Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones

by Richard Gleaves

  Jason saw it. He snatched the card back, peering at the tiny illustration. “Over the bridge.”

  “Over the bridge. What does that mean—to you?”

  Sie sterben an der Brücke…

  Jason turned the card face down, feeling dizzy. “I don’t know.”

  Valerie put the cards away. She sat on the hearth again, enjoying the fire at her back. Jason returned to his chair. He took a deep breath. He looked at his hands and thought of the stables, of healing Gunsmoke. This was the reason he’d asked to see her. He had to ask his questions of someone.

  I could be making a huge mistake, but here goes…

  “Valerie, I need to ask you a question. Do you… do you have a Gift?”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “I wanted to—surprise you.” She reached into a pocket and produced an envelope. “Merry Christmas.”

  Jason took the envelope but didn’t open it. He placed it on a side table.

  “Thank you. That’s not what I meant, though. I mean, are you… supernaturally Gifted?” He held up his gloved hands. “I am. That’s why I wear these.”

  She sat staring at him for a long time, until he thought that she was merely puzzled, trying to sort out some string of words she couldn’t comprehend.

  “I have visions,” he said. “I have visions of the past when I touch things.”

  Valerie pulled back violently. Her elbow struck the cauldron. It lurched forward, see-sawed, spilling water that splashed the hearth. She cried out and pulled away a scalded hand. A strong odor of burnt herbs filled the room.

  “Are you okay?”

  “You fool!” she shouted, with as much volume as she could manage, pressing her valve with reddening fingers. “Do you know—what you’ve done? What you—could have done?”

  “You know what I’m talking about?”

  “Of course. Show me. Show me your Gift.”

  “Uh—”

  “Prove it to me.”

  Jason looked around for an object.

  “Here.” Valerie stripped away his glove and pressed something into his hand. “Read it. Without looking at it.”

  The object was hard, with irregular sharp edges and—he dropped into the vision…

  A man took Jason’s arm and pulled him along. Jason toppled forward, running, shoes sinking into sand. He was laughing, out of breath. He and the man ran together up a grassy slope, past a bandstand, through the hanging branches of a willow tree, back down the grass, back down to… to the shore.

  “Here’s a good one!” said the man, dropping to one knee and poking around in the sand. He held up an empty clamshell. It sparkled in the sun.

  “I like mine better,” said Jason. But it wasn’t his voice. It was the voice of a girl. The Valerie that was. The voice that was.

  “Then you shall keep it, my pixie,” said the man, tossing the clamshell over his shoulder. He kissed Jason on the top of his head. The man’s face filled with joyous amusement. His features were dark: Iranian or Persian or… “Ice cream!” he shouted. “Who wants ice cream?”

  “Me, me!” sang little Valerie.

  They ran together, past the bandstand, up to a row of food vendors—and on the way they passed a sign that read…

  “The Willows,” Jason blurted, opening his eyes. “The Salem Willows.”

  Valerie drew back and sat on the hearth. “And—what’s in your hand?”

  “A shell. A shell you found at the piers with your father.”

  She nodded gravely. Jason opened his fingers. The shell was red-gold, strung on a leather strand to make a necklace or talisman. She held out a palm.

  He passed it. “Then you shall keep it, my pixie.”

  Valerie twisted away, trembling. “Put your glove back on.”

  He did. She wiped her cheeks and composed herself. She hung the shell around her neck, reverently. It hung below her valve—the token of her father dangling beneath the token of her mother.

  “Well?” said Jason.

  Valerie sighed. She raised three fingers as if giving the Boy Scout salute. Her eyes closed, her brow furrowed. She turned her wrist…

  And, by itself, the little cauldron swiveled back into position over the fire.

  She wheezed, out of breath, and began a coughing fit.

  “Are you okay?” Jason patted her back.

  “That hurt.” Her face wrinkled with amusement. She looked so much like her father that Jason thought for a moment he’d fallen into the vision again.

  A buzzer went off in the next room.

