“You are a meddlesome one. Why can’t my Horseman command you?”
“Oh, my God,” Eliza moaned. “Is that you in there, you old bitch? Agathe, are you inside that poor girl?”
The blonde broke into a mad smile. “This one I can speak through. This one I can move in easily. This one dances.” The blonde raised her arms and went into a macabre jig.
“Get out of her.”
“I will not. I want to keep her.”
“Let her go.”
“I will have her any night I wish. BROM! BROM!” She pointed at Eliza’s grave, her expression mad. A leaf dangled in her hair. “It’s you who must go.”
“I’m not going anywhere. My boy needs me.”
“You’ve been helping him.”
“And I’ll go on helping him.”
“You will not.” The girl bent and raised a plastic jug. She poured something white into her hand. “Do you know what this is, Spirit?”
“No, but you’re about to tell me.”
“This is salt. A simple magic. But quite useful.” She flicked her wrist, scattering salt across Eliza’s grave, muttering an incantation. Eliza felt a searing pain, a heaviness, as if a spectral chain had darted from the earth and seized her by the wrist.
“What are you doing?” Eliza said. The girl threw another handful of salt. Eliza could see the chain, this time, like a manacle around her other wrist. She winced. “My Jason will stop you! He’ll send your Horseman back to hell!”
“No!” The girl poured salt across Eliza’s grave, from head to foot. Chains caught Eliza around her legs, her neck. They dragged her into the earth. Blackness enveloped her.
Jason cried out, pleading, “Eliza, did I curse you?” but Eliza couldn’t answer him. She struggled against a growing oblivion. The last thing she heard before darkness overcame her was a contemptuous chuckle.
“It’s you who will be in hell… With you gone, the boy has no protection. And salt will not work on my Horseman again. I’ll see to that. My Horseman will have flesh, as I do. Goodbye, now. Time for Agathe to spill her midnight blood. Perhaps I’ll kill the boy tonight. Perhaps not. You’ll never know. Enjoy your sleep, Spirit. Enjoy your eternity…”
Jason grew tired of tears. He collapsed on the bunk and fell asleep. But even though he slept in the RV that night—with the photo of Eliza hanging above him—he was still beheaded at the broken bridge. The Nightmare came for him that night, and on every night that followed…
If anything, it grew worse.
CHAPTER FIFTY
“The Persistence of Evil”
The ladies of the Philipsburg Manor Gift Shop returned that spring. They opened their registers and tagged the leftover Halloween kitsch fifty percent off. They put out baskets of artisanal cookies—decorated with scenes of the Lower Hudson Valley. They straightened their shelves of books and photo albums, and the annual trade in Horseman calendars and Horseman fridge magnets and Horseman canvas totes began once more, as if winter had never happened.
Outside the gift shop window, the millwheel turned.
A yellow school bus pulled up alongside the millpond. A line of children plopped out, green windbreakers and diamond sweater vests, coats like Easter eggs banded in pink and light purple. The children threw rocks at the rippling water. The poplar trees had shed their catkins and tiny strings of flowers floated on the surface like dead caterpillars. They mixed with a sickly espresso foam—wind-whipped, driven against the shore—and were stirred into extravagant whorls and spirals: Van Gogh’s Starry Night in browns. The branch of a submerged tree waved the children off, one green leaf trembling on the tip of its utmost twig. A teacher, thin as a maypole, clapped her hands, and the children swarmed her, tugging at her sleeves or purse or the strap of her coat, circling her as they walked. Two housewives trailed behind, discussing marriage in weary whispers.
“No running, you two!” the teacher called.
A little princess answered smartly, “We’re not running, we’re skipping!”
The swarm of children skirted the millpond, coming around on the dirt path, clomping over the Headless Horseman Bridge.
A chubby red-headed man waved to the kids, pressed his staple gun to a telephone pole, and tacked up a page of tear-away coupons for a yoga class. “Three Months Until Beach Weather.” The tromp of the kids across the bridge brought the wrath of the swans. A muscular male, dark grey with black-and-white war paint, flew at the line, honking like a clown’s tricycle. The children ran on and bunched up, half-terrified and half-delighted. The swan paced the stockade fence and watched them. Its mate swam below. She bobbed her head as if to say “good riddance.” Her swanlings fell in line behind her.
