“GO ON, THEN, OPEN IT UP,” MacLemore urged.
Lu sat cross-legged in the shade of a giant saguaro, Jack’s silk-bound package in his lap. “Is it noon yet?” he asked nervously.
“A little past,” Henry said. “Open it.”
Fingers trembling, Lu untied his grandfather’s charm and set it aside. The dragon glowed for an instant as he lifted it away from the pearl-white silk, its eyes turning a most unsettling red. Then it faded until it was the same flat gray as the rest of the charm.
Lu hesitated, half-expecting demons, maybe even ghost-riders, to come blasting out of the desert all around them. But nothing happened. The string that bound the package was tied in a simple bow. Lu tugged at one of the ends and the string fell away.
“It’s an old notebook,” Lu said, holding it up for all to see.
“Careful with that material.” Chino motioned toward the silk covering. In his haste, Lu had allowed it to slide out of his lap. Sadie picked it up, brushed it off, and stuck it in her jacket pocket.
“Does it say whose it is?” MacLemore asked.
Lu turned the notebook back and forth, but there were no words on the cover. “I think it may belong to my grandfather,” he said. “I saw Jack reading it before we left.”
“Well, open the darn thing,” Sadie suggested. “Read the first page.”
The spine creaked as Lu thumbed the book open. On the inside cover was a poem he knew well. It was something his grandfather had taught him when he was little. Master K’ung said it was a nursery rhyme from England, but that English speakers the world over knew it. Whoever had written the poem into this book possessed a fine hand. The letters were clear, but not flowery. There were no lines in the book, but the spacing was even and exact. Master K’ung, who took great pride in his own calligraphy, would have admired this. For a moment, Lu wondered if his grandfather hadn’t penned the rhyme himself. But the more he studied the letters, the more he became convinced that this was the work of someone else entirely. Master K’ung always wrote English so that the letters went straight up and down. Whoever had copied this poem gave his words a decided bent to the left.
To either side of the nursery rhyme were lines of Chinese characters, written top to bottom as was proper. There could be no doubt that Master K’ung had written these. He had even signed them.
“Well?” MacLemore asked. “What is it?”
Lu held the book up so that everyone could see. “There’s some Chinese written here and here,” he said. “And there’s a poem down the middle.”
“Those bits in Chinese sort of surround the rest, don’t they?” Chino observed. “That’s interesting.”
“What does the Chinese say?” Sadie asked.
Lu shook his head. “I only know a few characters. This is my grandfather’s signature.” He pointed at the figure in question. “The rest I don’t know.”
“You can’t read your own language?” MacLemore asked him.
“It’s very difficult,” Lu said. “Not like English.”
“I think reading English is difficult,” Chino muttered.
“Why don’t you read it to us?” Henry suggested. “The parts you do know.”
“Me? Are you sure?” Lu had never much liked reading aloud. He was a good reader, but whenever he tried to read anything out loud he jumbled the words. “How about Mister MacLemore reads it?”
“Why me?”
“Give to Caeser what is Caeser’s,” Henry said.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, you’re the leader of this little expedition,” Sadie said. She took the book from Lu and handed it to her father. “So read.”
Reluctantly, MacLemore took the book. He held it at arm’s length, touching it with just his fingertips. He looked like an old bachelor holding a baby with a dirty diaper. “Well, if I must,” he said.
He opened the notebook and looked at the inside cover. “I know this.”
“Read it out loud,” Henry reminded him. “So we can all know what it says.”
MacLemore cleared his throat.
“Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief,
“Taffy came to my house and stole a leg of beef.
“I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy wasn’t in,
“I jumped upon his Sunday hat and stuck it with a pin.”
“That’s what it says?” Henry asked.
“Exactly.”
“Who is this Taffy?” Chino asked.
“It’s a nursery rhyme,” Henry explained. “A poem mothers teach their children.”
“Strange thing to teach a child. What’s a Welshman?”
“A man from Wales,” Sadie said. “It’s also someone who doesn’t pay his debts.”
