Krampus: The Three Sisters (The Krampus Chronicles Book 1)

by Halbach, Sonia

  Madame Welles folded her hands together. “You two have discovered Poppel, Mr. Livingston.”

  Maggie and Henry stared blankly at the old woman.

  “Nikolaos of Myra founded the original settlement in Belgium. But Poppel eventually relocated to Manhattan in the seventeenth century when Annette Loockerman came to America and married a Dutchman named Oloff. And this underground settlement thrived independently until about thirty years ago.”

  “And how exactly are these names and dates relevant to us right now?” Henry asked with annoyance.

  But Maggie was intrigued and wanted to hear more. “Who are Annette Loockerman and Nikolaos of Myra? And what happened thirty years ago?”

  “Clement Clarke Moore’s poem happened,” Madame Welles stated.

  “It wasn’t his poem,” Henry snapped, but Madame Welles and Maggie ignored him.

  “How do you know about my grandfather?”

  “I have never met Clement Clarke Moore. But I knew your grandmother, Catharine,” Madame Welles said and then turned to Henry. “And I presume Sidney Livingston was your father.”

  Madame Welles finally had Henry’s full attention. Maggie watched his jaw tighten. “How did you know that?”

  “Catharine and Sidney used to visit Poppel with Catharine’s daughter, Margaret. That was before Clement Clarke Moore published the poem. And yes, Henry, I know―Major Henry’s poem,” Madame Welles added, anticipating his retort. “But it really doesn’t matter who wrote it at this point. What matters is that it entered into the public eye, and confirmed already established suspicions. We had struggled to stay hidden, but once the poem came to light, it didn’t take long for us to be found. The city officials knew we were able to get in and out of houses, but it wasn’t until the poem that they made the connection to fireplaces and Christmas Eve.”

  “Madame Welles,” Maggie interjected. “I truly do not understand any of this.”

  Madame Welles sighed. “Oh, I suppose I’ll have to start at the beginning. But I must make this quick.”

  Maggie and Henry exchanged uncertain glances.

  “Very long ago there was a good man named Nikolaos of Myra who lived east of the Mediterranean Sea. He was a kind and generous bishop, known for his particular concern for the wellbeing of children and women. There were three young sisters named Grace, Sarah, and Lily whose father was very poor and unable to provide them with a dowry to be wed. He was going to sell Grace, Sarah, and Lily into slavery, but before he could, each daughter mysteriously received a bag of gold.”

  “From the bishop?” Henry asked.

  Madame Welles nodded. “The gold was meant to liberate the sisters. But the sisters soon realized that the cruel men they were set to marry were no better than enslavement. And this is where Nikolaos of Myra gave the sisters true freedom.”

  Captivated by the story, Maggie leaned forward and rested her elbows on the desk, cupping her face in her hands.

  “Nikolaos was a skilled seaman. He helped the sisters escape by sailing them across the Mediterranean and then up the Atlantic Ocean before finally settling in Belgium where they founded the village of Poppel. Nikolaos of Myra became known as Nicolas Poppelius, and he and the sisters focused on assisting the poor and helpless. However, Nicolas’ whereabouts were nervously monitored by men of great power who did not trust individual charity, believing it undermined the need for people to rely solely on their church, monarch, or government. Nicolas was seen by many as a vigilante with an extraordinary amount of influence, offering things other institutions weren’t providing.”

  “So what became of him?” Henry interrupted.

  “At the time, there was enormous tension in Belgium and the Netherlands between the Catholics and the Protestants. And Nicolas Poppelius tried diffusing the religious hatred and violence. In 1572, after an attempt to save eighteen Catholic clerics―later known as the Martyrs of Gorkum―from torture and certain death, Nicolas Poppelius was never seen again. Grace, Sarah, and Lily continued to run Poppel until Grace fell in love with a man in the nearby village of Turnhout named Jan Loockerman.”

  “Was he related to Annette Loockerman?” Maggie asked eagerly. “The woman who moved Poppel to America.”

  Madame Welles nodded. “Jan and Grace had a daughter named Annette who married Oloff Van Cortlandt and reestablished Poppel here in Manhattan.”

