cannot help to
admire his feeling for justice and his courage, but I have to tell him to obey
his teachers. I am glad he stands up for himself and for others! “
//Don’t I know that as well?// Robert thought. //His stubborn insistence when
he thinks something is not done properly? Other constables become suspended
from duty for drinking or getting into a fight, Constable Crane was suspended
from duty three times because of insubordination towards his superiors, before
being sent to Sleepy Hollow.//
“I remember Grammar School.” Ichabod interrupted his lover’s thoughts. He
seemed to be glad to be on safer ground now, seeing something which bore no bad
memories.
“It was a good time.” He even smiled a bit, as if to make Robert forget his
strong reaction while reading about his mother’s death.
 
“October 16, 1789
Ichabod has finished grammar school. Not so Joseph, who has to repeat his last
year. – Ichabod has very good marks, especially in the Natural Sciences. Sarah
and I have spoken to him about his future. We suggested that we shall send him
to Harvard (to hell with the money!). He will study Medical and Natural
Sciences there, and if God wants it so he will take over my patients one day,
when I will feel too old to continue any longer. Ichabod has agree, and so it
will be off to Harvard for him next week.
Sarah and I are both very proud of him. Our shy, deeply hurt boy has developed
into a good-looking young man. He is of middle height, slightly built, with a
well-formed body and handsome features. The girls look after him whispering and
giggling, but he does not seem to notice. Still being very shy and awkward, he
is interested in his studies and not in the fairer sex. – During his last year
at grammar school, we sent him to dancing lessons. It does not hurt him if he
knows how to behave when ladies are present. – I think his shyness will
dissolve in good time – when he will meet the right girl.”
//That’s **my** Ichabod again.// Robert thought. //Still very nervous when in
female company. – But when I come to think of it – Ichabod feels only relaxed
in the company of very few persons at all!//
Ichabod himself smiled slightly, reading these words. He thought the same.
“January 25, 1791
Ichabod is doing well in Harvard – in his own special way. In the first term
his professors were in despair about him, almost tempted to send him away,
because he fainted a few times in Anatomy Class.
He did not tell me, but I learned from a former fellow student, who now teaches
Medical Science in Harvard. Alphonse Frankenstein told me they had given up on
Mr Crane after the first class, when he had fainted two times, but they all had
underestimated his stubbornness. He came back the next day, fainted, recovered,
stayed in class. It went on for some weeks like that, according to Professor
Frankenstein – and suddenly Mr Crane did not faint any longer.
I think it is quite normal to faint during the first few weeks. You have to get
accustomed to looking at an opened body, at the inner organs – and most of all
the smell of a dead body. –
So I have hope for Ichabod. I know his tenacity.”
“The corpses at Harvard had one advantage over the ones you are confronted with
in police work.” Ichabod said in a slightly shaking voice. It was clear to
Robert that his mind was mostly occupied with other parts of Dr Sullivan’s
diary.
“Yes?”
“They were fresher, or better preserved, and mostly in a better shape.”
Robert grinned.
 
