Rip Van Winkle

This is one of the two stories Washington Irving is best known for. The other being “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” This one, however, is more often considered a “fairy tale” than the other, and I included it here partly because it’s a good story, but mostly because it was the only story from the TV series “Shelley Duvall’s Faerie Tale Theatre” which I haven’t done yet, and that was bothering me.

Many of the stories I have related here have come from far away places and far distant times. This story, however, is not really all that old and took place right here in the USA. Not that it was called the USA back then. It was just another part of the Great British Empire. And the people of the village at the foot of the Catskill Mountains near the Hudson River in New York were all just servants of the king.

Well, maybe not all.

It would be hard to describe Rip Van Winkle as a “servant” to anybody, because “servant” implies work and the only thing harder to do than describe Rip Van Winkle as a servant would be to catch him in the act of doing work.

Okay, I could’ve said that better. The point is he’s lazy.

Don’t get me wrong, Rip was a perfectly nice guy, descended from a noble family. He had many friends, was good-natured and well-liked within the community. He was always good to his wife. Kids loved him. His dog, Wolf, was the closest friend any man could hope for. He just had that one significant character flaw: a chronic aversion to manual labor in any form. In other words, he hated to work. Ever. For any reason.

If you needed to find Rip Van Winkle (which wasn’t terribly likely in and of itself), you could usually find him at the King George Inn having a drink, telling stories or just sleeping in one of the comfy chairs. You also might find him fishing in the Hudson where he would happily sit for hours without even the hint of a nibble (had he put in the extra effort to bait his hook, that might not have been the case). Any other time, you’d find him at home being shouted at by his wife for not doing any work, for wasting time at the inn, for that horrible mutt of his and when are you going to fix the roof like you said and look at me when I’m talking to you and…In fact, that’s probably the reason he was so happy when he was fishing for hours without even the hint of a nibble.

“I swear, Rip,” said Dame Van Winkle on more than one occasion. “You’ll sleep your whole life away at this rate.”

“Well, if life is nothing but work, I’d just as soon sleep through it,” was his usual response in these cases.

In short, with very few exceptions, Rip Van Winkle led a simple, easy, happy life, however unprofitable.

Then came that fateful day when Rip took his gun and his dog into the woods for a hunt. His wife insisted that he stay and help with the housework, but Rip felt strongly that today was the day for a hunt. He loaded his gun, packed his extra shots and powder, kissed his son and daughter goodbye and he and Wolf set off for the Catskills. It was a beautiful day for a trip to the mountains and Rip passed the day happily enjoying the scenery, talking to Wolf, not even making an attempt to appear like he was hunting and not just wasting time in the woods. He spent most of the day out there, and into the evening as the sun began to set.

Rip was about to head for home when he heard a strange sound. A kind of booming, crashing, echoing sound. Wolf tugged on Rip’s coat, whimpering to go home, but Rip was curious about the sound so he followed it deeper into the mountains. The skies got darker and darker as Rip wandered further and further from home. Soon he came to a large cavern in the hills where the sound was coming from. He entered a torch lit space and what he saw made his jaw drop.

Dwarfs. Many, many dwarfs. Little men with long beards and ragged clothes who were clearly having…a bowling party. They had set up a nine-pin bowling course and were taking turns knocking down the pins. Between turns, they drank ale from big wooden casks. Rip had never seen anything like this in his life. When the dwarfs saw him, he was frightened for a moment. As though he feared they would attack him like hairy little piranhas…instead they gave a hearty cheer and invited him to join their game.

Dwarfs are known for their hospitality, ya know. Plus they’re short.

Rip Van Winkle was always up for a game so he dropped his pack and set his gun against the wall. While a few dwarfs played with Wolf, Rip took his turn and bowled better than anyone else. And he drank better than anyone else. He drank and drank and drank. It was the sweetest ale he had ever tasted, like nectar. The party raged on all night and, eventually, even Wolf stopped worrying and joined in the fun. He even had a few bowls of ale himself. Rip and the dwarfs got a good laugh at the slightly drunk dog walking sideways into the pins and scoring nine points before falling down…

And that’s the last thing Rip remembered before he woke up.

