Evil faces in the crowd broke into broad smiles of glee. Agathe’s victory would give them a General of the Dead such as they’d never had. A general of true malice and bitter hatred. She would send them to brutalize the people of Sleepy Hollow. Raise an army of fiends to lurk in the closets of children, to stalk old men in the dead of night, inducing heart attacks and nightmares. A victory for Agathe would mean eternal darkness and rot for Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.
Other faces bore expressions of fear and horror. The rise of Agathe would bring chaos to their peaceful graves, enslavement to this witch, submission to her every order and subjugation to her every humiliating whim. Their eternity hung by a thread. It hung on the courage and will of Eliza Merrick, a crazy old broad who ate crackers in bed, who loved dirty jokes and her puppy dog and her clever little boy.
Agathe pressed her heel to Eliza’s throat. “I told you to beg!”
Eliza flipped the bird.
“Very well,” said Agathe. “I was lying to you anyway. I just wanted to see you broken.” A smooth river-stone jumped into her hand, and she raised it above Eliza’s head. The stone glowed, infused with magic from these waters; perhaps it was even a fragment of Spook Rock itself. Jason knew instinctively that this stone could end his grandmother forever. He tightened his grip on Kate, dreading the horrible moment, unable to speak but shouting his love from brimming eyes. Agathe took her foot from Eliza’s neck, keeping the stone poised for the last blow. “Anything to say?”
Eliza nodded. “Thank you, Agathe.”
Agathe scowled. “For what?”
“That word.”
“What word?”
“‘Broken.’ You gave me the idea. I thought you should know.” Eliza glanced over Agathe’s shoulder. “Oh, dear. I’d run if I were you.”
Agathe turned to look behind. Eliza had raised a summoning hand, and above them on the abutment, a cloud of shattered glass arose. The broken lantern-glass of the reliquary, glass from the original windows of the Old Dutch Church, charged with ghost-enslaving magic and slaked by two hundred years of blood sacrifices, fingernail-sharp and painted blood-red with magic. Jungle red. Eliza’s favorite color.
Eliza grinned. “Don’t break your hip.”
Agathe screamed, dropped the stone, and fled. Eliza hurled the shards and ran after. The crowd followed, cheering. Jason and Kate dashed along the shore. The glass caught up to Agathe—one blood-red dagger after another—tearing through her blue body, leaving purple gashes across her back and arms and legs. She collapsed onto that same shelf of flat grey stones where she had once offered herself to the Horseman, bleeding her energies into the water. She reached out to the crowd, but not a soul rose to defend her. Brom turned away, as did Baltus and many others. The other faces were filled with expectation, solemn expectation, as men greet the coming of spring after a hard, bitter winter—and that spring had arrived in the form of Eliza, glowing daisy-yellow like the sun.
“One chance,” Eliza said. “Concede and answer to me. In a thousand years I might learn you some manners.”
Agathe gave an ugly laugh. “You have no power to end me. You’re nothing. I am a Deep Witch.”
“A Deep Witch in deep shit.” Eliza bent over her. “I’ve never liked being told what I can and cannot do.” She raised one knobby hand. “You know, when I was alive, I could hardly bend these fingers.” One by one, the gumdrop knuckles bent and the once-arthritic hand curled inward, forming a hard little fist. Eliza grinned with exaggerated, wide-eyed surprise. “Would you look at that!”
She pulled the fist back and—with one mighty swing—punched Agathe out of existence. With a final blast of fire and lightning, the old dragon roared and vanished, leaving nothing behind to mark her passing but an ugly scorch on the flat grey stone.
Van Brunt Quarry stone, of course.
Then the magic waters of the arena broke, and the river returned in a great rush, washing even those dark traces away.
Eliza turned and gave Jason a wink. “Not bad for an old lady.”
Kate and Jason sat on the shore, their arms around each other. Mute spectators to the celebration. The gathered ghosts applauded. A strange sound, like the rushing of water.
“Now, none of that,” Eliza said. “She just got on my bad side.”