“August 7, 1792
Ichabod is progressing in his studies. I hear a lot of good things about him.
He is twenty years old now, and during the last half year he has become even
more serious than before. It may be he worries about our beloved Sarah, whom he
affectionately calls his **Little Mother**. She is not feeling too well –
inexplicable abdominal pain. I cannot feel a tumour, and he stomach seems
unchanged. She is however becoming thinner and is easily exhausted. She is
becoming older, as we all do – nearing forty. She tells me not to worry, but –
Another reason may be that Young Ichabod may have finally put to use what I
told him a year ago about the facts of life. Almost a law of nature: Students
will go to the ladies, and the older ones take the younger ones with them. So I
thought it better to prepare Ichabod in telling him he should choose a clean,
healthy-looking girl. –
He took what I said in his stride, listening to my words with the same
seriousness he always shows when listening to me. He was not embarrassed, as
one should have perhaps thought. To him it seems to be a medical problem.”
Robert had to smile a bit. When first meeting Ichabod, he had thought the young
constable much too serious.
“December 12, 1792
Sarah’s state had become much worse. My beautiful wife has become a bag of
bones, and it breaks my heart. She is so weak she hardly leaves her bed. And
she is in pain: Her lungs, her stomach, her colon – a lot of her inner organs
must be full of little tumours. She has deteriorated so quickly! And I cannot
help her. Not even the specialist in Boston, where I took her in summer, could
give me hop. My only prayer and wish is that it will be over soon, and she will
suffer no longer. – How much longer? A week? Two? A month? – She is much too
young, god, why do you take a wife twenty years my junior, and let me live?
December 18, 1792
It may be over any day now. Have sent for Ichabod.
December 22, 1792
Ichabod has arrived. It gives me comfort to see my son, and Sarah is very
happy. She has even become better, stronger! Alas, her improvement does not
last. At night, she is weaker than ever.
Ichabod is sitting up with her during the night so I can get some sleep.
December 25, 1792
A sad Christmas! For Sarah’s sake, we pretend to be more cheerful than we
actually are. But although she does not say a word, she knows ...
Ichabod and I care for her so that Mrs O’Leary, the nurse, can have a few days
with her family.
December 28, 1792
It is over. At last. No pain any more for the Sun of my Life, my Red-haired
Angel. – Poor Ichabod! He lost one mother when he was very young, and now he
lost the second mother he loved so much! – He takes it, however, as the serious
young man he is.”
 
Robert felt his lover shudder. He was helpless. Ichabod had every right to feel
sad. But it was difficult for Robert to see his pain of losing his second
mother renewed.
Ichabod bit his wrist again.
“Some people are like the sun in your life.” he whispered. “and Sarah Sullivan
was one of them.”
//Tell me about it.// Robert thought. //George Mason was another.//
 
“January 12, 1793
My beloved Sarah is in her early grave now – no, I believe my Red-haired Angel,
Ichabod’s **Little Mother** is watching over us from a place where there is no
pain, only happiness. – The funeral, the days afterwards – a haze, a blur –
Ichabod has returned to Harvard. He did not show much outwardly, but Sarah’s
death has shaken him deeply.”
 
Ichabod definitely seemed shaken now, although he tried to hide it, even from
Robert.
//you try to hide your feelings, when you have already lost the light of your
life once, and when all you got to hear was something like **What are you
crying for? Read the Bible, or you’ll get more reason to cry soon!** - It must
have been like being unable to cry for your dead lover, because people could
have asked **What is he crying for? What did that clerk have to do with the
dockhand, showing up at his funeral, crying for him?** - I know, Ichabod, I
know! – At least I could cry for my parents when they died ...//
“Finished?” Ichabod asked.
Robert hastily finished reading the page, and he and Ichabod went on to the
next one.
 