Rip Van Winkle woke to the sound of birds singing and the feel of the sun on his face. He blinked his eyes a few times until he could see clearly. But even after this, he wasn’t sure he was seeing clearly. He distinctly remembered that he came to the mountains on a crisp, autumn morning. Now there were blossoms on the trees as though it were spring. Instinctively, Rip stroked his chin as he thought about this, which led him to his second shock of the last two minutes: A beard. Quite a long one, in fact. Now, when a man falls asleep, he can usually expect to wake up with a little bit more fuzz than he had before bed, but not a beard that hung all the way down to his feet! His hands, too, seemed wrinkled and gnarled, as though they belonged to a man much older than he. He looked around for Wolf, but he was nowhere to be found.

He saw that he was lying under a tree that was growing just at the entrance to the cavern where he and the dwarfs had bowled the night before. In his mind, Rip imagined that the tree had been much, much smaller. Surely it hadn’t grown this tall overnight? He ran inside the cavern crying out “Wolf! Here boy!” but no one answered. There were no dwarfs, no pins, no ale. Not only that, but in the exact spot where he had left his brand-new, well oiled rifle, he found an old, rusty relic, though it was clearly the same make and model of his own. It even had his initials, RVW, carved into the handle.

“This is definitely my gun,” said Rip, noticing at last that his voice was somewhat raspier. “But how did it get so rusty so quickly? And where is my dog?” He searched around the cavern and retraced his whole route along the mountains until he was almost back to his home village. He hadn’t seen any trace of Wolf, but reasoned that he must’ve gone home in the night by himself.

He was more concerned with the town when he saw it. Everything had changed. He met a number of people he didn’t recognize who were wearing bizarre clothing. Rip thought he knew everyone in town, so this struck him as odd, even without the strange clothes. The strangers stared at Rip with the same confusion, though this might have been his beard just as much as his costume. When he reached the town proper, everything was a different color, the buildings all looked rebuilt, and the streets were full to bursting of people he’d never seen before.

Then he made his way home, expecting to be chewed out by his wife for being gone all night...but his house was falling apart. It was an old ruin. And to make matters worse, the only one in residence was a mangy, half-starved dog who looked like it might have been Wolf’s ancestor. “Wolf? Boy, is that you?” asked Rip, and he put out a hand to stroke him. But the dog barked and snapped at the hand, which Rip was only just able to pull away before he was bitten. “Don’t you remember me, boy? It’s Rip! Your old friend! We went to the mountains and played bowls with the dwarfs. Don’t you know me?”  The dog snarled and ran away when Rip made another move to pet him. Rip went all through the house calling out for wife and children, but to no avail. They were nowhere to be found.

Confused, bewildered, and beginning to feel fatigued, Rip Van Winkle decided to get some answers. He went at once to his old tavern, where he expected to find his usual friends chatting away about anything and everything. But not only were none of the people there ones he recognized, but the sign above the door had been changed from “King George Inn” to the “George Washington.” Who the heck is George Washington? asked Rip to himself. An overweight man was standing outside handing out fliers with words printed on them that Rip didn’t recognize: “Bunker Hill,” “Heroes of 76,” “Continental Congress.”

This man noticed Rip and approached him, asking, “I beg your pardon, sir, but which side will you be voting?”

“Voting?” asked a bewildered Rip.

“In the election. Are you a federalist or a democrat?”

“I’m nothing of the kind! I’m a citizen of the Great British Empire! Long live the king!”

This man, and all others who were within earshot, reacted with nothing short of abject shock at hearing this. As though admitting loyalty to one’s king was something shameful and wicked. The silent shock (unfortunately) soon gave way to shouting.

“He’s a tory!”

“He’s a spy!”

“Look! He’s even carrying a gun!”