The children, too, fell in line. They trundled along towards the mill and authentic Dutch farm, sleeves of sweaters pulled a mile beyond their hands, flapping their wings. They pointed at the sprouting gardens marked off with twine, at the new lambs nibbling the grass with their butts presented to the sun, at the ram who watched over all, wagging his shaggy head and great demonic horns.
An elderly African-American woman in pre-Colonial dress met the group, her yellow bonnet like a daffodil on her head. She wiped her glasses with her apron and welcomed the children to the tour. For the next hour she tried to explain the evils of slavery to this giggling troupe, with calm determination and a slight sigh of despair.
A sign stood over the herb garden, shiny white letters on a green background. Similar signs stood at Washington Irving’s Sunnyside, at the Old Dutch Church, at Fremont Pond, the Tarrytown Lighthouse, Lyndhurst Manor, Kykuit, and every other Sleepy Hollow park or landmark.
This one read:
PHILIPSBURG MANOR
Restored and Maintained Courtesy of
The CRANE FOUNDATION
Spring had come to Sleepy Hollow, to everywhere but the woods.
William Wade noticed immediately, the first time he crossed the Tappan Zee. He’d been trucking water-cooler refills for thirty years, driving his rig twice a week from the Bunker bottling plant in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, down to New York City’s thirsty stockbrokers. Each inbound run took him over the Tappan Zee Bridge (the Hold-Your-Breath Bridge) and every year the Pocantico Hills had budded shamrock green by the end of May. But a rotted patch hung on the hillside, a blotch of death, like the blackened eye of Jupiter overlooking the town.
His skin prickled with strange unease, as if approaching some beast’s lair. Had a fire ravaged those beautiful woods? What a shame. He’d always loved this view, inbound over the bridge, though he dreaded the bridge itself. The Tappan Zee crossed one of the widest expanses of the Hudson, a long two-lane span with rails on either side and a fat section of metal cage in the middle, like the stomach of an earthworm. It was this middle section that always felt unstable to William, this section with all the V-bracing. Every time the rig rattled over the Tappan Zee the metal struts shimmied under its wheels. The bridge was becoming a deathtrap. Signs dotted the railing, installed to deter potential jumpers:
SUICIDE PREVENTION HOTLINE
THERE IS ALWAYS HOPE
THERE IS ALWAYS HELP
LIFE IS WORTH LIVING
SUICIDE IS NEVER THE ANSWER
The black eye on the hillside widened. The whir of rubber on metal ceased. So did the shimmying. He gained the New York shore and slowed for the I-287 toll plaza. The exit read 9A Tarrytown/Sleepy Hollow. He took one last glance at the evil eye glaring from the hills. He inhaled sharply, surprising himself. He’d been holding his breath since New Jersey.
Botanists and dendrologists drove up from the New York Botanical Garden. They found no disease, no blight, no problems with the soil, no invasive insects. The woods simply hadn’t come back from winter. Not a sprig of green emerged, even as the days grew warm. The state of the hills became the subject of endless debate for the village council. The rot of the Rockefeller Park Preserve was compared to the great chestnut blight of the early twentieth century. That tragedy had felled many of the old growths,
including the fabled Hokohongas tree, the massive charter tree of the local tribes and site of their wheat ceremonies. The chestnut blight had originated with an accidentally introduced Japanese fungus and had ravaged billions of non-resistant American chestnut trees, just as European diseases had once ravaged the Native American populations. The fungus remained in the air afterwards, ensuring that the American chestnut could never prosper on this continent again without the help of science and the breeding of resistant varieties.
But no fungus was found in any of the trees of the Park Preserve. All that the scientists could say with certainty was that something was killing the forest, and that the rot was centered in the general vicinity of Spook Rock.
The botanists shrugged helplessly, filed their report, and went home.
Their fees were paid by the Crane Foundation.
The rot spread to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. A streak of black ran from one corner of the evil eye, down the hill to the aqueduct trail, and through the chain link fence, darkening the graves. Jim Osorio received reports of dead bushes and withered trees, of snake sightings and spider bites, of strange odors and mists. He called in exterminators and put Joey’s crew to work replanting. But nothing took root.