“April 6, 1793
Easter approaches. – And today Ichabod told me he will not got to Harvard again
and not finish his studies! I was so flustered, I only could ask him why on
earth? He told me that an accident had happened: There was a student in his
first year, a small, shy young man, not very healthy, an easy victim for the
older student’s pranks. One night, he was followed by a shape in a dark cloak
into the dormitory. He was frightened so much that he jumped out of the window
down into the yard. Unfortunately, the young man will be crippled for life from
this jump. Of course the incident was examined, questions were asked, the
professors tried to find the culprit. Under pressure of relegation, some
students mentioned two names: One was the son of a very rich and influential
family, the other one a poor young man with a scholarship. It became mutual
agreement that he was the culprit.
Ichabod had seen the incident from the window of his dormitory, and when asked
about what he had seen he insisted the shape had been wrong for Myers (the
young man with the scholarship). As Ichabod described him, Myers was tall and
bulky, much taller and bulkier than the shape he had seen, and even hunched or
crouching could not have been the shape under the cloak. Which would have mad
the other student, Roger Vanderbilt, a likelier suspect. As Ichabod said,
Vanderbilt was much smaller and thinner, and more likely the shape he had seen.
Of course it might not have been Vanderbilt, but any other student in his class
who is built slim and small. – Unfortunately, the victim himself could not
throw any light onto the matter, as Ichabod said. He just saw himself attacked
by a dark shape, panicked and jumped.
Ichabod told me that they did not believe him. He is no fool and is well aware
himself that the light was bad, he was surprised by the vent and he saw the
shape just for a moment. But he also knows he has good eyes. What enrages him
is not that they laughed at him and asked him if he fainted after having seen
the dark shape. As he says, the professors and the students are not really
interested in finding the truth. For them it is clear that it was Myers, and
Myers was relegated from Harvard, notwithstanding that Mr and Mrs Janiston, the
victim’s parents, will start a lawsuit against Myers’ family, and this will
probably ruin the poor people.
Most of the other students in question come like Vanderbilt from rich and
influential families, which donate large sums of money to the university, so
the professors do not dare to alienate them. And so it had to be the poor young
man with the scholarship, who had to be the scapegoat. – Again it is injustice
that enrages Ichabod. He is young and in these cases temperamental. But I trust
he will see reason when I have talked it over with him tomorrow.”
“By the way: You never told anyone that you studied at Harvard.” Robert said.
“The High Constable knows.” Ichabod answered curtly.
Robert was briefly astonished that the High Constable knew something his
secretary had not known. (Usually it was the other way round.) But he
remembered that the High Constable had had a long talk alone with the serious
young man before employing him as a constable.
He shrugged and read on.
 
“April 7, 1793
What have I done? All is lost! I have alienated my beloved son! Oh, that I
could take back the words I have said! No, I’ll have to bear the responsibility
for what I have said, and it will be the knowledge that I have hurt my beloved
son. He will never speak to me and se me again. – God, why did the young man’s
stubbornness enrage me so? Because he thwarted all the hopes I set in him?
Because he would not see what I thought of as reason?
Forgive me, Ichabod! I call to you. I love you! And what I said was cruel and
not true, dictated by a sudden anger, burning me and leaving me destroyed after
having destroyed the bond between us. You are young and passionate, but I as an
old man should have been wiser!
As I wrote down yesterday, I talked to Ichabod this morning. My intention was
to talk him into returning to Harvard, taking up his studies again and
finishing them. He will not help the two young men whose future is ruined by
ruining his own. He would hear nothing of it, however, instead he told me of
his plans to go to New York and join the police force there!
I was aghast. Surely they will welcome able-bodied young men with open arms. He
wants to fight for justice and reason. A noble thought, but he will get himself
killed in a giant city. – We don’t have a war to fight at the moment, and he
must find his own war! A war against injustice and crime.
I told him that he will find more injustice and corruption in New York than he
could ever imagine, that he was no knight in shining armour to right the wrong
in the world. He told me calmly he knew that, but he thinks his place is not in
the country as a doctor with a few patients, but in New York, fighting crime.
And he was very determined. I felt helpless, and I turned to blackmail in
telling him that for the first time I was glad his **Little Mother** was no
longer with us, so she would not hear his words. He was hurt, but he insisted.
I told him he would come of age in two months, and until then I forbid him to
go to New York. Instead, he would go back to Harvard to finish his studies. If
he disobeyed me, I would disinherit him. He would not see a penny.
He merely shrugged and told me if I had to do this, I should go on with it. He,
like me, became upset and angry, our argument became more and more heated. And
in my rage I told him; I would go on with it, and had I known almost eleven
years ago what an ungrateful, disobedient, egoistic creature I had taken in as
my own son, I would have turned around and left there and then, when that half-
starved, dirty, wretched caricature of a boy asked to work for me!
Oh, I had spoken these words, they were still ringing in my ears, and I knew
what I had done! I regretted them deeply!
Ichabod’s face broke – “
 