The man with the fliers was, with some difficulty, able to restore order and he spoke softly to the others, saying, “This poor old man must be confused and disoriented. We must be patient with him.” Then he turned to Rip and said, in a kind voice, “My good man, how can we help you?”

“Well, I’m just looking for my friends.”

“Fine, fine. If we know them we’ll help you find them. What are their names?”

“All right…what about Nicholas Veder?”

“Vedder?” said one of the men. “He died eighteen years ago.”

“Eighteen years? What about Brom Dutcher?”

“I knew him,” said another man. “He joined the army when the war started. He never came back.”

“Army? War? What war? What are you talking about?”

“Er, another friend, perhaps?” said the man with the fliers, trying to keep things calm.

“Van Bummel? The schoolmaster. You must know him, he’s been here for—”

“Yes, he joined up, too,” said one of the men. “He got promoted to General. I think he’s in congress now.”

“Congress?”

This bizarre interview went on for some time, with Rip rattling off names and being told that each one had died years ago or had moved away or had fought in some war. The questions kept running through Rip’s mind. How could any of this be? I only left last night…didn’t I? He thought about his rusty gun and his malnourished dog and his long beard and his dillapitated house and…how long had he been away?

“There’s one more name I would ask after,” said Rip, bracing himself. “Who here knows…Rip Van Winkle?”

“Rip? Why he’s right inside the tavern.”

“Fast asleep if I know him!” This comment was met with howls of laughter which Rip barely heard. He walked like a ghost into the inn and there, in his usual chair, he saw…himself? So if that’s me, Rip thought, who am I? Is this me? Or is that? Or is that someone else?

Rip Van Winkle stood there gaping at Rip Van Winkle for several minutes and the bystanders began to get worried that this old stranger might cause harm. Finally, for no apparent reason, the young man sleeping in the chair woke up and looked around. “Oh, hello, old timer. Can I help?”

“What…what is your name, son?”

“Rip, sir. Rip Van Winkle.”

“Your name is Rip Van Winkle?”

“Well, Rip Van Winkle, Jr. in fact. I was named after my father.”

“You were? And, whatever became of him?”

“My father left on a hunting trip and never came back. His dog came back without him, but no one ever saw father again. Poor mother was devastated. She didn’t last much longer after he disappeared.”

“How…how long ago was this?”

“Oh, I’d say it was about…twenty years ago. Isn’t that right, sister?”

This last was addressed over Rip, Sr.’s shoulder at the pretty young woman who had just entered. The old man noticed she was carrying a baby in her arms. “Twenty years, that’s right. Hello,” she said to this elderly stranger. “My name is Judith Gardenier. Rip Van Winkle was my father, too.”

“Did you know our father, mister?”

“Well…yes. I think I did…please, may I ask…what is the child’s name?”

“This is my son. His name is Rip, too.” She looked up at the old man and was surprised to see tears running down his cheeks. Then she looked into his eyes more closely…and, at last, she saw it. “Father? Father, is it you?”

Rip, Jr. could hardly believe his ears. He sprang to his feet and stared into the old man’s eyes. “It is! It’s our father! Judith, it’s father! Come home at last!” And he threw his arms around his father’s shoulders, and Judith did the same, and Rip Van Winkle, Sr. embraced his children and grandson as though he would never let them go.

That very day, Rip moved in with his daughter and her husband where he spent the rest of his days very much as he had done before his strange adventure had begun. He got to know both his children and his grandson and became a pillar of the small, American town. He was never able to fully understand what had happened to him in that cavern in the mountain, and once or twice he had considered going back to investigate. But he always decided against it, and chose instead to just make the most of the time he had left…of course he always had his daughter or son-in-law wake him up every morning. Just to make sure.

