Horseman by Christina Henry
Horseman by Christina Henry
From the bestselling author of Alice, Lost Boy and Near the Bone comes an atmospheric take on the “Legend of Sleepy Hollow” in which Christina Henry once again crafts a terrifying and beguiling new take on a beloved classic…
Everyone in Sleepy Hollow knows about the Horseman, but no one really believes in him. Not even Ben Van Brunt's grandfather, Brom Bones, who was there when it was said the Horseman chased the upstart Crane out of town. Brom says that's just legend, the village gossips talking.
Twenty years after those storied events, the village is a quiet place. Fourteen-year-old Ben loves to play "Sleepy Hollow boys," reenacting the events Brom once lived through. But then Ben and a friend stumble across the headless body of a child in the woods near the village, and the sinister discovery makes Ben question everything the adults in Sleepy Hollow have ever said. Could the Horseman be real after all? Or does something even more sinister stalk the woods?
Horseman will publish on September 28th in hardback from Titan Books.
From the bestselling author of Alice, Lost Boy and Near the Bone comes an atmospheric take on the “Legend of Sleepy Hollow” in which Christina Henry once again crafts a terrifying and beguiling new take on a beloved classic…
Everyone in Sleepy Hollow knows about the Horseman, but no one really believes in him. Not even Ben Van Brunt's grandfather, Brom Bones, who was there when it was said the Horseman chased the upstart Crane out of town. Brom says that's just legend, the village gossips talking.
Twenty years after those storied events, the village is a quiet place. Fourteen-year-old Ben loves to play "Sleepy Hollow boys," reenacting the events Brom once lived through. But then Ben and a friend stumble across the headless body of a child in the woods near the village, and the sinister discovery makes Ben question everything the adults in Sleepy Hollow have ever said. Could the Horseman be real after all? Or does something even more sinister stalk the woods?
Horseman will publish on September 28th in hardback from Titan Books.
EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT:
OF COURSE I KNEW about the Horseman, no matter how much Katrina tried to keep it from me. If ever anyone brought up the subject within my hearing, Katrina would shush that person immediately, her eyes slanting in my direction as if to say, “Don’t speak of it in front of the child.”
I found out everything I wanted to know about the Horseman anyway, because children always hear and see more than adults think they do. Besides, the story of the Headless Horseman was a favorite in Sleepy Hollow, one that had been toldand retold almost since the village was established. It was practically nothing to ask Sander to tell me about it. I already knew the part about the Horseman looking for a head because he didn’t have one. Then Sander told me all about the schoolmaster who looked like a crane and how he tried to court Katrina and how one night the Horseman took the schoolmaster away, never to be seen again.
I always thought of my grandparents as Katrina and Brom though they were my grandmother and grandfather, because the legend of the Horseman and the crane and Katrina and Brom were part of the fabric of the Hollow, something woven into our hearts and minds. I never called them by their names, of course— Brom wouldn’t have minded, but Katrina would have been very annoyed had I referred to her as anything except “Oma.”
Whenever someone mentioned the Horseman, Brom would get a funny glint in his eye and sometimes chuckle to himself, and this made Katrina even more annoyed about the subject. I always had the feeling that Brom knew more about the Horseman than he was letting on. Later I discovered that, like so many things, this was both true and not true.
On the day that Cristoffel van den Berg was found in the woods without his head, Sander and I were playing Sleepy Hollow Boys by the creek. This was a game that we playedoften. It would have been better if there were a large group but no one ever wanted to play with us.
“All right, I’ll be Brom Bones chasing the pig and you be Markus Baas and climb that tree when the pig gets close,” I said, pointing to a maple with low branches that Sander could easily reach.
He was still shorter than me, a fact that never failed to irritate him. We were both fourteen and he thought that he should have started shooting up like some of the other boys in the Hollow.
“Why are you always Brom Bones?” Sander asked, scrunching up his face. “I’m always the one getting chased up a tree or having ale dumped on my head.”
“He’s my opa,” I said. “Why shouldn’t I play him?”
Sander kicked a rock off the bank and it tumbled into the stream, startling a small frog lurking just under the surface.
“It’s boring if I never get to be the hero,” Sander said.
I realized that he was always the one getting kicked around (because my opa could be a bit of a bully— I knew this even though I loved him more than anyone in the world—and our games were always about young Brom Bones and his gang).
Since Sander was my only friend and I didn’t want to lose him,I decided to let him have his way—at least just this once. However, it was important that I maintain the upper hand (“a Van Brunt never bows his head for anyone,” as Brom always said), so I made a show of great reluctance.