“Unlike the other man in the poem,” Chino said. “He pays his debts.”
“Or his trespasses,” Henry agreed.
“Can I continue?” MacLemore turned a page. The yellowed paper crackled under his fingers. “The handwriting’s not as clear, but I think I can make it out.”
“Do the letters bend to the left?” Lu asked.
“No. To the right. Looks like this writer was left-handed. My own mother was a lefty. You can always tell.”
MacLemore cleared his throat again, then read the following:
“November 5th, 1799. Tarry Town.
“Six long years have I trod the miserable paths of these northern woods, searching for proof, or at least goodly sign, of the Adversary, which some men call the Devil. But all my efforts have come to naught.
“Despite several brushes with sorcerers, ghosts, minor demons, and other beings of the weirdly supernatural, I have yet to see the Dark One face to face. Still, I refuse to give up hope. I will see him. I swear I will.”
MacLemore shrugged. “Still no name,” he said, turning another page. “Creepy, though, isn’t it?”
“Keep reading,” Sadie said.
“This next entry looks like a long one.” MacLemore flipped a couple more pages, searching for the end. “Real long.”
“That’s all right,” Chino said. “We’ve got time.”
MacLemore continued:
“November 11th, 1799. Tarry Town.
“In previous journals I have often remarked upon the tendency of certain petty criminals to use the supernatural as a ready explanation for crimes otherwise all too human. The time I have wasted in chasing after such humbugs has been considerable. But never have I beheld so laughable a fraud as that which I uncovered during this past week, whilst investigating the disappearance of an upstate schoolmaster, Ichabod Crane.
“According to reports read prior to my journey, Crane was abducted by the ghost of a decapitated Hessian cavalry officer. Having lost his head to cannon fire during the revolution, this headless horseman rides the lanes and fields of the surrounding lands searching for a replacement. His weapon of choice is a saber. But the Hessian has also been known to make use of a charmed gourd, an enormous pumpkin filled with the fires of hell, which he flings at his victims, knocking them from their mounts and sending them tumbling through the gates of damnation.
“Aroused by the strangeness of this tale, I hastened to investigate.
“For the better part of two days did I tramp upon the scene of the crime, a hollow spooky of countenance and much given to mists and fog, but no concrete evidence could I unearth. At last, late on my second day, whilst inspecting a patch of blackened ground, I was approached by a farmer of the nearby village, one Hans Van Ripper. Mister Van Ripper claimed to be well-versed in both the comings and goings of the headless spectre, and having got wind of my expedition, bade me come to his home. There he showed me the moldy corpse of a pumpkin, claiming to have discovered it upon the very spot wherein the aforementioned teacher breathed his last.
“Excited by such excellent and tangible evidence, I spent the next day at a local tavern, a hall without proper name but possessing a strangely muddled portrait of George Washington over the door. My aim was to interview other locals, those most commonly purported to have first-hand knowledge of the spook, and so to develop a more complete understanding of both his whereabouts and the intervals during which he was most likely to be seen.
“But the meetings I took with the villagers who frequented this inn, far from clearing any murk from the waters, further confounded my understanding of the case. When together, their stories of the haunting ran in a singularly picturesque vein, each man or woman adding his or her own bit of yarn to the rich tapestry of legend. Indeed, after the first such gathering, I was convinced. ‘Truly,’ said I to myself, ‘there is a deep evil residing in this Sleepy Hollow.’ But subsequent interviews proved my optimism groundless.
“When taken individually, the villagers presented wildly divergent histories of the galloping Hessian. His mode of dress. His methods of dispatch. Even the breed of his horse. No detail of the ghost could be agreed upon. When I inquired into the shards of pumpkin, shown to me by the good farmer, Hans Van Ripper, no fewer than eleven of the villagers claimed to be the actual discoverers of the broken gourd. Eight offered to show me the shards, which they had kept safe in their cellars, attics, or even beneath their children’s beds.