THE END

If You Liked My Story, You Might Enjoy:

• Faerie Tale Theatre (TV) This episode starred Harry Dean Stanton as Rip and Tim Conway and Ed Begley, Jr. played his friends. Also starred Chris Penn and Talia Shire.
• The Famous Adventures of Mr. Magoo (TV) In this series, Magoo played a new role every week. Including the famous sleeper in this story.
• Rip Van Winkle (1978) This short film from the creator of the California Raisins, Will Vinton, was nominated for an Academy Award for best animated short.

SEE

YOU


IN


2012!!

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

There is a very old saying that fact is stranger than fiction and I’m sure you have encountered true stories that are far more bizarre and fantastic than those invented by the imagination. But then there is the story I am going to tell you today. I don’t know whether it belongs in the realm of fact or fiction. It is taken from various eye witness accounts of the events surrounding the area known as “Sleepy Hollow,” and concerning the Van Tassel girl, the schoolmaster and the horseman. But if it’s scientific proof or absolute certainty you want, that I cannot provide for you. I can only tell you what happened as near as I have been able to determine, and leave the question of believing it to you…

It may not come as a surprise to you (though perhaps it will) that New York as it is today is very different from how it was a few centuries ago. Nowadays, we think of skyscrapers and subways and the City That Never Sleeps. In those days, New York was almost entirely farmland and fishing villages. And close by the Hudson River, there was a little community known as Tarrytown, where the residents lived a very happy and peaceful life, and, come nightfall, avoided at all costs the wooded area known as Sleepy Hollow.

There were no wild animals or dangerous terrain in the woods and, in fact, by the light of the sun they were quite picturesque. But come nightfall, under the light of a full harvest moon, these same woods took on an air of foreboding which, as it always does, gave birth to legends and ghost stories, all of which I investigated in the course of my research. Some spoke of a lady in white, scorned on her wedding day, who had been seen calling out for her beloved, or the spectral dog who prowled the night. But most of the stories that grew from the imaginations of the townsfolk concerned a Hessian rider who had lost his head during the War for Independence, and rode nightly through the Hollow in search of it. Most of the sensible people of the region knew these stories and dismissed them as childish fancy, fit only for frightened children at Halloween dances…but they still reined their horses when they felt themselves drawing nearer to Sleepy Hollow.

Close by the hollow itself was a small village which bore the same name. And it was to this quaint, rustic backdrop, shrouded in mystery and fantasy, that Ichabod Crane came that fateful day.

Physical descriptions of Ichabod Crane are usually very similar. The first time you saw him, one farmer reported, you might, for a moment, think that a scarecrow had run away from his post. He was tall and almost impossibly thin. Six feet of solid skin and bone. He had large, nimble hands and even larger feet, which farmers often joked would come in useful when it came time to plant their crops. He had a smallish head with a largish nose that came almost to a perfect point, so that you might imagine he’d make an excellent weather vane. And when you were told that this apparition was to be the new schoolmaster, you wouldn’t be in the least surprised.

Yes, Ichabod Crane was that rarest thing in those days, a learned man. His books were his constant companion and he imparted their knowledge to children nearly as well as his absorbed it himself. His mind was quite keen and he seldom forgot anything he read. This was both fortunate and unfortunate, as it meant he absorbed the fantastical, the supernatural and the horrifying with far greater aplomb than would be healthy, especially for one with so active an imagination. The result being that you will never, if you live to be a hundred and seven, meet a more superstitious and fearful man than Ichabod Crane.

Some thought it odd that a man of learning would feel so overwhelmed by these superstitions, which we all know are based solely in ignorance of the world around us. When asked about this, the pedagogue would smile that awkward, wan smile for which he was known and say something like, “Well, of course, I take it with a grain of salt,” (this phrase usually compelled him to throw a pinch of salt over his shoulder, for fear of evil spirits), “but it is a mistake for science to assume it knows everything about the world in which we live. And, after all,” he would add, knocking on the nearest piece of wood he could reach, “one cannot be too careful.”

