‘A Courier Most Peculiar’

Ichabod

An axe is only dangerously sharp when not in use but without fault, every single time Icabod went to use it, it was always duller than needed. A tool never quite ready for the job at hand. It was something he found himself relating to more and more.

The act of chopping wood was indeed a chore. One that soaked his clothes through and through and left him exhausted for hours after. However, he enjoyed the solace of it all. For a few hours once a week, no one asked him questions, or demanded his attention. As the eldest, it was his responsibility to care for his siblings. As the eldest without surviving parents, his responsibilities were thrice-fold; bills had to be paid, the estate kept well, and the education of the Crane family at this home was left to him.

The entire Crane household left him alone. Perhaps it was from them not wanting to smell the odor of a hard day’s work or maybe it was because they didn’t want to be roped into a task themselves. Whatever it was, he was grateful.

The sound of sanctuary was dashed as abruptly as one of Ichabod’s hellfire hunting hounds running with all six legs crashing through the still waters of the nearby creek to catch a kill. All yip, gnashing teeth, and sizzling steam. But this wasn’t a pack of hounds, oh no, this was a singular person on a horse. Though the sounds of a rider were far from his pack of hounds, Ichabod’s chest hitched in anticipation and his narrow eyes studied for recognition. There was no one expected, and this estate was the only one at the end of the road.

When he was younger, mysterious riders were exciting and something to break of the monotony of the day. But be it age or wisdom, Ichabod felt no nostalgia of the incoming visitor. There would be no letters of fancy, although as the acting household head did warrant him a few flirting glances. With their parents having perished on a trip abroad only a few years ago, he was now responsible for all his four siblings and managing what was left over from his parents’ erratic ‘investments’. No, a messenger was NOT a good thing, it was an omen.

His first step towards the road was shaky and as nervous as his stomach felt but with each step he stomped more confidently as if he could shake out any indication of doubt. With every step he pushed himself further as if a puppet even though the strings of his nerves, right down to his fingertips ached and pulled from within to go back the other way, to hide back in the gardener’s closet like when he was younger.

Ichabod wasn’t the only one to hear the messenger as two of his siblings burst from the front door. He whipped his head around with a stern glare to hang back. A glare that was effortlessly ignored by his eldest sister, Katrina. She never did listen and now as not the time to shout for her to return to the front porch. As he regarded his sister, she suddenly halted and her hands worried in front of her. Confused, he followed her sight back to the rider. Brown mare and brown riding clothes was all he had noticed initially but the violet accents on the mare’s dressings and the seething black and violet smoke under the tricorn hat was unmistakable. A Smokeling messenger. A royal messenger.

He dove into the depths of his vault of protocol and societal expectations to pull just how one was to greet a royal messenger. Ichabod came up blank.

The rider did not wait for Ichabod to come to his senses or to even meet them at the edge of the road. The messenger road straight past the second half of lawn that Ichabod did not manage to cross and pulled back the reigns to settle their mare.

“Lord Ichabod Crane?”

A joke. Thank the woods for one as it provided Ichabod a method to clear through his mental fog. “No-no, just Mr. Crane.”

The deep violet rider, a being of smoke and spirit coalescing, laughed and their solid deep-as-coal eyes sparkled, “Well, you are now.”

They reached into their crisp leather bag as the stone shocked Ichabod looked on. A letter was produced and presented to Ichabod who looked upon it as if it was about to bite him. A possibility from a few of the other Houses but not from this one, this House of Crane. The messenger’s amusement faded quickly, and they shook it impatiently in front of his face.

Coming to with a flutter of lashes, Ichabod took the letter and paused before cracking the seal. “Do I need to confirm…a signature…or anything?”

The rider cracked their neck, or so it sounded like it was although it was very clear the messenger had no bones or muscles to cause such a sound. “No need, I’ve captured you all on my own, Lord Crane.” They gestured to their right eye which rolled back to completely white instead of its resting black. A moment later, it rolled again to its normal pigment and with the flourish of a wink, the rider nodded and trotted away.

Ichabod raised a hand to call them back, but it froze in place. To call them back? For what reason? Clearly no response was needed and thank the woods for that. The swishing of skirts signaled to Ichabod that his sister had resumed her approach, and he turned his back fully towards her, quick to get to the cracking of the royal wax seal.

It didn’t budge, snap, or crack. “For Michael’s sake,” Ichabod cursed. He brought his thumb to his teeth and with as much force as he could muster between his teeth he tore into the skin of his thumb. Immediately the flash of pain and throbbing of his thumb made Ichabod regret all the judgmental thoughts of his axe’s dullness.

Smearing his blood on the wax seal, it finally cracked and allowed access to the weighted parchment.

“Ichabod…what is it?” Katrina stood a few arm’s length away as if the short distance would save her from any bad news. She was never a patient person, and it served her well. Normally. But now, he could only read so fast.

“It’s Great Aunt Hazel.” The name of his aunt escaped his lips as thickly as molasses escaped an upturned jar.

“She’s summoning us to high court?” Katrina’s words were edged with a sharpness Ichabod wished he had moments ago, perhaps they would have saved his thumb better than his own teeth. She briskly resumed her approach.

“No, she’s dead.” Ichabod lowered the letter and gazed past his sister back to their childhood home nestled between twin oak trees their grandparents planted decades ago. They were both incredibly warm, perfect opposites to his great aunt’s icy demeanor.

“I struggle to find sorrow in my heart,” She rolled her eyes before leaning her head forward attempting to spy on any other information in the letter.

“You’ll have to learn to pretend to, sister.” Ichabod’s trapped breath finally released with his words.

Katrina scoffed, “And why’s that, dear brother?”

“For it’s the only proper way to act when one’s inherited the entire estate.” Ichabod folded the letter back up and placed it into his own interior breast pocket. Everything felt still. How to feel sorry for someone you never felt an ounce of love for? Instead of joy, sorrow, or excitement filling Ichabod’s head, it was a list. A longer list of duties with responsibilities and now a whole damn title’s worth of things that could not be avoided.

In that moment, Ichabod lost a part of himself, the area left behind now filling ever so quickly with exterior expectations. Gone was the opportunity of an unexpected future and on were the chains of a fate decided. Freedom was all that Ichabod craved and it was whisked away in an instant.

“I’ve inherited it?” Katrina’s expression was as sour as last week’s milk.

“No, I have…we have but as eldest, I am now head of Crane Manor.” He reached for her hands that were worrying themselves on her silver chatelaine.

“So, what does that mean?” She whispered.

A smile for his sister, but a portal of nervousness pulling him under inside he spoke with strained enthusiasm, “It’ means we’re all moving to the ‘ton."