The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel

by Alyssa Palombo

  “Charlotte,” I whispered. I clutched her arm for support. Suddenly the warmth of the day, which I had been so enjoying, felt about to smother me.

  But she was not done. “And what have they done with this poor, unfortunate man?” she asked, her tone light, as if this was just idle gossip.

  Mevrouw Lange shrugged. “I heard they took him to New York,” she said. “Don’t know why, unless they’re hoping someone there will recognize him. No doubt he’ll end up in a pauper’s grave, poor soul.”

  “Charlotte,” I muttered again, through gritted teeth. I gripped her arm harder. I had to leave; had to get out of here or I would faint.

  “A terrible story, indeed,” Charlotte said hurriedly. “I do think Katrina is feeling unwell; her condition, you know.” The women all nodded sagely. “I must get her home. Good day!”

  With that, we turned, and Charlotte began steering me back toward my house.

  I began to feel slightly better as we walked, but not much. I could not rid my mind of the images that now invaded it: Ichabod, frozen and decaying with his face eaten away, pulled from the waters of the Hudson. Ichabod with his throat cut, bleeding from stab wounds with his flesh in tatters, his beautiful body torn and bleeding, blood pouring from his mouth, from the lips I once kissed …

  I let out a sob and brought up my hand to cover my mouth. Charlotte wrapped an arm around my waist protectively.

  “Do not think about it,” she told me, almost harshly. “Do not think about it, Katrina. It will do you no good.”

  She did not speak any more until we were in my house. Nox preceded us, barking urgently. “Nancy,” Charlotte called as I collapsed onto the daybed in the parlor, my swollen, ungainly body suddenly feeling much too heavy.

  Nancy bustled in and stared at me in shock. “What’s happened?”

  “Just a bit too much excitement, and Katrina is overtired,” Charlotte explained quickly. “Would you bring her some tea? That will no doubt restore her.”

  “Of course,” Nancy said. She disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Charlotte,” I moaned, once Nancy was out of earshot. “What if…”

  “You must not think about it,” Charlotte said again. “You’ve had a shock, Katrina, but you must not let it upset you so. Think of the child.”

  This did rally me somewhat. I took several deep, slow breaths, calm beginning to return to me.

  Charlotte knelt on the floor and took my hands in hers. “We do not know it is him,” she said, her wide amber eyes on mine. “We don’t. Ruffians dispose of bodies in the Hudson all the time. They just don’t always wash up, so we never hear about such things.”

  The certainty in her voice was such that I could not help but believe her. “But … what if it is him?” I whispered. “It might be.”

  Charlotte’s hands tightened on mine. “It might be,” she conceded, “but there is a far greater chance it is not. Remember,” she added, “Gunpowder was never found. He might have been stolen, I suppose, but it is more likely Ichabod rode away under his own power. Far more likely.”

  I had forgotten about Gunpowder. “That … that is true,” I admitted, the weight on my chest lifting a bit. I laughed bitterly. “Who would have guessed that the likelihood Ichabod left me would be a comfort.”

  Charlotte smiled. “You loved him. Love him. Of course you’d rather he was still out there in the world, healthy and whole, than that any misfortune befell him, even if it means he left you.”

  She was right, though I had not considered it until then. For his fate to be that of the unknown man dragged from the Hudson, whose body had been picked over and dissected by the women in the market just as much as by the rocks and the fish and the current—that was truly the worst thing I could imagine.

  And so I would not imagine it. I could not. Charlotte was right; we did not know that this man was Ichabod.

  * * *

  Yet later that night, I turned to a new page in my book of stories and spells and wrote the day’s date.

  At the market with Charlotte, we heard some women talk of a body that was pulled from the Hudson. A man’s body.

  I recorded the details of what the farmwives had said, and at the end I wrote:

  They speculated that it might be Ichabod Crane. We cannot know for certain. Yet Mevrouw Douw insists Ichabod will not be found, that he cannot be found, because he was carried off by the Headless Horseman.