But despite his odd appearance and superstitious nature, Ichabod Crane was well admired throughout the village. He was gifted musically and would sing the loudest and the finest in church on Sundays, and offered music lessons to the ladies of the village in order to supplement his meager schoolteacher’s pay. He was charming, witty and quite elegant by the standards of the common farm folk he now lived with. He never failed to kiss a lady on the hand when they were introduced, nor doff his hat when one entered a room. Indeed, several of the ladies of the village (mostly the middle-aged ladies with no husbands and a talent for cooking too much food) found Ichabod very charming and he became very popular for this reason.

A little too popular, some might say.

For there was one pretty young maiden in town who had taken a liking to Ichabod’s gentility and bearing. An enchanting, alluring young vision named Katrina Van Tassel, daughter of the wealthiest man in that part of the country, and every bit as attractive as was the idea of being son-in-law to so rich a man as her father. It is therefore hardly surprising that Katrina would be the apple of every bachelor’s eye between Tarrytown and New Jersey. But though she had many suitors, there was one who stood head and shoulders above the rest.

And, no, I don’t mean the schoolteacher.

You see, before Ichabod Crane had come to town, all evidence indicates that Katrina had eyes only for Brom Bones. Big, strong, handsome, rough-and-tumble Brom Bones. Some thought he was nothing but a bully and, in truth, he did have a hot temper and a tendency toward jealousy, which is why so few of Katrina’s other suitors ever dared to make time with her. But he wasn’t really a villain deep down. Don’t get me wrong; He was a show-off, a braggart, a bit of a tussler when he’d had a few too many mugs of ale. But it was more a sense of mischief than malice that motivated him, and beneath all that bravado was a good heart that Katrina felt sure she could bring out.

When the lanky schoolmaster arrived on the scene, however, it is known that she was seen far less often with Brom and took many a moonlit walk with the pedagogue (a very old-fashioned word which means “school teacher,” but which it is impossible to describe Ichabod Crane without using). One or two thought she had lost her mind in throwing over Brom for the sake of Ichabod, but most recognized that she was just trying to make Brom jealous and maybe teach him a lesson about the right way to treat a lady. For as handsome and seductive as Brom was, Ichabod was an equal amount dapper and refined. Of course, had it come to blows, Brom would’ve reduced the schoolmaster to splinters with one punch, but Brom was too much of a gentleman for that. And Katrina didn’t approve of violence anyway, so Brom had to find other ways to exact his revenge on Ichabod Crane.

The following is an excerpt from the diary of a Sleepy Hollow housewife, who offers her account of a fairly amusing example of Brom Bones’ “vengeance”:

Mr. Crane came over today for my singing lesson. As he often does, he demonstrated the lesson himself, which was much higher in pitch than I would have thought him capable of singing. But just as he hit the highest note, a loud yowling sound, like an animal, rang through the house. Both Mr. Crane and I at first thought something had gone horribly wrong with his voice. Until we heard the sound of Brom Bones’ laughter just outside my parlor window and the yapping of the dog he had trained. A very mean trick to play on so lovely a man as Mr. Crane!

But, to his credit, Mr. Crane did not become angry with Brom. He merely chuckled quietly to himself and continued the lesson as if nothing had happened. A most curious man, this Ichabod Crane!

This reaction to such treatment was, I gather, fairly typical for Ichabod. The exception would, I suppose, be found in an old police report from this time, signed by Ichabod himself, along with the local magistrate, which states that Brom and his gang broke into Ichabod’s schoolhouse and knocked things over, rearranged the chairs, even tore a few pages out of Ichabod’s more “fantastical” books (from his personal library, of course, and not intended for use by his pupils) and pasted them on the walls. Ichabod’s rather extreme reaction was probably due to his initial assumption that evil spirits had done it, but when it was revealed to be the work of Brom and his “Sleepy Hollow Boys,” as they were often called, he at least made a show of being mollified.

Pranks of this nature were, I suppose, inevitable for a man like our friend the schoolmaster, but he took them in good humor. As his consolation, he had the thought of Katrina Van Tassel, and her father’s farm, and the good fortune that undoubtedly lay before him.