“On the morning of my fifth day, I interviewed the worthy Baltus Van Tassel, in whose home the missing schoolteacher was last seen. He presented me with certain clues as to the true character of the crime. According to Mister Van Tassel, Ichabod Crane had developed a fondness for his daughter Katrina, a fact which mainly served to stoke the flames of hatred in her numerous suitors, and especially a local tough by the name of Abraham Van Brunt, but who most of his fellows called simply ‘Brom Bones.’
“With this newfound intelligence, I hastened to the home of Master Van Brunt, newly promised the hand of that same Katrina, and inquired as to his knowledge of the galloping Hessian. At first he claimed no personal knowledge of the schoolmaster’s disappearance. But with cajoling, he offered up a vivid tale of a chase, the schoolmaster fleeing for his life from the ‘headless’ horseman. Listening to it, I at once ciphered the truth from the myriad lies and fables.
“I cannot say with any certainty whether the schoolmaster yet lives, and occupies some other village schoolhouse, or has been cruelly murdered, as seems more likely, and his body hidden away in any one of the innumerable ‘haunted spots’ that surround this superstitious village. In either case, his disappearance is without doubt the result of a woefully human source, most likely Brom Bones himself, and thus no business of mine.”
“Wait a minute,” Sadie said. “He didn’t even report Brom Bones to the authorities?”
MacLemore read the last few sentences again. “Apparently not. I guess he didn’t think Crane’s murder was any of his business.”
Sadie whistled. “That’s what I’d call cold-blooded.”
“Maybe he’s the man we’re after,” Lu said. “Maybe he’s the Yankee.”
“Could be,” Henry said. “He is uncommonly interested in demons.”
Lu nodded. “And Jack thinks the Yankee is somehow using the ghost-riders. It all fits.”
“But we still don’t know the man’s name,” Sadie said, “or what he looks like.”
“There’s more, if you’d like to hear it,” MacLemore said. Lu couldn’t tell whether he was anxious to continue, or somehow irritated by the tale.
“Go on,” Henry said. “Let’s have it all.”
MacLemore read:
“One finds it difficult to imagine how these villagers can continue to believe in their local spook, whilst all evidence points to murderers most foul. But I shall chalk it up, yet again, to an earnest desire to BELIEVE. The denizens of Sleepy Hollow sincerely wish to see the Devil’s face, peering at them from behind every tree and bush, and at the center of every bit of low-lying fog, and so they do. And yet, woe unto me, I hope to see that evil face laid bare, and in the light of day, but have as yet been foiled.
“Still, my trip was not a total loss. I did hear one tale of remarkable interest, whilst interviewing the denizens of that aforementioned tavern. And had I not spent the vast majority of my time investigating the cheap humbug that was the headless horseman, I should have very much liked to look into it further. No doubt it too would have proved without foundation, but I shall give the particulars here all the same.
“Toward the end of my third evening in Sleepy Hollow, whilst the hopes of a demoniac discovery were still alight in my breast, I chanced to speak with an elderly gentleman possessing of a singularly untamed bush of graying chin-whisker, and going by the name Rip Van Winkle. He lived with his grown daughter, whom he had brought to the tavern that night, and who confirmed the bare facts of the story as he related them.
“According to Van Winkle, twenty-five years previous, whilst hunting squirrels in the Kaatskill Mountains, he was met by the ghost of Hendrick Hudson.
“The famed explorer led him a merry jaunt over hill and dale, only stopping once they had arrived at a wide glade populated by the hobgoblin remains of Hudson’s crew. There Van Winkle was offered a flagon of powerful liquor, which he accepted gratefully, and refilled numerous times. The result was that Van Winkle fell into a bewitched sleep—A sleep from which he did not wake for fully twenty years!
“When at last he did alight, the poor man discovered that all he’d previously known was gone. Even his country had changed. He was now a citizen of the United States of America, where before he had been a loyal subject of the King.
“His daughter readily confirmed the lengthy disappearance, and avowed a complete faith in her father’s tale. I asked many questions, and came to believe that Van Winkle was at least no teller of base fibs. There may have been some more ordinary cause of his lost years—a blow to the head perhaps, resulting in acute loss of memory—but if there was, Van Winkle knew nothing of it.