“Well, I suppose,” I said. “But it’s a lot harder, you know. You have to run very fast and laugh at the same time and also pretend that you’re chasing a pig and you have to make the pig noises properly. And you have to laugh like my opa— that great big laugh that he has. Can you really do all that?”
Sander’s blue eyes lit up. “I can, I really can!”
“All right,” I said, making a great show of not believing him.
“I’ll stand over here and you go a little ways in that direction and then come back, driving the pig.”
Sander obediently trotted in the direction of the village and turned around, puffing himself up so that he appeared larger.
Sander ran toward me, laughing as loud as he could. It was all right but he didn’t really sound like my opa. Nobody sounded like Brom, if truth be told. Brom’s laugh was a rumble of thunder that rolled closer and closer until it broke over you.
“Don’t forget to make the pig noises, too,” I said.
“Stop worrying about what I’m doing,” he said. “You’re supposed to be Markus Baas walking along without a clue, carrying all the meat for dinner in a basket for Arabella Visser.”
I turned my back on Sander and pretended to be carrying a basket, a simpering look on my face even though Sander couldn’t see my expression. Men courting women always
looked like sheep to me, their dignity drifting away as they bowed and scraped. Markus Baas looked like a sheep anyway, with his broad blank face and no chin to speak of. Whenever he saw Brom he’d frown and try to look fierce. Brom always laughed at him, though, because Brom laughed at everything, and the idea of Markus Baas being fierce was too silly to contemplate.
Sander began to snort, but since his voice wasn’t too deep he didn’t really sound like a pig—more like a small dog whining in the parlor.
I turned around, ready to tell Sander off and demonstrate proper pig-snorting noises. That’s when I heard them.
Horses. Several of them, by the sound of it, and hurrying in our direction.
Sander obviously hadn’t heard them yet, for he was still galloping toward me, waving his arms before him and making his bad pig noises.
“Stop!” I said, holding my hands up.
He halted, looking dejected. “I wasn’t that bad, Ben.”
“That’s not it,” I said, indicating he should come closer.
“Listen.”
“Horses,” he said. “Moving fast.”
“I wonder where they’re going in such a hurry,” I said.
“Come on. Let’s get down onto the bank so they won’t see us from the trail.”
“Why?” Sander asked.
“So that they don’t see us, like I said.”
“But why don’t we want them to see us?”
“Because,” I said, impatiently waving at Sander to follow my lead. “If they see us they might tell us off for being in the woods. You know most of the villagers think the woods are haunted.”
“That’s stupid,” Sander said. “We’re out here all the time and we’ve never found anything haunted.”
“Exactly,” I said, though that wasn’t precisely true. I had heard something, once, and sometimes I felt someone watching us while we played. The watching someone never felt menacing, though.
“Though the Horseman lives in the forest, he doesn’t live anywhere near here,” Sander continued. “And of course there are witches and goblins, even though we’ve never seen them.”
“Yes, yes,” I said. “But not here, right? We’re perfectly safe here. So just get down on the bank unless you want our game ruined by some spoiling adult telling us off.”
I told Sander that we were hiding because we didn’t want to get in trouble, but really I wanted to know where the riders were going in such a hurry. I’d never find out if they caught sight of us.
Adults had an annoying tendency to tell children to stay out of their business
I found out everything I wanted to know about the Horseman anyway, because children always hear and see more than adults think they do. Besides, the story of the Headless Horseman was a favorite in Sleepy Hollow, one that had been toldand retold almost since the village was established. It was practically nothing to ask Sander to tell me about it. I already knew the part about the Horseman looking for a head because he didn’t have one. Then Sander told me all about the schoolmaster who looked like a crane and how he tried to court Katrina and how one night the Horseman took the schoolmaster away, never to be seen again.
I always thought of my grandparents as Katrina and Brom though they were my grandmother and grandfather, because the legend of the Horseman and the crane and Katrina and Brom were part of the fabric of the Hollow, something woven into our hearts and minds. I never called them by their names, of course— Brom wouldn’t have minded, but Katrina would have been very annoyed had I referred to her as anything except “Oma.”
Whenever someone mentioned the Horseman, Brom would get a funny glint in his eye and sometimes chuckle to himself, and this made Katrina even more annoyed about the subject. I always had the feeling that Brom knew more about the Horseman than he was letting on. Later I discovered that, like so many things, this was both true and not true.