//He said this to me, I remember.// Ichabod thought. //I tried to explain that
my decision was not easily taken. I had been afraid of hurting and
disappointing him, but I somehow had trusted he would understand. – And then he
said this to me – and I felt like worthless scum again – no please, no – it
hurts so much - //
He gave a peculiar, strangled sound, which startled Robert, who saw his lover
fall from the stool down on his knees, as if all strength had left him, his
face buried in his hands, sobs racking his body. In his pain, Ichabod rocked
back and forth, sometimes, deep, painful moans interrupting his sobs.
Then he felt arms around him, fingers caressing his tangled hair, a soothing
hum at his ear. And he gave up. He was too exhausted to guard his feelings, to
withdraw from the arms holding him. Robert was simply there, and at the moment,
Ichabod wanted to believe he would be there whenever he was needed. He rested
his head on his lover’s shoulder.
After a long while, he felt he could stop crying. He still leaned on Robert’s
shoulder, eyes closed. And after another while, he opened his eyes, meeting
Robert’s gaze: worried, and very loving.
He took the handkerchief Robert offered him, wiped his face, and blew his nose.
“That was hard.” Robert said, indicating Dr Sullivan’s diary.
“It made me feel as if eleven years of love and care had been wiped out, as if
I had become worthless again.” Ichabod confirmed.
Robert shook his head violently.
“I don’t want to hear this! You have never been worthless!” he said angrily.
Ichabod shrugged. “I felt worthless. And when my foster father made this
remark, I felt worthless again. – As if he –“ he stopped.
“As if he what?”
“Nothing.”
“As if he what?” Robert repeated.
“- as if he knew how bad I really was! – Nothing, really –“
Robert decided to let this pass for now, although he felt there was something
behind Ichabod’s remark, something important.
“What happened afterwards?” he asked instead.
“I went away to New York. You know the rest.”
“Did you ever see him again after this day?”
“No. – Now I wish I had. I wish I had reconciled with him again. – I love and
respect him very much. Even after what he said! – He saved my life! Why did he
have to say such a -?”
Ichabod fell silent and wiped his eyes angrily.
“Let’s finish the diary.” he said after a while.
 
“Ichabod’s face broke, he looked at me in pain and disbelief for a moment, then
he turned abruptly, strode from the room and slammed the door. I ran after him,
calling his name, he never turned, never listened. I followed him to his room,
but he ignored me, threw some money, a few books and clothes into his satchel,
brushed past me and left the hose without looking at me. – I know he will not
come back I have hurt him too much.
April 13, 1794
No word from Ichabod. He could be out of this world. Is he in New York? Is he
well? – If he only wrote! If I had an address to write to!
June 9, 1795
Read this diary today and had to cry. One sentence, spoken in anger – and I
lost the only son I was to have! – Ichabod, if you came back, I would ask your
forgiveness on my knees!
Today is your birthday. All my good wishes for you. May you have achieved what
you wanted. I give you all my love and wish you happiness!
December 24, 1795
I do not feel well, and I do not know how long I still will have. If I could
find you, Ichabod, but looking after you in New York would be like looking for
a needle in a haystack – nevertheless – I will ask Notary Jenkins to find a man
who might be able to find you, my son, to notify you about my death. I’ll have
to set up a will soon. – I love you, Ichabod.”
 