Poor Ichabod. He had no inkling that he was merely being used as a pawn in a game Katrina was playing with Brom. For all her admirable qualities, she was deucedly mischievous (a trait she shared with her admirer, Brom Bones) and something of a coquette, and didn’t for a moment foresee any unpleasant consequences from her actions. It was just a bit of fun, she would say with a light laugh. But she didn’t know how firmly the schoolteacher had pinned his hopes to this new prospect which he little suspected was nothing more than a cruel joke.

A biography of Baltus Van Tassel, Katrina’s father, describes the old man as being “very sociable and generous. He was never happier than when his home was full of people having a good time. He loved to host parties and dances for his friends and neighbors.” But of all the festivities this rotund farmer held throughout the year, his favorite was the Halloween dance. Every October 31^st, the entirety of the village was welcomed into the Van Tassel estate for the finest food, music and frivolity of the whole year. It was a dance to which Ichabod Crane was particularly looking forward. His skill at singing was matched only by his dancing, and he felt certain that tonight he would sweep Katrina off her feet and make her his own. He donned his best (indeed only) formal suit, busied himself at a piece of cracked mirror styling his hair, then set off on a borrowed plow horse, Gunpowder (whose name, no doubt, spoke to the power of his youth more than any fire he currently possessed), in the direction of the Van Tassel farm.

Ichabod had visited this fine estate on one or two occasions, but never failed to be spellbound by the beauty (and profitability) of the farmland. Nor the luxury of its interior and the almost unimaginable breadth of the buffet table. You see, despite his lanky build, Ichabod Crane was one of the world’s great eaters and absorbed succulent and savory foods better then he absorbed knowledge of the occult—a hobby and hindrance which, obviously, made his venturing forth on All Hallows Eve something of a challenge, but which he braved for the sake of Katrina.

And, indeed, Ichabod was the life of the party. He and Katrina moved across the dance floor like swans on the surface of a lake. Brom Bones tried to cut in, but could not keep up with the improbable grace of the pedagogue. All attempts to upstage or outshine the schoolmaster were, therefore, doomed to failure and Brom had no choice but to admit defeat…

For a while, anyway.

After all, Brom might not have been able to compete with Ichabod in grace or bearing. But his rival did have a weakness which Brom could exploit…and it was Halloween night! So, when the night was dark outside and the full moon rose in the sky and the men began the practice of entertaining their host and fellow guests with stories of the supernatural, Brom Bones stepped forth to seek his ultimate revenge on Ichabod Crane.

“I know most of you have heard the stories of Sleepy Hollow,” he said. “But, perhaps, for the sake of our new friend, Mr. Crane, you will not begrudge me repeating them here.” The crowd consented, never tiring of hearing the exciting stories. And there was no question which story was to be the highlight of the evening: The Tale of the Headless Horseman! I remind you at this point that the facts leading up to the horseman’s demise are entirely factual and beyond question. It is only after his death that we enter the realm of uncertainty:

“I need hardly tell you,” began Brom, setting the scene, “of how bravely the men of this territory fought to earn our freedom in the days of the war. And we most certainly know of the Hessian soldiers who were sent to cut them down, and of how courageously we beat them back. But never make the mistake of underestimating your enemy, and in truth, it must be said that the Hessians fought to the last man. And even when that last man was the only one still alive and still on his horse, he fought with the strength of ten, until one of our own grandfathers swung his sword and sliced off his head with one swipe.” A statement like this would have elicited cheers and huzzahs from the crowd, in which Ichabod Crane joined, half-heartedly, already beginning to turn pale.

Brom saw his rival’s cadaverous pallor, and with a grin, continued his story. “But mark my words! He didn’t fall. His head lay severed at the feet of his horse and blood streamed down his body. But he did not fall from his horse. He stayed rooted to the spot, and some who were there that day say he even spurred his horse and shouted a command because the steed rode off into the hollow. Our men did not give chase, believing the horseman to be dead. But answer me this, if he was truly killed, how did he come to be seen riding madly through the woods the following year? And on many cold, dark nights since?