On the day that Cristoffel van den Berg was found in the woods without his head, Sander and I were playing Sleepy Hollow Boys by the creek. This was a game that we playedoften. It would have been better if there were a large group but no one ever wanted to play with us.
“All right, I’ll be Brom Bones chasing the pig and you be Markus Baas and climb that tree when the pig gets close,” I said, pointing to a maple with low branches that Sander could easily reach.
He was still shorter than me, a fact that never failed to irritate him. We were both fourteen and he thought that he should have started shooting up like some of the other boys in the Hollow.
“Why are you always Brom Bones?” Sander asked, scrunching up his face. “I’m always the one getting chased up a tree or having ale dumped on my head.”
“He’s my opa,” I said. “Why shouldn’t I play him?”
Sander kicked a rock off the bank and it tumbled into the stream, startling a small frog lurking just under the surface.
“It’s boring if I never get to be the hero,” Sander said.
I realized that he was always the one getting kicked around (because my opa could be a bit of a bully— I knew this even though I loved him more than anyone in the world—and our games were always about young Brom Bones and his gang).
Since Sander was my only friend and I didn’t want to lose him,I decided to let him have his way—at least just this once. However, it was important that I maintain the upper hand (“a Van Brunt never bows his head for anyone,” as Brom always said), so I made a show of great reluctance.
“Well, I suppose,” I said. “But it’s a lot harder, you know. You have to run very fast and laugh at the same time and also pretend that you’re chasing a pig and you have to make the pig noises properly. And you have to laugh like my opa— that great big laugh that he has. Can you really do all that?”
Sander’s blue eyes lit up. “I can, I really can!”
“All right,” I said, making a great show of not believing him.
“I’ll stand over here and you go a little ways in that direction and then come back, driving the pig.”
Sander obediently trotted in the direction of the village and turned around, puffing himself up so that he appeared larger.
Sander ran toward me, laughing as loud as he could. It was all right but he didn’t really sound like my opa. Nobody sounded like Brom, if truth be told. Brom’s laugh was a rumble of thunder that rolled closer and closer until it broke over you.
“Don’t forget to make the pig noises, too,” I said.
“Stop worrying about what I’m doing,” he said. “You’re supposed to be Markus Baas walking along without a clue, carrying all the meat for dinner in a basket for Arabella Visser.”
I turned my back on Sander and pretended to be carrying a basket, a simpering look on my face even though Sander couldn’t see my expression. Men courting women always
looked like sheep to me, their dignity drifting away as they bowed and scraped. Markus Baas looked like a sheep anyway, with his broad blank face and no chin to speak of. Whenever he saw Brom he’d frown and try to look fierce. Brom always laughed at him, though, because Brom laughed at everything, and the idea of Markus Baas being fierce was too silly to contemplate.
Sander began to snort, but since his voice wasn’t too deep he didn’t really sound like a pig—more like a small dog whining in the parlor.
I turned around, ready to tell Sander off and demonstrate proper pig-snorting noises. That’s when I heard them.
Horses. Several of them, by the sound of it, and hurrying in our direction.
Sander obviously hadn’t heard them yet, for he was still galloping toward me, waving his arms before him and making his bad pig noises.
“Stop!” I said, holding my hands up.
He halted, looking dejected. “I wasn’t that bad, Ben.”
“That’s not it,” I said, indicating he should come closer.
“Listen.”
“Horses,” he said. “Moving fast.”
“I wonder where they’re going in such a hurry,” I said.
“Come on. Let’s get down onto the bank so they won’t see us from the trail.”
“Why?” Sander asked.
“So that they don’t see us, like I said.”
“But why don’t we want them to see us?”
“Because,” I said, impatiently waving at Sander to follow my lead. “If they see us they might tell us off for being in the woods. You know most of the villagers think the woods are haunted.”
“That’s stupid,” Sander said. “We’re out here all the time and we’ve never found anything haunted.”
“Exactly,” I said, though that wasn’t precisely true. I had heard something, once, and sometimes I felt someone watching us while we played. The watching someone never felt menacing, though.
“Though the Horseman lives in the forest, he doesn’t live anywhere near here,” Sander continued. “And of course there are witches and goblins, even though we’ve never seen them.”
“Yes, yes,” I said. “But not here, right? We’re perfectly safe here. So just get down on the bank unless you want our game ruined by some spoiling adult telling us off.”
I told Sander that we were hiding because we didn’t want to get in trouble, but really I wanted to know where the riders were going in such a hurry. I’d never find out if they caught sight of us.
Adults had an annoying tendency to tell children to stay out of their business
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