  “So—” she said. “Who wants ice cream?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “The Great Curse”

  Jason spoke first. Over ice cream, he told her about discovering his ability, his subsequent adventures, and the strange turn his Gift had taken with the cookie jar and at the stables. She hadn’t spoken for ten minutes, seemingly unable to, but now the cold treat had soothed her throat. After their third bowl, she was ready to talk.

  “You took a—terrible risk, tonight,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “You don’t know? The first rule?”

  “I was told by a friend that I shouldn’t reveal my Gift to anyone who doesn’t have a Gift themselves.”

  “That’s exactly right.”

  “Because everyone we tell dies.”

  “Yes. You might have marked me—for death.”

  “Made you a target for a ghost.”

  Valerie tilted her head, “For a bad end, let’s say.”

  “But I haven’t. Have I? I knew you had a Gift. I saw you use it.”

  “At the guardianship hearing?”

  Jason nodded. “You were spinning a paper clip without touching it.”

  “Bad habit. No one’s caught me before. I should be more careful.”

  “Why can’t people know what we can do? What makes it so dangerous?”

  Valerie took up the fireplace prongs and stabbed the logs. “It’s called—The Great Curse.” Sparks exploded from glowing crevices and drizzled upwards, ricocheting off the black belly of the cauldron, turning into tiny ashes that disappeared up the chimney. “It was cast by—a powerful witch. Over three hundred years ago.”

  “Witch? Sorry, but… witch? Please. There’s no such thing.”

  Valerie closed her eyes. A spoon leapt from Jason’s dish and caught him in the temple.

  He wiped melted ice cream from his cheek. “You were saying?”

  “No. It’s a long story. I don’t—do long stories—well.”

  “Short version?”

  Valerie stared into the flames. The firelight played across her face, making her look old and young alternately. So much pain there. Had her injury occurred only ten years ago? She had seemed such a young girl in Jason’s vision at the bridge. How old was Valerie, anyway?

  “She cast the Curse—to stop the Witch trials.”

  “In Salem?” Jason searched his memory. “Sixteen-ninety…”

  “Sixteen-ninety-two. They burned her alive. In the Salem Common. The only witch to be burned.” The cauldron smoked slightly. Its contents had evaporated. A sharp charred scent filled the room.

  “Wait,” said Jason. “There were no witches. They were just, I don’t know, victims of religious hysteria. Right? So you’re saying the witch trials were justified?”

  Valerie’s eyes shot to his, offended. “Justified? So if a witch—did exist—it would be okay—to kill her?”

  “No. I just thought… You’re right. Never mind.”

  She softened. “There was one witch in Salem, at least. A woman with—a powerful Gift. She only wanted to protect—people like us. To give the Gifted—their anonymity. Refuge. They burned her.”

  “What did they burn her for?”

  “For fun.” Valerie smiled bitterly. “For spite. For her property. Out of fear. Who knows anymore? So she cursed them. She cast The Great Curse—as she burned. She proclaimed that—m
ortals who know a witch—shall know death. And that is the Great Curse. And it’s still in effect—after all this time.”

  Jason tried to get his head around the concept, trying to find a way around the Curse. “‘Mortals who know a witch shall know death…’ Mortal. As in…”

  “Non-gifted.”

  “And… know? So we can’t… have friends?”

  “No. You can’t be—known. No mortal can know about you—about you specifically. About any authentic—witch.”

  Jason winced. “Isn’t there another word besides… that?”

  She shrugged. “Invent one. The Greeks called us ‘Haruspex’. Diviners. Most of us say—‘Gifted people’. Or ‘Witch’.”

  “I’ll stick with ‘Gifted’. So no one can know what I am. What I can do. Or else they become a target.”

  “Right. The Spirit World will obey—The Great Curse—and try to kill them.”

  “The Spirit World,” Jason said, his voice flat. He looked at the ceiling so she wouldn’t see his expression.

  “The other realm.”