“When questioned as to the details of the day leading up to his encounter with Hendrick Hudson, however, Van Winkle showed extraordinary powers of recollection. Apparently, he had been in that self-same tavern, conversing with friends, when his wife, a terrible shrew of a woman, stormed in and began cursing the whole assemblage. She had even cursed the most august member of their circle, one Nicholas Vedder, a man whom the other villagers called simply ‘Old Nick.’
“Suffice to say, Van Winkle’s mention of that name fairly halted the proceedings. As any educated person will attest, ‘Old Nick’ is nothing less than the third or possibly fourth most commonly used cognomen for the Devil. It is his ‘NICK-name,’ as it were. I don’t mind saying that I was positively agog. Could this be mere coincidence? Or evidence of chicanery on the part of Van Winkle and his daughter? I cannot say for certain. But it seemed to me then, and still does now, a remarkably uncanny bit of information. I pressed Van Winkle to continue.
“According to his tale, Van Winkle begged his wife to retire, which she reluctantly did, though only after extorting from him a promise of fresh meat for their stew-pot. Van Winkle agreed to go that very afternoon to the Kaatskill Mountains and hunt for squirrels. It was during this trip that he encountered Hendrick Hudson.
“When Dame Van Winkle had finally gone from the tavern, ‘Old Nick’ expressed his extreme dismay at being so callously treated. Van Winkle apologized, saying that his fondest wish was ‘to wake up one morning and find his wife dead, so that he might discover what life could be like without her.’ I thought that bit extraordinarily interesting, and had Van Winkle repeat it a number of times.
“The other aspect of Van Winkle’s tale which I found remarkable was his description of Hendrick Hudson. Van Winkle described the ghost as square-built, short, and possessing of a thick black beard. I asked if the beard wasn’t parted at the center, much as portraits of our Savior Jesus Christ show his beard to have been parted, and Van Winkle came almost out of his seat in surprise.
“I then asked if Hudson favored one leg. To this Van Winkle replied in the negative. Still, I can’t help but wonder if the old man wasn’t the victim of a rather more powerful spirit even than that of Hendrick Hudson.
“If I can but find the time, I really must send a letter to Nathaniel, describing the above and inviting him to continue the inquiry where I left off. It is not so very far from Salem to Tarry Town, after all, and he may deem the Van Winkle matter of particular interest. His successes in the case of Goodman Brown, as well as the prodigious level of detail he has managed to unearth relating to the demoniac possession of the infamous Parson Hooper, suggest him as a most fitting replacement.”
“Strange bit of fiction, isn’t it?” MacLemore turned the page. “Ghosts,” he scoffed.
“Isn’t there any more?” Lu asked.
MacLemore nodded. “Two other entries.”
“Read them,” Henry said. “We still need that name.”
“November 13th, 1799, Tarry Town.
“I am trapped.
“The sloop, which was scheduled to depart at dawn, bound for the island of the Manhattos, has not arrived. What has delayed its passage from Renssalaer, none can guess. Fortunately, I still have my room at the inn, though the keeper has installed a roommate to share my bed. At first, I considered this insufferable. Upon meeting the man, however—one Philip Traum—I quite readily altered my opinion.
“He is of a genial nature, handsome and clean of appearance, with a pale skin that fairly radiates decency, and possessed of a knowledge regarding matters demoniac nearly as deep as mine own. Like me, he is a traveler. He calls himself a ‘salesman,’ and is in fact also on his way to the Manhattos, where he is to meet with a shopkeeper who has agreed to sell health potions on Mr. Traum’s behalf. He also admits to dabbling in usury, and claims to have money lent out at various rates of interest throughout the whole of New England.
