Chapter 8 #4
“Not at all,” Merel said, waving a negligent hand.
“It came from my diary, of course, which is for sale in the gift shop. Most of the history of the house comes directly from the horse’s mouth, as it were.
” She chuckled, as did a few of the tourists.
“Now, if you’re ready, we’ll go visit the old family cemetery, and then we’ll finish up in the gift shop, and you can go to the farmer’s market on the way out.
If you’ll just walk this way? Mind the steps. ”
Esmie couldn’t care less about the little cemetery.
She wanted to get to the gift shop and buy that diary.
She hoped the handwriting wasn’t too elaborate.
She didn’t want to have to wait for Chad to read it.
She wanted to have the head in hand, if at all possible.
But where on earth was it? Had it fallen off somewhere between here and the battlefield?
That was all too possible, and the likelihood of finding it, if so, was miniscule. Dammit.
“As you can see, the family plot isn’t very big.
Once the township was fully recognized and the church established in the wood, the town cemetery became the place to bury everyone, including the Vinke’s.
But my first ancestors were buried here—my mother, my baby sister who died at age one, my aunt, my grandfather, and the nanny, who was like family.
She came with us from the old country. And the fountain, of course.
An underground spring feeds it, though it sometimes runs dry in hot weather. Isn’t it beautiful?”
As impatient as she was to get to the gift shop, Esmie had to admit the little stone fountain, with its bent-headed Mary figure, hands together in prayer, was quite charming, in a religious sort of way.
The carving was softened with age, but it had clearly been done with care, and the mellow trickling of the water was soothing.
After a quiet moment, the guide stirred herself with a deeply drawn breath.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, that concludes our tour for today. If you’ll just follow me back to the house, I’ll take you to the gift shop and let you go about your day.
I hope you enjoyed this little walk through the beautiful history of our lovely little town. ”
Murmurs and nods greeted this gentle prompt, and the group, Esmie included, followed the faux Merel Vinke back into the house through the back kitchens and over into a side room that had been turned into the gift shop.
“Here we are. Thank you for being such a lovely crowd. Have a beautiful day, and if you’re ever back this way, please remember us and come back to see us. Thank you.”
With that, Esmie guessed she’d been patient long enough and turned for the bookshelf.
As was perhaps inevitable, the Washington Irving biography and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow were prominently displayed, but after a moment’s perusal, she found The Diary of Merel Vinke and took it to the sales desk.
It was $14.95, and this little trip was putting a severe dent in her emergency funds, but needs must. And she needed this.
Then, she took her purchase to the farmer’s market, bought a sandwich, an apple crisp pastry, and an apple cider, and found a picnic table as far away from anyone else as she could get.
There, she opened the book and began to read.
The handwriting was indeed spidery and elegant, but the photocopies were of excellent quality, crisp and clear.
She flipped through the years until 1790, then slowed down through the summer until she finally reached October 13th, 1790. She bent over the table, eyes scanning the page intently. She murmured softly to herself as she slowly deciphered the flowy script.
“The most wonderfully strange thing happened this day. The battle rages on, of course, but Father says I can do nothing about that. He’s wrong.
A soldier’s horse stumbled out of the woods today.
I know it is a soldier’s horse because it was shot full of holes.
The poor beast was half dead when I saw him, but he allowed me to lead him to the barn, where I bathed him and applied salve to the wounds and bandaged the worst ones that still bled.
He drank water until he was sick, then drank still more. Then, he slept.
“I hesitate to add this part.” Esmie leaned closer to the page, as if she could absorb the text through osmosis.
“It is the most ghastly thing. A horrid object was attached to the saddle.
I cannot say what it was. Just know that it was unspeakable.
I have hidden this awful thing in the most holy place I know so its horror cannot affect us.
“I shall check the horse’s wounds in the morning—” She cut herself off and reread the earlier bits.
“The most ghastly thing. That has to be the head. It was attached to the saddle. No one who didn’t know it was the Horseman’s horse would even know…
.” She looked up from the book, a headache starting behind her eyes from the strain of reading the spidery text.
“All this time. Unbelievable. But where is the most holy place?”
She took a bite of her apple crisp pastry, then paused in her chewing. She knew. Of course she knew.
Just like she knew it would be impossible to inspect there, let alone possibly dig, if necessary, in the Now. Dammit.
So much for showing up in the Between with the head in hand.
Grumbling, she ate her pastry and drank her cider. She had a lot of time to kill before she had to be foolhardy and alone in the midnight hour by the abandoned church in the wood.