The throng laughed and hooted, their transparent faces rippling with respect and admiration until, abruptly, they cleared a path and a man stepped forward. The ghost of Washington Irving.
Irving grinned from ear to ear, put a hand to his heart, and gave Eliza a deep bow. “The dominant spirit of Sleepy Hollow.”
“Oh, no,” said Eliza, immediately. “I would never presume. This town belongs to you, Mr. Irving. It always has. It always will. I’m just an old lady. What do I know about running this place?”
“You have earned the title. You are the General of the Dead. There can be only one.”
“I don’t see why.” Eliza considered. “May I suggest a compromise?”
“I’m listening.”
“The river divides our two parts of the cemetery. You’re buried on that side, I’m buried on this one. Let’s call the river our border and divvy up the job.”
Irving gave a nod, hands in pockets. “Very equitable. I shall take the main cemetery, as I did before the Horseman returned.”
“And I’ll take my little modern section. That’s all I can handle.”
“Well! It’s settled then.” He turned and clapped his hands. “Back to your graves, everyone.”
The ghosts did not move, and for a moment Jason thought they were waiting for Eliza’s command. But Brom stepped forward. “We should like a moment. Agathe’s ripped the seam between the Underhollow and the waking world.”
“Yes,” said Irving. “And it must be sewn shut again. You know that. The living should never dwell on death. Nor should we dwell on loss.”
“I understand, old friend,” said Brom. “But could we not step through, just this once?”
“What do you mean?” said Eliza.
“Most of these spirits have descendants. Some have children and grandchildren still living. Some have parents freshly grieving. Agathe and her Horseman raised us up as an army of monsters. She brought murder and death to the town and taught it to fear us. That cannot stand. Allow the Hollow a moment of grace before we return to our beds. For all our sakes. The living and dead, both. We are owed that.”
Irving and Eliza looked at each other.
“Ten minutes,” said Irving, with a nod. “And you may take whatever forms you choose. Miss Merrick and I have no use for an army of terrors.”
The ghosts shimmered. Their wasted and horrible bodies healed, gained substance, and reclaimed their beauty. The shades of long-forgotten chemotherapies became young women in their prime, and the nursing-home harridans wore summer white. Old men regained their youthful strides. Colonial soldiers wore new uniforms, and long-dead industrialists wore freshly waxed moustaches. Jason felt a weight of melancholy lifting from his heart, and into the void it left came peace and stillness, as at an ancestor’s grave—the quietude and reverence suited for goodbyes and grave-rubbings. The ghosts marched off with smiles on eager faces.
Brom became a young man again, with a broad chest and a foxtail cap. He put an arm around Irving’s shoulder. “Let us visit awhile, friend. Let us find Katrina at Woolfert’s Roost and toast her beauty with spirit-wine, before we go back to our dreaming.”
Irving raised a finger. “It’s called Sunnyside, Abraham. You never did get used to the name. I shall meet you on the front porch. Don’t wither my ivy.”
“Race you,” said Brom. “Last one there’s a donkey’s ass.” He bounded into the sky and vanished beyond the treetops.
All the ghosts had gone now except for Irving, Eliza, and one other—a little girl with ribbons in her hair.
The ghost-child tugged at Eliza’s sleeve. “Will you tell me a story?”
“Of course I will, dear.” Eliza bent to give the little spook a caress.
“Go tuck yourself in and I’ll be right there.”
The girl clapped her hands and skipped away, disappearing into the shadows, ribbons dancing, singing a nursery tune.
“You haven’t changed your appearance,” said Irving.
Eliza shrugged. “I like being an old lady. You haven’t changed yours either.”
“I like being an old man. I would ask you to join Brom and I, but… your grandson is here. I’m sure you have things to say to each other.”
Eliza looked to Jason. “Oh yes.”
Irving winked at Kate. “Good job, Miss Usher. I must say you’ve grown up formidably.” He held up a thumb and forefinger. “I remember when you were this big.”
“I enjoyed our walks,” said Kate. “Thank you.”