“For reasons unknown, I have felt compelled to describe to him the nature of my years-long hunt in almost embarrassing detail, and Mr. Traum, gentleman that he is, has listened politely all the while. After hearing my description of the cases at Sleepy Hollow, he asked why I did not stay to investigate the Van Winkle matter. I explained that there were tales of a more recent vintage in the southern states, which I thought more likely to bear fruit. To this, Mr. Traum inquired as to whether I had not myself ever attempted to summon the Dark One, since I had such a thirst for direct confrontation. I admitted that my efforts in that vein had ever come up empty. ‘But perhaps if we were to try together,’ he suggested. And I readily gave my consent.
“That evening, after a hearty dinner, we set about attempting to conjure the Devil. After much discussion, we settled on a pentagram and candles, that being the way in most of the stories we had read, and quickly began collecting the necessary implements. Whilst I went to the local school to obtain chalk, Philip went in search of a half-dozen tallow candles. We met back in our shared room, where I had already cleared the floor in preparation.
“I was astonished to find that he’d brought not only the candles, but also a hen’s egg, the shell of which was marked by a spot of purest black. I quizzed him as to the egg’s purpose, but Philip would not at that moment say. He merely set it down at the center of the chalk pentagram, which I had already drawn on the floor, and then went rapidly about the circle, lighting the candles. I suggested that the pentagram was easily large enough for the both of us, but Philip said he thought the spell would work better with only one inside, and kindly allowed me the honor. Careful not to obliterate any of the chalk markings, I stepped into the ring.
“‘Pick up the egg,’ Philip told me. And so I did. ‘Now say the name.’ I recited as many cognomens of the Devil as I could remember. ‘Crack the egg.’ Having nothing else handy, I cracked the egg on the knuckles of my right hand. ‘Now, drink the contents.’
“I admit to balking at this last instruction. First, because I had never heard that eating an egg was a part of the conjuring spell. And second, because I had a natural revulsion to raw food. But at Philip’s continued insistence, I did as bidden, opening the shell into my mouth and swallowing the contents without chewing.
“We waited. Traum sat in a chair, just outside the pentagram, watching me curiously, whilst I waited patiently for the appearance of the demon. Hours we spent, saying nary a word to each other, until the candles were close to burning out. At last, out of patience, Philip asked me whether I hadn’t yet seen anything, and how I felt. I felt fine, and told him so. ‘What do you want to do now then?’ he asked. I replied that I should still wish to see Old Scratch, face to face, to which he smiled.
“‘We will try again on the Manhattos,’ Philip promised. And with that, the first candle guttered and went out.”
“November 14th, 1799. Island of the Manhattos.
“The sloop arrived even as Philip and I were casting our failed spell. We sailed at dawn, with a strong southerly breeze. I enquired as to what had caused the ship to be tardy, and was told that a dense fog had covered the port in Renssalaer, making it impossible to depart on time, and that similar hindrances had cropped up at every port they came to. One sailor said that he thought it was the Devil himself, holding them back.
“No such complications marred our passage this morning. In fact, I have never before experienced so rapid a descent of the Hudson. I wondered if the sailor I spoke to earlier would credit the Devil with the good weather, but did not ask.
“We arrived in port shortly before five, nearly an hour ahead of schedule. After saying goodbye to Philip Traum, I beat a rapid path to the door of my solicitor, that most excellent gentleman, Geoffrey Crayon. I bid his man, Mister Irving, a hearty good evening, and was led to the master’s chambers.
“Crayon offered me tea, for which I have little taste, and toast and jam, which I relish, and then presented me with papers necessary for the withdrawal of a small fortune from my inheritance. After I had signed, Crayon gave me the requisite funds, having withdrawn the money from his own accounts on the understanding that it would be repaid by what he withdrew from mine. Whilst handing me the gold, he asked if I was absolutely sure I wanted to go south. ‘Where will all this chasing lead?’ he asked.
“I explained that I had got some very substantial information, and even told him about my new acquaintance, Mr. Traum. Upon hearing that name, Crayon shuddered. I asked if he wasn’t feeling all right, and he said that he was, but that he’d be staying inside more now that the weather was turning chill. I wished him a fine winter, and then raced to my own rooms, in a house overlooking The Bowery.