  “Van Cortlandt,” Maggie repeated. “My grandmother descended from the Van Cortlandts.”

  Madame Welles ignored the comment. Maggie didn’t know if it was intentional, or if the old woman just didn’t think it was worth the time to respond. Van Cortlandt was a prominent name in New York but not that uncommon.

  “About thirty years ago we were finally discovered and taken over by the Garrisons,” Madame Welles continued, “The Garrisons worked under a special department of the city.”

  “But what really happened to Nikolaos of Myra?” Henry asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Garrisons seemed to think that a man named Nicky―I’m assuming Nikolaos of Myra―could return on December twenty-fifth,” Henry said. “But according to your story, it sounds like he died hundreds of years ago. So which is it?”

  “The man who was Nikolaos of Myra has long ago deceased, but the spirit―known by many as St. Nicholas―lives on.”

  “St. Nicholas?” Maggie blurted. “St. Nicholas of Christmas? But that’s impossible!”

  “Over the years since Annette Loockerman brought Poppel to America, most of the story had turned into myth, but Nikolaos of Myra was never quite forgotten, especially in a new country worried for its own survival,” Madame Welles explained. “Officials had become less concerned about Poppel’s possible existence until a certain Christmas poem immortalized St. Nicholas all over again. Although the traditional lore that has been associated with St. Nicholas is mostly inaccurate, he was still a real man who inspired the stories and whose spirit continues to embody December twenty-fifth.”

  Maggie and Henry looked at each other again in disbelief.

  “Just so I understand all of this,” Henry said slowly. “Nikolaos of Myra escaped with three sisters to Belgium, established Poppel, and eventually, the daughter of one of the sisters came to America and set up a new underground village. And now the Garrisons have taken over because of Major Henry’s poem. But who exactly are you and the Foundlings?”

  Madame Welles raised her eyebrows and placed her hands on her hips, seeming a bit surprised at the amount of terms Henry had already picked up that evening.

  “The Foundlings are children brought to live in Poppel, because they had nowhere else to go. In the beginning, they made supplies that were delivered to the impoverished. However, it was difficult to stay undetected. If people were suddenly receiving anonymous gifts throughout the year, our whereabouts could be easily tracked. So it was decided that the year would be spent making these gifts, but they would only been given on one day known for presents and celebration―Christmas.”

  “But why are the Garrisons running the place now?” Maggie asked. “Just because of a poem?”

  “When ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas became such a sensation, there was a panic to find whatever was left behind of the great Nikolaos of Myra. It didn’t take long for those in power to discover us. The poem gave them all the needed information―Christmas and the fireplaces. Except Foundlings travel up fireplaces, not down.”

  “But,” Henry interjected. “Why do the Garrisons continue to run Poppel? If they didn’t like the place, why didn’t they just destroy it?”

  “Why would they?” Madame Welles scoffed. “Here was a functioning system already in place. They now have control of a world underneath the city streets full of workers and endless opportunities.”

  “So they weren’t planning to carry on Nikolaos’ vision of helping others,” Maggie said dryly.

  Madame Welles cackled bitterly. “Hardly.”

  “But why would they want Poppel?” Henry asked. “What good wou
ld come from having the Garrisons here?”

  “Not good for us. But Poppel is certainly useful for them. So the city took over Poppel in 1824, assigning Garrisons to lifelong service.”

  “Why would they want to work here their entire lives?” Maggie asked, but Madame Welles again ignored the question.

  “The first goal of this newly controlled post was not to provide services to others, but rather take them. The city had a fear of the foreigners. The sleigh tunnel offered a way to sneak around to all the fireplaces in the city. From about 1824 to 1840, the fireplace and tunnel system was mainly used to spy and steal. Foundlings were trained in this art. But then around 1840, the city’s concern shifted to the boom in outspoken women for suffrage and equality.”

  “What would this have to do with Poppel?” Maggie asked with raised eyebrows.

  “Well, if you were worried about women breaking from traditional roles, striving to gain equal footing with men in society, what would you do?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Make it illegal for girls to steal their cousin’s trousers?”