The row of hemlocks at the northern end of section 77 died, followed by all the vegetation in that area. The infection proceeded south through Beech Grove and Palestine, up Cataract Hill, to Irving Ridge, down Vineland and Poet’s Mound to meet up with a stain of dead grass that had spread northward from the area of the Old Dutch Church, a stain which had begun in the Burying Ground, approximately at the location where tradition placed the Headless Horseman’s unmarked grave. That spot had become bare and earthen, stripped of everything living. The shallow depression gathered rainwater and became a perpetual puddle. Insects bred and worms writhed there—a tiny festering swamp.
The Friends of the Burying Ground had the spot raked and drained, but the noxious puddle persisted. The smell wafted through the broken northeast window of the Old Dutch Church, offending noses at service, until bouquets of flowers were brought to fill the choir pew. At last, a restoration team began work repairing the ancient glass. The restoration was made possible thanks to the generous financial support of the Crane Foundation.
“The Persistence of Evil,” said Mister Smolenski, dimming the lights. Jason leaned forward at his desk, watching the slideshow with interest, even if the other students looked bored by the lecture. “In various cultures, this concept is linked to the question of how, in a benevolent creation, evil can exist. Why does God allow it, and so forth. It’s not just an interesting issue for theologians, but for historians as well.”
Smolenski showed images of war, poverty, disease. Of internment camps and book-burnings. “Evil persists throughout history. The same evils, over and over. Cultures rise and fall, repeating the same mistakes as their antecedents, destroying themselves—with minor variations—in all the same ways. Through wars, wastefulness, indebtedness, irrationality, superstition, and hatreds. For example, Anti-Semitism rises, good men perish and we say ‘never again,’ but once abhorrence wears thin, the leash snaps and the dogs of hate run amok again. The same vicious nonsense, over and over, as if on a Great Millwheel turning with the current of time. Why? Why is it human nature to forget—and repeat—the horrors of yesterday? In nineteen ninety-two, the reunified German government did an aerial survey of all state lands. And found this—”
The slide showed green forest but, at center, rows of yellow trees drew a Nazi swastika.
“These few hundred larch trees were planted in that swastika pattern back in the nineteen-forties, in celebration of Adolph Hitler’s birthday. After the war they were cut down. But they’ve grown back. Year after year, they bloom to honor a Führer dead for generations. It is difficult to rid the world of any evil once it has put down roots. Humanity reaps what it sows. Think about that as we get into World War Two these next weeks. Think about…”
“The Persistence of Evil,” Jason whispered.
“The Persistence of Evil,” said Smolenski.
The lights came on. Jason glanced down. He’d broken his pencil in half. He knew why the woods were dying, oh yes. The Great Millwheel had turned to evil again. What had Valerie said? “When the dominant spirit is a dark one, it corrupts the ground. It keeps the souls here from finding peace. A dark spirit will cave the ground in over its own head. Things will stop growing. Twist and decay. Even the living won’t find solace there. If you ever walk past a graveyard and you fear it, you can be sure that the dominant spirit there is a dark one.”
Class ended. A brunette dropped a note on Jason’s desk as she passed.
ME and YOU—4:00 in the Library Stacks
She gave him a lewd wink and slipped out the door. Jason wiped a bead of sweat from his brow but wadded the note. This kind of thing was happening all the time. Ever since the Crane Foundation had been established he’d been receiving similar invitations, bare-breasted selfies, and suggestive text messages.
Word gets around that you’re worth over a hundred million and suddenly every girl in school wants to offer you an appetizer.
Jason didn’t bite. He wanted Kate. He felt stupid and miserable. She’d left Sleepy Hollow High just as he’d returned to it. She’d be finishing her coursework with private tutors. Word was that Usher had grown more protective of his daughter in the aftermath of Stone Barns. He planned to move his family to Boston in the fall. He had defeated his primary opponent handily and the national press had declared him a shoe-in for November. He was a Democrat running in Massachusetts, after all. That’s like playing musical chairs with a sofa glued to your ass.