“It’s true! The horseman still rides! You see, he lost his head that fateful night and he will never stop riding until he finds it. And if he cannot find his own head, he will find another that suits him just as well. And how do I know all of this?” added Brom, in a sudden inspiration. “Because last year, on this very night, I met this fearful apparition in Sleepy Hollow.” Spurned on by the excitement of the moment and the spite for his rival, Brom began improvising madly. “He charged full speed toward me, swinging his sword maniacally over his headless body. Laughing a wicked laugh that seemed to come from deep within his soul! But I wasn’t afraid. I spurred my best horse, Daredevil, and we rode like thunder to the covered bridge just past the old churchyard. For that cemetery is where the horseman’s power comes from, and once you cross the bridge, he cannot touch you.

“So let me caution all of you, that if you find yourselves riding through Sleepy Hollow tonight, do not stop, do not rest, do not slow down until you reach the covered bridge by the old church. Or else you might find yourself unwittingly assisting the Headless Horseman to…get a-head!” Of course, two hundred years ago, this was a new joke and the men laughed cathartically at the witticism, releasing their fright over Brom’s story. Even Ichabod Crane managed a hollow chuckle, which belied the fierce pounding of his heart upon hearing this account of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

A legend he little suspected he was about to become a part of.

From here onward, accurate accounts of what took place become fewer and farther between and we must rely on guesswork and conjecture. It is a matter of record that Ichabod Crane tarried after the other guests had left, in the hopes of having a private word with Katrina. It is well known that the schoolmaster set out on his way home a mere five minutes after this interview was terminated. I cannot say what passed between the two during this time, but we can draw conclusions from the morose countenance he wore when he reclaimed his mount from the stable. Yes, I believe that his hopes for Miss Van Tassel were dashed that night, and perhaps Katrina learned the dangers of playing with men’s affections, or perhaps not. We shall never know for certain. All that is known with any certainty is that Ichabod Crane left the Van Tassel farm, without stopping to admire it, a few minutes before midnight on his way home.

Among the diary entries, official reports and other verifiable documents I uncovered while trying to solve the mystery surrounding this story was the following account, to which no name was signed nor date given. I include it only because it is the only existing account of what may…or may not…have happened to the schoolmaster when he rode through Sleepy Hollow that night:

It was the very witching hour when Ichabod Crane found himself passing through Sleepy Hollow on his way to the Von Ripper farm where he had his lodgings. As the chill of the night air surrounded him, he gradually forgot his despair over Katrina, and his proper nature took over. Meaning his fear and superstition. He tried to persuade his horse to move faster, but all the spark had gone out of Gunpowder and he plodded along at his own pace. With each moment, Ichabod’s fears compounded. He started at the sounds of crickets or a bullfrog in the old mill pond. Once he was certain he heard approaching footsteps, only to see a couple of bulrushes blowing against a hollow log in the wind. This actually motivated Ichabod to smile and, as if to prove to himself that he wasn’t afraid, he even began singing one of his favorite psalms.

But his tranquility was short-lived, for a short time later, he heard a sound behind him which he knew for certain could not be bulrushes. A timid glance over his shoulder confirmed that there was another rider on the path to town. Ichabod tried to call to the rider, cordially, but the other gave no reply. Wary of this traveler, Ichabod spurred Gunpowder who grudgingly began to trot with more speed, in the hopes of putting some distance between himself and the stranger. But the stranger matched the speed of Ichabod’s horse and remained the same distance behind. Then, Ichabod reined Gunpowder in, planning to slow down and let this other ride pass. But, as before, the stranger slowed down and continued following Ichabod apace.

His heart pounding as though it were about to burst out of his chest, Ichabod’s neck continuously turned over his shoulder to keep an eye on this eerie companion. Finally, the path came into an open area where the trees did not obscure the moon and it threw the image of the strange rider into relief. And Ichabod beheld a tall, powerful rider all in black, with a long black cloak on a horse blacker than the midnight sky. But his imposing figure is not what caused Ichabod to pound his spurs into his horse’s ribs and take off at high speed.