Irving turned to Jason. “And you. Magnificent, Ichabod.” He extended a hand, and Jason took it. The ghost’s grip was as firm as a living man’s.
“Thank you, sir,” said Jason, feeling really weird. Was this conversation actually happening? It felt like a dream. He and Kate stood very still, as if to move would frighten the moment away.
Irving turned to go, but hesitated. He looked up from under his brow and muttered, “May I ask a favor, Miss Merrick?”
“Certainly,” said Eliza.
Irving looked embarrassed. “Would you do me the honor of… a walk in the moonlight, now and again?”
Eliza gave a girlish smile. “I’d have to check my calendar.”
“Just a little… colloquy among the tombs, once a year?”
“I’d love to. On Halloween?”
“I shall look forward to it.” Irving kissed her hand, and vanished.
Eliza ran fingers through her hair. “Even dead, I’ve still got it.”
Jason laughed, even as his tears began. He sank to the ground, there on the muddy banks of the old river, beneath the boughs of ancient woods lit by eternal moonlight. His Star-Maiden held him, rubbing his back, and the Sun approached, her old eyes glowing gently as she set herself down at his side.
“I have to go now, honey.”
“No.”
“I do. You know that.”
“Why? You don’t have to. I’m here. You’re here. Everything’s fine now.”
“That’s why. Everything’s fine. You’re safe. The town’s safe. My mistakes are undone.”
“This wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes. It was. I dragged you here. Kicking and screaming. I trusted that man. Like a fool. I had to stay until I knew you were safe. And you are now.” She caressed his face… and he felt her. He felt her touch, just as surely as if they sat on the sofa together eating popcorn and she’d brushed an eyelash from his cheek. “You’ve been so brave. My little adventurer. Don’t be sad now. I got what I wanted. My last adventure and your first. We did good, don’t you think? And you have people now. Family. I’m happy. I’m happy I got to see it.” She nodded to Kate. “She’s hot, too. Thank you for saving me, young lady.”
“Thank you for raising Jason,” said Kate.
Eliza cocked an eyebrow. “Thank you for raising Jason what?”
“Thank you for raising Jason… Grandma.”
“Much better.”
Jason laughed through his tears. “Can’t you stick around? Please? Just for a little while? Play a game of Scrabble with me.”
“I would love to. But I’m… just a ghost. I’ve had my time. And it was a damn good time. You have a life to live, honey. I’ve set you down on your path. The rest is up to your feet. And I can’t wait to see where those big old clodhoppers take you. I had the worst time shopping for your size seventeens, boy-o. And the best time. You were the best time of my life, and that is saying something.”
“Please. Please don’t go, Grandma. I don’t want to—I don’t want to forget you. I—I don’t want to forget your voice.”
“You won’t forget my voice.”
“But what if? What if?”
“Won’t ever happen. I’m your childhood, aren’t I?” She took his hand. “We never forget our childhoods. We will sit across that table and play Scrabble forever. You and me. I’ll make you cocoa and we’ll laugh and you’ll get a triple-word score and beat your stupid old grandma. Over and over and over. Forever. We never forget those things, Jason. We only think we do. We grow up, and life piles on, but those happy things are always inside us. Deep down. Our favorite foods and our favorite stories, the cartoons we loved, and the people. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and the old lady who read it to us. Deep down, that’s who we are. Always. You’re my boy, and I’m your granny. Death doesn’t change that.”
She pressed his hand to the cool earth. His fingertips found something there, something soft. He drew it from the mud and washed it in the water, held it up…
The green felt dragon.
It was tattered, muddy. The felt had rotted and ripped. But his Gift engaged and—with a flash—his beloved toy was restored. The red felt tongue stuck out mischievously. The multicolored fins ran along the back and down the tail.
Eliza pressed it to his chest. “We never lose our childhoods. Never. Those days will come roaring back. I promise. When you least expect it. You’ll be an old man and, boom—every second will be right there, like pictures in a scrapbook. Real as they ever were. You won’t forget my voice, honey. Or my kisses either.” She kissed his cheek, and it was so real, so bright. He could even feel the prickle of a tiny whisker.