  Jason rubbed his eyes. How much of this was reality and how much of this was Valerie’s nutty brand of mysticism? He felt himself pulling back, as usual, for fear of contagion. He’d spent his whole life reading science fiction. He hated paranormal tales. This was… this was… not his genre.

  “Okay,” he said. “So ghosts and stuff pop out of the Spirit World and murder anyone who believes in magic. Then how do you explain, I don’t know, half the human race? People who think Buffy the Vampire Slayer is a documentary?”

  “People like me? People who use crystals, tarot cards? Those types? Lots of people believe in—magic. But they don’t—know true witches.”

  Jason considered. “So if I’m Joe Six-Pack and I believe some jerk on cable can talk to the dead…”

  “You’re safe.”

  “Unless the jerk really can.”

  Valerie smiled, nodded. “Then you’re in trouble. Which is why we—don’t do stuff like that. Never.”

  “Never. In three hundred years.”

  “There have been some. When times got hard. They stop when their friends—start dying.” Her face became grave again. “We have all learned to hide.” She slipped to the floor at Jason’s feet. “Here is what makes it terrible. The witch who cast this curse—never considered one crucial fact. Most of us get our Gifts at puberty. But some never get them. And our parents can’t know—which we will be—before that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Think of what that means.” She squeezed his hand. “Our parents—can’t reveal themselves to us. None of our parents can—not until they’re sure.”

  “Because they might curse their own children.”

  Valerie glanced away. “That’s probably why you—weren’t told all this. Because you were—”

  “Orphaned.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Seven.”

  She looked at him sympathetically. “Your parents… or your one Gifted parent… didn’t live to tell you. And Eliza was a normal. She couldn’t know. That happens, sometimes. I’m sorry.”

  Jason swallowed. His eardrums popped. “So my mom and dad couldn’t reveal what they were. Or what one of them was, anyway. Not until they knew what I was.” Valerie nodded, prodding him on. “Not without risking my life. I might not have been Gifted. I might have been normal. And if I were normal and my parents had let me know about all this—they might have marked me for death.”

  “The Tragedy of Witches, it’s called. The caster thought that she—was saving the Gifted. Keeping us safe. From persecution. From prejudice. From fear. But the Curse—is a curse. No one can lift it. So… we live in hiding. Not just from normal people. From each other. Mothers hide what they are—from their children. Brother, sister—hide from each other. And sometimes when—the Gift first comes…” Valerie’s eyes filled with tears.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She took a deep breath. “I killed my father.”

  “How?”

  “I was thirteen. My Gift was due. Mother was prepared. She divorced Daddy. When I reached puberty.”

  “Why?”

  “She couldn’t risk him—finding out about either of us.”

  “He was normal?”

  She nodded. “She would have gone back to him—once she knew what I was. She loved him.”

  “But she didn’t want him in the room or something when your Gift came.”

  “That was her thinking. But it happened anyway.” Her eyes took on a far-away look. “Mama wasn’t home. She was playing violin—with the Boston Symphony. The Danse Macabre. Her favorite piece. She couldn’t turn down the—opportunity. So I was home. By myself. Daddy came to visit. To get us back. I saw him at the front door and—I was so happy that—”

  “You don’t have to tell me this. Not if it’s making you—”

  “I want to tell you. You have to understand. I was so happy to see him—that all the windows flew up.”

  Jason rubbed her arm. “And he knew.”

  “And he knew. He knew the little witch. I saw it dawn on him. He understood. He told me—he’d seen my mother do things. But he had written it off. Now he believed.”

  “And that’s the point of no return. When they believe.”

  She nodded again. “He kissed me—and left. And that night—he died.”

  “How?”

  “He died. That’s all you need to know. And it was my fault.” Her eyes locked on his. “Never tell anyone you care about.” She put a hand on his knee. “Hide what you are. If you love them—hide.”

  Jason realized something else. “You never told Hadewych.”

  Valerie shook her head. “I was practically—his wife. But no. I couldn’t risk—his safety. Or Zef’s.”