“Along the way I purchased a box of chalk, a gross of tallow candles, and a dozen eggs. The shells were a uniform brown, but I took them anyway.
“When I arrived at the house, my landlady was in the downstairs hall waiting. She was upset about a package that had been delivered a few moments before, from Philip Traum. I gave her no explanation, saying simply that Mr. Traum was a friend, and that I would be going to visit him later that evening.
“Once locked inside my rooms, I opened the letter accompanying the mysterious package and read it through. Traum had finished his business with the shopkeeper, to their mutual satisfaction, and would expect me at his house on Whitehall just before midnight. He also said not to open the package until we were together. It is fiendishly difficult to follow his instructions on this last point, but I shall endeavor to do so.
“His letter concluded with a strange statement. ‘I hope you still wish to see me,’ and the word ‘wish’ was underlined. Of course I still wanted to see him, and thought it a peculiar thing to ask. I would want to see anyone who could get me even an inch closer to my goal, that to which I have devoted the whole last years of my life.
“I leave in a few moments.
“Midnight is still hours away, yet I feel certain that Traum will both understand and forgive my excitement.
“Much more to write tomorrow, I am sure.”
MacLemore turned a page, then another.
“What’s wrong?” Sadie asked him.
“The rest of the notebook seems to be blank.” MacLemore flipped through page after page, but could find no other entries. “There isn’t any more to read.” He was just about to give up when a strip of yellowed newsprint fell out of the notebook, landing in his lap.
“What’s that?” Henry asked him.
“A death notice. For a Master Diedrich Knickerbocker, historian. It says he was found dead, lying on the floor of his room overlooking The Bowery, on the morning of November 15, 1799, apparently of acute apoplexy of the brain. His solicitor, and only known friend, was named executor of his estate.”
“Do you think that’s our writer?” Chino asked.
Sadie and Henry both said that they thought it must be. Lu was somewhat less certain. Mister MacLemore offered no opinion whatever. He just sat there, frowning as he flipped once more through the pages of the notebook.
“I wonder if he ever made it to Traum’s,” Lu said. “The notebook writer, I mean. Whoever he was.”
Sadie nodded. “And what was in that box?”
“It’s an evil story.” Chino made the sign of the cross. “I’m sorry we read it.”
“Seems just a longwinded yarn to me,” MacLemore said, finally breaking his silence. “I never put much stock in these Yankee ghost stories. If you’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all.”
“Jack must’ve thought different,” Sadie said.
“Well, I’ve begun to have my doubts about Jack Straw. Can’t see how his guidance has gotten us very far.”
“He got us across the Hell Mouth.”
“True,” MacLemore admitted. “But that wasn’t so very hard, was it? I have no doubt but what we could have done it ourselves.”
“Jack thought we should know what was in that notebook,” Henry said. “I for one am going to remember it.”
Chino nodded his agreement. “Jack’s smart about devils and such.”
MacLemore shrugged. “Do as you like. Far as I’m concerned, we’ve just wasted the better part of a day on ridiculousness.” He scoffed. “Old Scratch.”
Lu glanced at the sky. MacLemore was right about one thing. The afternoon was rapidly slipping away. “I don’t think we ought to talk about this anymore,” he said. “It’ll be dark in a few hours. Jack was always cautious about talking after sundown.”
“Fine by me,” MacLemore said, and tossed the book to Lu.
It bounced off his knee and landed in the dust, the back cover flopping open to reveal another piece of the Taffy poem MacLemore had read earlier.
“Wait.” Lu picked up the book. “There’s one more thing.”
“What is it?” Henry asked him.
“Another nursery rhyme, written in the back cover. And it’s surrounded by more of my grandfather’s Chinese.”
“What does it say?”
Lu read:
“Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a liar,
Taffy came to my house and set my roof on fire.
I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy lay in bed,
I took the pistol from my belt and shot him in the head.”
“Jesus y Santa Maria,” Chino whispered. “That is one evil book.”