  Madame Welles shook her head. “You give them toys. But not just any kind of toys. You give the young girls dolls and needlework and other things of that nature. Not education. Not a voting voice. Not the opportunity to join the workforce among men. Just items that help reinforce the idea that they are only to become mothers and wives. But now a new fear has overshadowed the threat of both the foreigners and women’s suffrage.”

  “And what is that?” Henry asked.

  “War, Mr. Livingston. We are now focused on war. In a country who fears for its safety from the outside and stability from the inside, the government wants a generation of fighters. The country is expanding, and with that comes a need for pliable young men. Boys are the focus now. So during the year, Poppel’s workshop turns out thousands of toy soldiers and toy guns―anything to help build up a future army.”

  “So let me understand this,” Henry said, holding up a hand. “In the past thirty years, Poppel has spied on our city’s foreigners, kept women from achieving equality, and has tried to foster a new generation of soldiers?”

  Madame Welles nodded. “It has become everything it once sought to prevent.”

  Henry let out a low whistle while Maggie asked, “But if the Garrisons have such a strong grip on Poppel, why is Castriot so nervous about Christmas? Why do they fear Nikolaos coming back and the sisters reuniting?”

  Madame Welles wasn’t quick to answer.

  “How is it possible for Nikolaos of Myra to return?”

  Before Madame Welles could respond, a pounding on the door caused a wreath to fall off the wall, clunking Henry in the back of the head.

  “Do not tell them who you are or where you’re from. And never mention the names Moore or Livingston. And especially not Van Cortlandt,” Madame Welles whispered urgently. “Everything depends upon it.”

  The door then swung open revealing a barricade of black coats. Two unknown Garrisons smashed their massive bodies into the tiny space. Their bulky hands reached over the desk and grabbed Maggie and Henry. Before Maggie knew what was happening, they were pulled out of the room and back into the workshop.

  The Garrisons formed a tight circle around Maggie and Henry before parting just enough to allow three men to step through. Maggie recognized Castriot and Comstock, but the third Garrison was new. His face was bumpy and discolored, and his teeth were crooked. Stringy sideburns ran down his cheeks and his gray eyes were bloodshot.

  “What have we here?” he said in a squeaky voice.

  “They’re new Foundlings,” Madame Welles called from the other side of the Garrison wall.

  Castriot, Comstock, and the bumpy-faced man, whose nameplate said Cyrus, continued to stare at Maggie and Henry.

  “Who are you?” Comstock asked. “And why are you in Poppel?”

  “I’m Alfred,” Henry lied. “And this is Lizzie. We’re brother and sister. Our parents are dead. We survive on the reluctant generosity of distant relatives. A funny boy broke into the house where we were staying tonight. We followed him down a hole in the fireplace and that is how we ended up here.”

  Maggie was impressed by Henry’s quick thinking. But she couldn’t tell if the Garrisons believed the story.

  “And we would like to leave now,” Henry continued.

  Cyrus let out a squeal of laughter. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.”

  “What do you mean?” Maggie stammered.

  Castriot stepped forward. The Garrison leader had a slender frame, but his height and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure. He narrowed his beady eyes on Maggie and his lips curled within his menacing beard.

  “No one ever leaves Poppel.”

  Above the ground and across the city at Chelsea Manor, Louis was on hands and knees in the Great Room’s fireplace. Moments ago, Louis had witnessed both Maggie and Henry Livingston disappear through the ash pit. By the time he ran from the bottom of the stairs to the fireplace, the opening had vanished, and Maggie and Henry were nowhere to be seen.

  Louis’ hands were stained black as he pawed the ground, thumping on the bricks behind the burnt logs. He jumped to his feet and pulled aside the curtain of the ceiling-high window. Everything outside was dark, including the seminary down the hill, so if there had been any trace of Maggie and Henry escaping into the night, Louis wouldn’t be able to see it.

  Wind rattled the windowpane and pushed Louis back into the shadows of the Great Room, pondering whether he had simply imagined his cousin’s disappearance.

  Louis sat down on the sofa across from the fireplace.

  “Maggie?” he whispered into the eerily quiet room. “Mr. Livingston? Are you there?”

