The Inner Beast

Cloella sighed as the fog seemed to just be thickening and rising around her, she could barely see Gypsum anymore, for he blended with the color of the low lying clouds so very well. While she’d always embraced the coming of spring, the constant rains and fog were something of a nuisance. The days were hardly brighter than they were in winter for all the fog that was prevalent around her house in early spring. Her family’s farm sat amidst the small clearing, surrounded by the dense woods, and the clearing was the only place for the fog that was not absorbed by the trees to filter into. Perhaps today had not been the best day to dig out her long buried paints and easel and attempt to do Gypsum’s portrait.

Oh but she’d needed something to look forward to, something to busy herself with, in order to get through the next few days, and painting had seemed like such a wonderfully relaxing activity that did not require the energy she’d suddenly found herself without. Again, the Hessian was gone, but he would return again, as he always did. It had been this way for months now, and she’d learned to not let herself fret as much as she once did whenever he left. He’d been gone longer than two weeks this time, for he was in Trenton, but Cloella knew he’d be back, soon, she could feel it. However, she also felt something else, something within herself, and she feared it was illness.

As was so every spring, in a community that was settled in a marshy and boggy area, mosquitoes hatched, and it was just a few days ago that Cloella had awoken with their bites all over her legs and arms and body. It wasn’t fair now, when she had so much of a reason to live; she was in love. Last spring she’d begged for a mosquito to bring her Yellow Fever, for she was all alone and so forlorn, but the insects would show her no mercy with an infectious bite. But now, that she had the Hessian, and she loved him, and he loved her, her past wish seemed to be coming true. It wasn’t fair. Perhaps this was punishment, for the carelessness she’d exhibited earlier in her life. Still, she could not let illness claim her.

Yesterday morning, she’d awakened with not only the usual itching, but also with a feeling of nausea that stayed with her most of the day, and she did not eat for fear of vomiting. The welts raised by the mosquitoes were always bright red, swollen and hot. This morning she’d again awakened feeling sick to her stomach, but also so hungry that she pushed back the nausea and had a few bites of white bread. Her head swam as she stood at the kitchen fireplace, and she would have collapsed onto the hearth if not for the chopping block that broke her fall. She leaned against the object and began to cry, wishing this were not so, and thinking perhaps she ought to take to her bed, and await the Hessian, hoping the fever was not high upon her when he finally returned.

But this morning she had decided she could beat this sickness if only she did not give into it by behaving as a sickly person, for the fever was not yet upon her. If she’d learned anything from the Hessian it was how to muster an aggressive attack, though she’d never ever seen him do so, but she knew what the man she loved was, and where this illness was concerned, she would have to emulate that part of him. She forced her nauseous body out of her bed this morning, and she mandated to herself that she eat the porridge she made, though she did become sick. However, she’d waited until the nausea left her, and made herself eat again: she would not let her strength be weakened. Then she’d wandered out to the barn, fighting the dizziness that threatened to pull her to her knees, and saw to Gypsum, carrying water and grain and hay to him, brushing and currying him, willing her body to be healthy and strong through her work. She would not lose the Hessian, in any manner. Yellow Fever be damned!

Cloella had seen Yellow Fever before, and now was perhaps living a curse. When she was sixteen, she would have become the wife of Ilke Van Princ, had it not been for Yellow Fever. Ilke Van Princ was a middle-aged gentleman, wealthy, well known and respected by everyone. Like the Hessian, he had blue eyes, and he was taller than most men, but nowhere near the Hessian’s great height and strength. Ilke had been a furniture maker, and Cloella still had many of the pieces he’d made for her family, and herself, in her house, for Ilke had so adored her. Years earlier, Ilke was always in the Western Woods, with his brother, William, chopping down trees to make chairs, tables, hutches, and it was through that activity that Cloella had come to meet Ilke. She was fond of riding her favorite horse, Dragonfly, through the woods after church on Sunday mornings, and sometimes she felt herself hurrying the mare through the trees, trying to get to where she knew Ilke and William would be sawing and swinging away at the logs.

She did not love Ilke, though many of the ladies, young and old, would blush whenever he walked passed them, or sigh and hide behind their fans. Ilke was a handsome and distinguished looking gentleman, and Cloella was envied for having attracted his attentions, but all she could ever make herself want from him was his attention. She had never meant to fool Ilke into believing she loved him, only that she appreciated him. It wasn’t easy living way out in the woods, away from town, with only her brothers and parents. Ilke had been a blessing to her, but only because he provided company, and a form of entertainment that Cloella now felt so guilty for enjoying.

Cloella had never spoken of Ilke to the Hessian, for Ilke had not been worth mentioning in the face of what she and the Hessian shared. She’d never even let Ilke kiss her, and he and she had very little in common. Cloella smiled, thinking it odd that she’d found more in common with a ‘bloodthirsty beast’ than with a respected and benevolent furniture maker. But it was true, true because of how old Ilke was, and how old Ilke knew he was. The Hessian and Ilke were probably no more than three or four years apart in age, but Ilke was settled, had two children from his late wife, and his main concerns were his children, his business, and trying to ward off the gout that arose in the joint of his big toe. Yes, Ilke was handsome and Ilke was rich, but Ilke also knew he was forty-something years old, and that most of his life had been lived already. He would take Cloella to dances, but only dance one, maybe two waltzes or minuets with her, and for the rest of the evening, sit with the other gentlemen, talking business, and watching as Cloella danced with other, younger men.