Kate ignored Jason’s messages. He’d seen her once, at the Food King grocery, but she’d barely acknowledged him. She’d looked tired, like a girl battling insomnia or depression. Zef hadn’t talked to her either, not since February. He was glum about that, since he’d hoped they could repair their friendship. Hadewych continued to pester his son about the relationship but even he had to concede that Kate had slipped away. Jason refused to give up. He went to Kate’s house. He rang and rang. He left notes. Red didn’t tase him, but he warned him not to come back. Jason ignored the warning. Kate never came to the door.
She must hate me, Jason thought.
Another familiar figure had disappeared from the halls of Sleepy Hollow High but Jason didn’t miss Eddie. Nobody did. With Eddie Martinez expelled, the school was enjoying a Nerd Renaissance. Enthusiasm and joy and intellect were practiced openly, without fear of reprisal from the vanquished High Jock Inquisitor. The talismans of enthusiastic geekdom were brought into sunlight again, from comics to dice to blue-bladed lightsaber replicas. Gaming returned to the halls, its practitioners unafraid of having tablets swatted and screens cracked. Scholars openly discussed Firefly trivia and the Borg Collective and were even heard to utter the blasphemous suggestion that the world might not revolve around sports at all.
Once their Eddie infection had cleared up, the Sleepy Hollow Boys began to rediscover the delights of human decency. Several of them apologized to Jason for their behavior at New Year’s. Jason actually saw Jimmy Puleo return a middle-schooler’s fumbled copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire without making the kid jump for it first.
It truly was a Golden Age.
“I found something,” said Mr. Smolenski.
Jason pushed his hair out of his eyes. He was still at his desk though room 216 had emptied. He rose and followed the teacher to his office. Smolenski produced a plastic-encased scrap of parchment—the map fragment from inside the cover of Agathe’s diary.
“It’s really interesting,” said Smolenski. “You have a bit of local history here. This map matches up with the course of the Pocantico during the American Revolution. You can see the old bridge here, see?”
“Ichabod’s bridge.”
“Oh, there’ve been a lot of bridges. Who knows which one Irving had in mind. Look here.” He pointed at a squiggle of ink. “That’s t
he Gory Brook. It didn’t have that name yet, though. It’s labeled ‘bach,’ which is ‘creek’ in German. It’s the hand-drawn map of a soldier, which is obvious from the handy phrases he wrote on the other side. He probably needed to write out the English in case he confronted any colonials.”
“Could this be from fall 1776?”
Smolenski grinned. “You’re ahead of me. You’re exactly right.” He took down a book and began turning pages. “At the time, Westchester was a no-man’s land. The British held New York City to the south. They’d pushed the American patriots north into the highlands, up to the headquarters at Peekskill. Everything between, from the Croton River down to Harlem, was contestable land. Each side conducted raids into the area, seizing what goods they could carry. The mill at Philipsburg changed hands several times. Most of the wheat was taken by the British. The American raiding parties called themselves Skinners. They tried to target Tory households loyal to the king, but not always. The British called themselves Cowboys. They targeted the patriots.”
“So everybody got attacked by somebody.”
“From the north and from the south, by friend and foe. And marauders came up the Hudson at night, snatched up slaves and goods, and sailed off again.”
“So what happened at Gory Brook?”
Smolenski opened a map of the region. “Okay. On October 28th, 1776…”
“The twenty-eighth?”
“What’s wrong?”
Jason frowned. October twenty-eighth was the same date his parents died. “Sorry. Nothing. Just a coincidence.”
“On the twenty-eighth, the British had chased George Washington’s army out of New York and intended to crush it in Westchester. British General Howe tried to cut off the escape routes, but Washington fled northward to White Plains, about seven miles from here. The two sides fought, both took heavy casualties, and Washington retreated into the hills. Howe could have ended the war if only he could cut off Washington’s retreat. So, small parties were dispatched into the woods to survey for potential escape routes.” Smolenski held up Jason’s map. “On the night of the thirty-first, Halloween, a party of colonials were riding through the woods. They were ambushed by the British. Both sides were completely destroyed.”
Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones Page 43