  There was no response.

  “Uncle William’s not going to be pleased. He’ll probably misquote the entire Book of Daniel over this.”

  But there was still nothing except silence.

  “You have to come out sometime,” Louis continued with a yawn. “And I’ll just wait right here until you do.”

  hortly after being told that their visit to Poppel was permanent, Maggie and Henry were forced down a long corridor near the Sleigh Pit. No explanations were given, but Maggie gathered that they were being taken to where the Foundlings were housed.

  Henry was thrown into a chamber right away. He called out, but the Garrisons promptly slammed the door, muffling his cries. The Garrisons then continued to guide Maggie along the corridor, but she kept looking back, hoping to see Henry.

  Although Madame Welles was leading the group, she hadn’t so much as glanced Maggie’s way since Castriot had showed up.

  “We call this Foundling Row,” Madame Welles explained, still not looking at Maggie. “It’s where the Foundlings sleep. And this will be your room.” Madame Welles stopped in front of another nondescript door. “You should rest a while. First days for Foundlings are long. Longer because you are busy. And longer because,” Madame Welles paused. “Well, they just happen to seem longer.”

  Before Madame Welles even finished speaking, the Garrisons tossed Maggie into the room and shut the door. The dim room contained only wrought iron beds. Its emptiness instantly put Maggie into a panic. She turned back around and twisted the doorknob. The door surprisingly creaked opened, but a second later Maggie closed it.

  The Garrisons were guarding the door.

  Or rather, making sure she couldn’t leave.

  Maggie slowly sat down on a bed that held a pile of folded blankets on its bare mattress. But she didn’t feel sleepy. She felt scared and alone.

  Suddenly, a sigh sounded from another bed, and Maggie realized that she wasn’t as alone as she thought.

  Maggie watched as a mound of blankets shifted on the bed diagonal from hers. Then a small body flipped over and Maggie saw the face of a young girl. Still in a somewhat sleepy state, the girl pulled a faded blanket up to her chin, which framed her caramel-toned face and curly brown hair. Eventually, the girl’s eyes fluttered op
en and a yawn escaped her mouth. When the girl saw Maggie, she didn’t seem startled. Instead she slipped out of bed with the rest of her tired body and stumbled over to Maggie.

  “I’m Violet,” she said, sitting down beside Maggie while letting out another yawn.

  “Mag…” Maggie started to say, but then quickly remembered. “Lizzie. I’m Lizzie.”

  “I had an early shift so I’ve been sleeping,” Violet said, stretching her arms above her head. “Running up and down those fireplaces got me tired. But you’ll get used to it.” Violet gave Maggie’s shoulder a friendly pat.

  The door opened and two more girls entered. Maggie recognized the black-haired girl as Harriet from the sleigh tunnel. The other girl had long, wavy blonde hair and big blue eyes. Her glowing skin was rosy, matching her red skirt that was accented with a silver vest.

  “This is Lizzie,” Violet introduced cheerfully. “She was here when I woke up.”

  Harriet and the blonde girl stared at the new Foundling. Maggie couldn’t tell what they were thinking, but they didn’t appear as welcoming as Violet. Violet glanced at the girls with one little eyebrow arched, clearly not understanding their hesitation toward Maggie.

  “This is Harriet and Nellie,” Violet explained loudly as though the girls’ lack of enthusiasm was because they had trouble hearing. “They―sleep―here―too.”

  “You’re the outsider,” Nellie whispered.

  “The Garrisons have been talking about you,” Harriet added, gazing at Maggie with suspicion. “Castriot is furious that you and your friend got out of the Sleigh Pit unspotted. He could be heard yelling all the way from the Krog.”

  “What happened?” Violet asked eagerly, situating herself upon her knees.

  Maggie told the girls about following the burgundy-coated boy and then being caught by the Garrisons and Madame Welles. But she left out everything that was discussed in the workshop, and also never mentioned the names Margaret Van Cortlandt Ogden and Henry Livingston.

  “What will your relatives think about you disappearing?” Nellie asked.

  “I am sure they’ll be quite worried. What did your family think when you left?”