  “Then tell him now!” Jason said, excited. “Let’s use it! Let’s tell Hadewych what we are and let some ghost do the job for us! Let’s turn the Curse on him!”

  “And what if he—lives?”

  Jason frowned. “Right. Then Hadewych would have a Gift.”

  “People have tried—for centuries—to turn the Curse against their enemies. But they ended up making them—stronger. Every time you face—the Spirit World—your Gift strengthens.” She studied his palm. “And sometimes it changes. How many—ghosts have you faced?”

  Jason thought. “The Horseman… twice. Ghosts in the stable… Agathe…”

  “Plus your own inheritance. Possibly a double inheritance.” Valerie shook her head. “You’ve become extraordinarily powerful—for someone your age. Too powerful.”

  “And that’s why my Gift is changing?”

  “Adding new aspects. The same Gift. Different facets.”

  “I don’t understand. What does seeing the past have to do with healing animals?”

  Valerie considered. She snatched up an empty ice cream bowl and struck it against the slate. It broke into five large pieces.

  “What are you doing?” said Jason. Had she lost her mind?

  “Fix it.”

  “How?”

  She pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Everything that is—contains the seed of—what was. Your Gift is to find that seed—and bring it out. That is true—when you make a vision. It’s true when you restore. So make the bowl—what it was.”

  Jason nodded dubiously. He took off his gloves, gathered the pieces, and brought them roughly into the correct position. He pressed his palms against the ceramic. His hands glowed weakly, or was it the firelight?

  “Look back and see—what the bowl was. A minute ago. Don’t draw a—vision from it. Don’t let the past—come into you. Draw the past—into the thing itself.”

  The bowl bore a string of painted strawberries along the side. Breaks cut the vine at intervals. He tried to imagine linking them, braiding them back together. Dipping into it with a spoon to taste the ice cream. His hands glowed bright and flashed.

  “Holy crap,” breathed Valerie.

  The pie
ces had come back together in Jason’s hand. He turned to her, astonished by what he’d done. “So the horse—”

  Valerie nodded. “Same principle. How was the horse—five minutes before it was wounded?”

  “It was fine.”

  “Healthy?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must have—reached into the past—and brought it back—to what it was. I don’t see how, though. I’ve never heard of—any psychometric gift—restoring living matter. It should be impossible. Gifts like yours affect either—inanimate material or living things. A restoring Gift. A healing Gift. But never both.”

  “Am I okay?”

  “I… think so.” Valerie looked thoughtful. “But I wouldn’t get—any more powerful. You need to…”

  “Avoid ghosts? I’d love to. But what’s the harm? What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Valerie looked uncomfortable. “Can we—” She raised a hand and tapped her valve twice, indicating a sore throat. “Stop for tonight? I’m very—”

  Jason shrugged. “Sure. Sure. Thanks.” He turned the bowl over in his hands. “This was cool. I want to do it again.” He swung the bowl at the stone.

  “No…”

  The bowl broke.

  Valerie sighed. “Go ahead and try.”

  Jason frowned over the pieces for almost five minutes before giving up. “Why isn’t it working now?”

  “Same principles, remember? Same Gift. Different aspect. The bowl is dark to you now. You can’t repair it—twice.”

  “Oh.” Jason looked sheepish. “Sorry I broke your bowl.” He collected the pieces. “That must be why I couldn’t restore Agathe’s diary. I already had a vision from it in the Van Brunt Tomb.”

  Valerie smiled. “Speaking of gifts—” she pushed the envelope across the side table between them. Jason opened the envelope, revealing a thick sheaf of hundreds.

  “It’s fifty thousand. Cash.”

  “What for?”

  “So you can escape. Take it and run.”

  “No.” He pushed the envelope away. “I can’t.”

  “I won’t be here. To help you. I’ll drop by… now and then but… Not at night.”

  “I get that. You’re scared. I’m scared too. But I can’t run. I’m not a coward.” She nodded. He winced, realizing the implied insult. “Sorry…”