Cloella had tried so very hard to make Ilke keep up with her, for she would have been lying if she did not admit that she enjoyed the way the other women and girls looked on in awe each time Ilke took her hand. There was nothing for a pretty young woman of her age in the Western Woods, and while many young men had come to call on her, Ilke had been her first serious suitor, and she relished in the fact that he’d chosen her, perhaps letting herself become too lost in the status his interest represented. She knew she was not being completely honest with Ilke even then. Ilke was kind to her, gentle, and his eyes sparkled with love whenever he looked at her. Still, Cloella did not love him, but she’d felt so guilty, so deceitful, and she’d tried to right things by willing herself, making herself, forcing herself to love him. She’d tried so very hard, imagining that she would look up into his eyes during a dance one evening and suddenly fall helplessly in love with him, but as he hardly ever had the energy to dance with her, how was that to ever happen if she didn’t push and shove and sometimes nag him to dance with her? She used to think that she wanted to love Ilke, but now she knew all she really wanted was just to be happy, and had hoped Ilke would make her so. Yet, each time she asked him to dance with her, Ilke would courteously explain that he had too many corns and calluses on his feet, and that he would be so out of step that he could not risk making her dancing ability look bad. Each time he said that to her, Cloella knew again how old Ilke was, and it had always made her feel like she was an anchor, that was tied around his neck, making him use more energy than he could spare, and dragging him down. She was too young for Ilke, or so she had until recently thought, and she was sure it had been because of her that Yellow Fever so easily claimed him. And now, perhaps in death, Ilke had known all her secrets about what she did not feel for him, and he had somehow sent the illness to her from beyond the grave, vengefully disallowing her to be happy with a man that she did love.

She did not cry when Ilke died, she tried to, but no tears would come; not for Ilke. The tears Cloella shed were out of guilt, guilt because she did not love him, guilt because Ilke had loved her, guilt because she had secretly prayed for a way out of her engagement to him, guilt because she’d run him into the ground, or so she thought. She’d been so sure that Ilke had somehow cursed her from the after-life, for it wasn’t very long after his death that Typhoid swept Sleepy Hollow’s population, taking many people, including Cloella’s entire family. She’d cried then too, for she had not meant to encourage Ilke to the point of him asking her father for her hand, she’d only wanted a new face in her life, one that looked upon her favorably. It was not her fault that she was too young for Ilke, but still, she should have known better, somehow. She’d always blamed herself for his death.

At least, she always had until the Hessian came into her life, and she’d begun to question what it was that had really killed Ilke. Perhaps that had angered Ilke’s spirit, and he’d set Yellow Fever upon her. Still, Cloella couldn’t help questioning it, for the Hessian never mentioned his age, only once saying he was nearly ‘forty and two years’, which was pretty close to Ilke’s age when he had courted Cloella. But where Ilke seemed to feel and recognize each and every day that had passed over his mortal form, the Hessian didn’t seem to have any notion of how old he was, or even that much of a care. Ilke had often remarked how he was old enough to have been Cloella’s father, but the Hessian didn’t seem to have even considered something such as that, and because he hadn’t, neither had Cloella. Likewise, the Hessian had never said to her “I have too many corns and calluses” or anything that meant he did not have the energy it took to engage her. If anything, the Hessian wore her out, for he was an incredibly bright and sharp-witted character that reveled in entertaining her. And there were many times when Cloella thought that the Hessian’s body, his strength, his desire, had no end. He knew his capabilities as a lover, and he used himself sparingly, effectively, always doing as he promised to do the very first time they’d made love, ‘giving back what he took’. The Hessian had a carefree wildness about him that taught Cloella to live again after the torment of Ilke, but now, was Ilke making that injustice known?

Cloella’s head spun with another feeling of faintness, and slipped off of the stool she sat upon, struggling to keep painting. She put her hand to her forehead, expecting to feel it burning with fever; nothing. Perhaps her decision to trudge on and not acknowledge the illness trying to seize her body was working. But, it was now far too foggy, and damp, to continue sitting here, painting a horse she could no longer see.

She banished all thoughts of Ilke from her mind, refusing to give into sickness, or him, if this was his work, somehow. “I am so sorry, Ilke.” She heard herself mutter as she closed up the paints, packing them back into the satchel. “I never meant you any ill will or harm. But leave me alone!”

Standing again made her head swim, and more nausea wash over her. She’d grabbed the canvas from the easel, not steady enough on her feet to drag it along with her and staggered back into the house. She was hungry again oddly enough; perhaps it had just been too long in between meals? Yes, she was sure a few more bites of bread might settle her stomach and dizzy head. The Hessian would return again, soon, and he would find her in perfect health! She hoped.