The two men had read these last entries in silence. – Ichabod felt tears sting
in his eyes again, his throat becoming constricted once more. He felt exhausted
and strangely light-headed – and felt he wanted more from Robert right now than
feeling him caressing his hair.
Robert was taken unawares, but quickly rose to the occasion when he felt
Ichabod’s fingers softly gliding over his trousers, stroking his growing
erection. He opened the buttons of Ichabod’s shirt to feel the soft, warm skin,
the hardening nipples, before his fingers slid down as well, opening more
buttons.
When he slipped into Ichabod, he was met with a strength and passion he knew,
but which still frightened him a bit. He had to use all his weight to hold the
young man so he could stay in, Ichabod’s erection stroking his belly, the young
man’s muscles contracting, massaging his cock up to a delicious climax.
When it was over, he lay on his lover for a moment, both of them panting.
//Where does this passion come from?// Robert thought. //Was it this passion
that made Ebenezer Crane fear and hate his wife? A passion, Elsa Crane passed
on to her son? – Oh, you need a bit of experience to curb that passion -//
Ichabod wiped his eyes. He wanted to get rid of the image torturing him: the
Schoolmaster holding him in his arms, touching his naked body everywhere,
whispering into his ear – He wanted to get free from the Schoolmaster, to push
him away – he struggled in panic – and found himself lying naked on his back on
the floor of his study, Robert holding his wrists, sitting on his thighs.
“What is it, Ichabod Crane?” Robert asked. “Why do you want to flee after we
have been together? It hurts me, you know! – Why?”
Ichabod shook his head wildly, closing his eyes, trying to free himself, but
Robert did not let him go.
“What is it?” he repeated.
Ichabod stopped struggling. In one moment it became clear what had pained him
all the years, what he could not forgive himself. And if someone had a right to
know, it was Robert. At least he could say it now.
“The Schoolmaster – I was proud he had chosen me. I was proud I could get him
into me without crying. That was the hard part, but sometimes he gave me half a
glass of wine – it was less painful then. It made me feel special and proud –
and so I wanted it, I was bad and shameless!”
Robert released him.
“And now you think I’ll despise you for this?”
Ichabod could not look into his lover’s eyes.
“Yes.” he whispered.
Robert kissed him, took him into his arms, made him look into his face.
“Listen, Ichabod. – You had no choice. And we all want to survive. And feeling
proud about being able to receive a grown man’s cock when you were much too
small for this kind of things helped you survive. There is nothing bad in that.
– You have survived a lot. And you can be proud about that!”
He hesitated. Then he went on. “I know something similar. – After George had
been killed, I met a man who was married. He came to me to do what he could not
do with his wife. He was violent – and I was so broken, so alone and despaired
then that I felt content in being the outlet for his violence. As you did – I
felt good for at least something! I know what you are talking about! So why
should I despise you? – But I don’t despise myself for it either. It happened,
it is over, and that’s it. And you should stop to despise yourself for being
proud to survive what these bastards did to you!”
He shook Ichabod gently.
“And with regard to us, Ichabod Crane.” Robert continued. “I love you, and I do
not only love you because you are one of the most beautiful creatures I’ve ever
seen, but just because you are as you are: difficult and shy and prissy and
brave and strong and everything! – And I’ll hold you and protect you with all
my force! – I may not be a circus strongman, it may not be much – but damn it!”
Ichabod looked at him, slightly disbelieving at first, the disbelief in his
eyes slowly giving way to hope – and finally love and trust.
“I’ll try.” he answered. “Will you be patient with me?”
“That’s a lot asked of me.” Robert said in a serious tone, his green eyes
glinting mischievously. “When they gave out patience, I must have stood behind
the door – so I always get a lot of opportunities to exercise.”
The candle, which had burned down entirely, went out.
“That’s a hint.” Robert said into the darkness. “In bed, it’s much warmer and
cosier.”
Lying in bed, Ichabod pulled the blanket over them both, curling protectively
round the smaller man.
“And that violent man?” he asked. “How did you get rid of him?”
“I saw sense, finally,” came Robert’s sleepy answer, and Ichabod detected a
smile in his voice.
“Robert?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, too.”
“That’s my man!” Robert murmured appreciatively. Then he slept.
Ichabod was awake a little bit longer. At first, he thought he would not be
able to sleep at all, but he did not want to disturb Robert, listening to his
lover’s regular breath.
So many things – but he was too exhausted to mull them all over in his
thoughts. Some things were important, though.
//What if these notes actually had fallen into the wrong hands?// he thought. /
/Thank God they haven’t.//
And a bit later:
//He really loves me. And I love him. And this is real. A bit of Paradise on
Earth. A wonderful gift. This is what counts, this is important. I can – leave
the past behind - //
And finally:
//It’s alright, Father. – You have been a real father to me – You knew me well
- and I’ve found trust and love now -//
Ichabod slept as well. And his sleep was deep and without nightmares.
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