“I love you,” he said.
“Likewise! Likewise!” She threw her arms around him. “Oh, I love you too, boy. You have no idea.”
“Of course I do!”
“Of course you do.” She held him, rocking him, rocking him, rocking him, rocking him. He quieted as acceptance filled his heart. She patted his arms. “Okay. Enough blubbering now. I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your pretty girl. Have a heroic life. Like me. Remember?”
“I remember.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“And pull the weeds from my grave, okay?”
“I will.”
“You’re a good boy.”
He squared his shoulders. “And you’re a fantastic grandma.”
“I know. I had to be. You deserved one.”
She stood. Jason studied her face, burning it into memory, and he knew that she did the same. She bent and kissed his forehead, then turned away and walked up the shore, bound for the Palmyra section, where a little girl ghost waited for her bedtime story.
“Wait!” Jason cried. “I need something.”
She spun ’round, wiping tears from her cheeks. “The moon and the stars, my love.”
“I have to know. Did you find out about my Gift? Did you believe in me and… is that why you died?” He wiped his own cheeks. “Did I curse you?”
“Oh, no.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling up. “You blessed me, honey.” She touched her heart. “And I will always believe in you.”
She winked.
And then Eliza Pyncheon Fellowes Puck Beringer Dawes Ferrer Logan Merrick, Jason’s grandmother and the sun that brought warmth to his childhood, raised a hand… beaming… and faded into moonlight.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
“The Danse Macabre”
Valerie took her time walking back to Philipsburg Manor. She knew in her heart that the danger had passed, and her friends were safe. She hummed as she left the Van Brunt tomb behind. She hummed to the moonlit graves, and her voice delighted her. It was a voice she’d forgotten. A voice thought lost forever. The tune she hummed was Danse Macabre by Camille St. Saëns, that favorite violin piece of her mother’s. Danse Macabre tells a story in music, a re-telling of an old medieval allegory: Death arises at midnight on Halloween. He summons the dead with his violin, and the skeletons dance until dawn. But the rooster crows, and the dead must return to their graves.
The tune had words, in French, but she couldn’t remember them, only the mangled English translation printed in the concert programs:
Zig
, zig, zig. Death in cadence.
Striking a tomb with his heel.
Death at midnight plays a dance tune.
Zig, zig, zig, on his violin.
The wind blows and the night is dark;
Moans are heard in the linden trees.
White skeletons pass through the gloom,
Running and leaping in their shrouds…
Valerie stepped from beneath the trees and froze, eyes wide with wonder. She stood atop the hill, just where Jason had begun his Halloween run, though she didn’t know it. Below her, she saw a scene straight out of the Macabre, as if her humming had brought it into being, as if her magically restored voice had summoned it up.
The dead stood in the burying ground. Beautiful ghosts, glowing, their faces solemn and loving.
The living stood on the road, congregating on the Horseman Bridge.
The two groups stared at each other. Every person motionless, struck dumb, even as the lights of police cars splashed red and blue across the whitewash of the church.
The first to step forward was Margaret, from the Hoofprint Society, who had lost her daughter at homecoming. Her voice held fear and hope and wonder, all mingled. “Ellie?”
A ghost stepped from the group. A girl of fourteen, green eyes, freckled nose. “Hi, Mom.”
They embraced, tentatively, then with arms tight about each other, weeping.
One by one the rest stepped forward, the homecoming victims, buried too young in ill-fitting suits and too-adult dresses, greeting their grieving parents.
Others stepped forward. Grandfathers and great-grandfathers and great-great-grandfathers, greeting their distant kin. A policeman embraced his long-dead brother. The purple-faced and monster-eared DJ bent to greet his childhood friend Ernie, who’d died of leukemia three days shy of his eleventh birthday. The storyteller in his tricorn hat and breeches bowed to a similarly dressed town founder. Mr. Smolenski, of the Historical Society, stammered a hello to Abraham Martling, whom he’d long studied. He might have peppered the man with questions about the colonial Tarry-Town of long ago. But time was short.
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 80
