It had once been a place of pride, this house—this great expanse of stone—hard won by agile hands and a craftsman’s scattered genius mind.
Clocks.
For three generations they had made them—of all shapes and sizes—and young Susan had been brought up from swaddling clothes to the ticking—gentle and random—here and there and everywhere throughout.
Granny Tess, her father’s mother had taken ill—which was what had brought the Hawkes to the Hollow—all the way across the North Atlantic—from Surrey.
It rained less here.
So it was in Sleepy Hollow that William and Elizabeth Hawke had come, and built a great manse in which they ushered their grieving kin—Granny Tess—or more correctly, Tess Ashlund—whose only real illness was a broken heart—for her husband had died that winter—and she’d not ventured out of his little bookshop since—and shown interest in anything besides her singing.
It had been Peter Van Garrett who had written to William—and the family had spared no time to rush to the woman’s aid.
Sometimes, family is loyal.
Granny Tess was an odd woman—sang to herself quite often. Never spoke a word after her Archibald had died.
Not—at least—to anyone but Susan.
And that was far after. Far, far after.
The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg in the kitchens and the ticking of the little clock—the smooth cherrywood clock—as Susan stepped from the manor and into the woods—determined to venture out on her own.
**I’m not a ninny…** she had thought, biting her lip in remembrance of her brother’s taunt.
It had been so much easier for Griffin to make friends—to earn acceptance—he was twelve and she was barely seven—and though they’d been in the Hollow two years she had nought but her books and her father’s clocks to keep her company.
She was a solitary thing—inquisitive but never social—experiencing none of her mother’s longing for the gaieties of the city—something Susan could hardly recall having left behind.
Griffin had loved her fiercely—more than most brothers could ever have loved a sister—but like brothers do—he had wont of friends his own age—and had left his sister to fend off boredom by herself this day.
She’d been shy—it was merely shyness that had kept her from speaking—acknowledging the two young boys that came to meet her brother that afternoon. She wasn’t frightened.
And she wasn’t a ninny.
Footsteps crashing through the leaves as she trailed careless and directionless through the wood—and her father shut up in his study with his books and his clockpieces.
Why, by the age of six she could almost dismantle and reassemble a timepiece completely.
How it should have been so with time itself.
It was very quiet when she finally took notice of where she was, so quiet that it almost seemed that time had frozen here—where the air hung suspended like a broken branch—hinged by raw green threads—but quite unable to fall.
It was the darkest, tallest, largest tree she had ever seen.
And there were no birds in it.
There were no birds—in sight.
It was so very tall—the tree—that it seemed to eclipse all that surrounded it—all that stood in its wake.
Suddenly she felt very small.
“Well, I am very small.” She whispered aloud, breaking the silence.
A tight little knot in her stomach mirrored by a tight little knot in her throat and a hitch in her breath.
Three more steps and she was at its base, craning her small white neck back so awkwardly to gaze up at it that she thought she might tip over.
The knot tightened.
**Is this fear?**
It must have been.
It was, quite possibly, the first and last time she had ever felt fear—standing there in the shadowcast of the dark tree—
--not knowing what it was, yet somehow not liking it.
It was why she remained.
It was the fear that held her there—unable to move—to run—as she’d thought for a moment she might.
The heart of the fear enveloped her like a stifling blanket of moldering leaves and held her rooted in the soil as firmly as the massive not-so-living plant.
“There is no such thing as fear.” She whispered, half to herself, and crept a pace closer, sinking down amidst the roots to sit.
Basking in the feel of it—the fear.
She’d never felt it before, and though she did not like it, she was curious—this new sensation—this hammering of her little heart.
For nearly an hour she remained still, having closed her eyes—the hard trunk cold against her head—a few tendrils of her hair catching and holding fast—trying to snare her as she pulled back.
The sound of hoofbeats and a whinny—a shiver-pitched whinny and the clank-clack-clank of boots—
--crack—
She opened one eye.
**Branches?**
She hoped they didn’t fall.
**Please, not upon my head.**
Another blue eye opened , and the fear had passed, completely.
No branches fell upon her head.
The sounds had vanished as quickly as they’d come, and out of the corner of her eye—a flash of dull-bright vine enshrewed metal—
---there—thrust in the earth---
A breath and a swallow.
**What--**
A few crawling paces to the left—and there—within reach—
---was a sword.
It was fierce and intricate, entwined by vines and leaves—and in between the gaping jaws of the dragon-pommel cobwebs trailed.
The earth was barren here—no grass grew beneath—it was as if—
As if—
**Someone’s buried here.**
And had been forgotten for quite some time. Years at least.
“How sad.” She breathed, her chest sick and heavy as she clambered over the patch of earth, reaching out her small hand toward the blade and stopping just shy of it.
She pondered awhile how long this unknown soul might have lingered here---forgotten---neglected by all save time and earth and erosion---and curiously enough found her eyes shining with tears.
They threatened to spill forth but did not, and she stood a moment longer.
Even at such a young age she knew more than most—that graves should be attended. The dead were not to be forgotten.
“Have you no family that remembers you?” she asked, softly before sinking again to the earth, over the barren soil. She received no answer, but she had not expected one.
“I don’t have any flowers to leave…but I can tell you a story.”
**The dead have ears. They can still hear the living. Must be awfully terribly lonely all buried in the earth and forgotten.**
She paused, biting her lip again, her heart half sick with sorrow and half filled with delight.
“Once,” she began, in a tone very serious for such a small child, “there was a great horse…grey and majestic…with fire in his nostrils and speed like wind….so great was this creature that he could not be tamed…not by any man…or woman…so tall and fierce and….did I say that the horse was grey? No…no…he was pitch dark….black as black could be…”
And she had spun on until it grew dark.
A nod of farewell and she returned home, quite sure of the way.
And sneaking inside she was caught by her mother—breathless and worried—admonished for being out in the wood in the twilight—for it wasn’t safe it just wasn’t safe---
Susan stared up at her mother, cocking her head to the side and asking, very slowly and starkly, “Why isn’t it safe?”
She received no answer—and no further admonishment---for Griffin came bounding in and up the stairs and scooped her up into his arms, telling her tales of his adventures in the town—and of the great house of the Van Garretts---and a glimpse of a golden haired girl—a bit older than himself—not a Van Garrett but of another family—
--and she listened. With all her heart she listened and drank in his adventures.
But she never spoke about the grave. Not to anyone.
Not even Griffin.
It was her secret, from that day forth.
And as often as she could—nearly every day she brought flowers and stories, some from books and others from her own head---
--for the dead man—and she was almost sure it was a man---because of the sword, you see---and whoever he was—he deserved better than to be forgotten.
No, the dead should never be forgotten.
The years that followed would see no great change in her belief.