For you see, the horseman was headless!

Looking over his shoulder as they raced on, Ichabod saw the Headless Horseman pick up speed and begin to chase them through the Hollow at top speed. Ichabod perceived a large, round shape on the pommel of the Horseman’s saddle. His head! thought Ichabod. He carries it with him until he finds one he likes better! Ichabod rode his horse harder than he would have ever thought possible until, at last, he was in sight of the old churchyard and the covered bridge. With one final crack of the whip, Ichabod tore across the bridge and didn’t stop or look around until he was well on the other side. And as he turned his head, he saw, to his horror, that the Headless Horseman was actually hurling his severed head through the bridge and straight at Ichabod. He perceived flames erupting from the head as it roared straight for his own, and Ichabod Crane was too terrified even to move out of its way and

The mystery document ends here.

We return now to the world of evidence and hard facts. The following morning, the sun rose on Sleepy Hollow as it always had. The good people arose and set about their work as they always did. Only at the Von Ripper farm was there any change in the usual routine. For their lodger, one Mr. Ichabod Crane, did not come to breakfast. Nor did he appear for luncheon or dinner. The children assembled at the school but their master did not arrive. Later that evening, however, Gunpowder did return, riderless.

The very next morning, the men of the village assembled to search the Hollow, a search which ended when they came to the covered bridge which separated the town from the old church. Masses of hoof prints in the earth spoke of a chase and a struggle between two men on horseback. To the side of the road, the schoolmaster’s hat was found. And, all around the scene, pieces of a shattered pumpkin shell complete with a melted ball of wax stuck to one large piece: A jack-o-lantern. No other trace of the schoolmaster was found.

So, my readers are asking, what happened to Ichabod Crane? Well, it’s difficult to say. Certainly the circumstances of his disappearance were somewhat fantastic. True, Brom Bones did seem to grin a trifle too widely at the mention of the pumpkin shell found on the scene, leading many to suspect that he knew more about the incident than he was letting on. And, yes, there were some who traveled to other parts of the country who claimed that they had met Ichabod Crane, settled down with a nice widow and her children and taking up the practice of law…

All that we know for sure is that Ichabod Crane was never seen in Sleepy Hollow again. Shortly thereafter, Brom Bones and Katrina Van Tassel were married. And every Halloween when the master of the Van Tassel Farm invited his guests to regale him with scary stories, the first one to stand up would invariably relate the tale of the old schoolmaster, never failing to omit the fact that those who had chanced by his now abandoned and rundown schoolhouse swear that they can hear a soft, angelic voice singing that same psalm that the pedagogue was so fond of.

We may never know the truth of what happened in those woods that night, but to the people of Sleepy Hollow, it is a matter of absolute fact that the poor, unfortunate schoolmaster was spirited away by the Headless Horseman.

THE END

If You Liked My Story, You Might Enjoy:

• The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad (1949) This Disney double feature consists of two stories with practically nothing in common. First, Basil Rathbone tells a comic adaptation of Kenneth Grahame’s “The Wind in the Willows,” then Bing Crosby tells and croons the story of Ichabod Crane. This is notable for being one of the few Disney animated films to end on a less-than-happy note.
• “Shelly Duvall’s Tall tales & Legends” (TV) Charles Durning narrates and Beverly D’Angelo and Ed Begley, Jr. star as Katrina and Ichabod.
• Sleepy Hollow (1999) Tim Burton made Ichabod Crane a scientist and a policeman who is sent to Sleepy Hollow to solve the mystery of the Headless Horseman. A loose, but enjoyable adaptation of Irving’s story which includes a chase scene closely inspired by that which appears in the Disney version (Burton often includes these little homages to Disney films as he himself got his start working on their animation staff).

For More Great Stories, Click HERE