  Can it be?

  44

  The Birth

  “Nancy.” She did not awake at my whispered hiss, and so I reached out and shook her gently, feeling slightly guilty for waking her, but knowing I had no choice. “Nancy,” I said, louder this time.

  She jolted awake, blinking in the light of the candle I carried. “Wha…” Her eyes focused blearily on my face. “Miss Katrina,” she said, sleep making her voice leaden. “What do you—” She broke off as she saw that my nightgown was soaked from the waist down. “Lord have mercy,” she cried, leaping up out of the bed. “The baby is coming!”

  “I … I thought so, yes,” I said, my voice ragged with fear. “I woke up all wet, and…”

  “Your water’s broken,” Nancy said. “Perfectly normal. Didn’t Miss Charlotte tell you?”

  “She said it might, but…”

  “No matter now,” Nancy said briskly. “Let’s get you back upstairs.”

  Nancy walked behind me as I slowly made my way up the servants’ staircase. My hair clung damply to me in the June heat, and I was already sweating further out of nervousness.

  “Into the guest chamber with you,” Nancy said, directing me. “Good thing we’ve prepared this room. Now. Lie on the bed and lift your shift. I must see how far along you are.”

  I did as she said, feeling no shame as Nancy parted my legs and probed between them. She had helped me to bathe and dress since I was a child, so I had no sense of modesty where she was concerned. “Shouldn’t you … shouldn’t you send for Charlotte and Mevrouw Jansen?” I asked.

  “When I was a slave on that plantation down in Virginia, I helped my mother birth dozens of babies before you were even thought of,” she said. “And that was before I had my own. Don’t you worry. I’ll get the Jansen women soon enough. They know better than me what potions and medicines you should have.” She peered between my legs and completed her examination. “It’ll be some hours before that baby is ready to leave its nest, you mark my words.”

  But something Nancy said had caught my attention. “You … you have a child?” I stared at her, forgetting my fear and worry. How could it be that I had lived in the same house with this woman my whole life and never known about her child?

  “That’s a sad story, and not one you need to hear while you’re bringing your first into the world.”

  “But … Nancy…”

  “Later,” she insisted. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Very well,” I conceded. “But you will tell me?”

  “I surely will. But now I need you to get up and walk.”

  I stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Walk?”

  “Yes, walk. Pace about the room, like you’re deep in thought about something. It’ll help the babe shift into the proper position.”

  I rose from the bed and obediently began to do as she said.

  “While you’re doing that, I’ll run down and make you some broth,” she said. “You’ll need to keep your strength up. Just keep walking, and if you start to feel different, holler for me.”

  I obeyed and kept pacing the small room as Nancy disappeared downstairs to the kitchen. I heard her let Nox, who had been whining outside the guest chamber door, into the garden.

  I had yet to feel any of the pain I knew came with childbirth—the pain that was Eve’s curse—but knew it was coming. That fear made me increase my steps, as though I could outrun it before it arrived.

  Soon enough, Nancy reappeared with a mug of broth with shredded bits of chicken in it, as well as a thick slice of bread. She allowed me to sit as I at
e. “How you doing, Miss Katrina?” she asked. “All right so far?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. You drink up, and I’ll pop down the street to get Miss Charlotte and Mistress Jansen over here. I’ll not be a minute.”

  “All right.”

  She disappeared again, and I tried not to let my nerves mount. What if I started to give birth now, when no one was here? What would I do? What if something happened, and it all went wrong?

  But before I had even finished my broth, Charlotte burst into the room, Nancy behind her. “Katrina!” she cried. She took my hands. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Perfectly, so far,” I said, smiling at her. “Just nervous. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I’m so glad to be here,” she said. “Though with Nancy I don’t know as I’m needed at all! My mother is off tending to an ailing neighbor,” she said, “or she would be here, too.”

  I smiled at both of them. “I have everyone I need right here.”

  The night was a blur after that. Charlotte instructed me to keep walking, and as I did so the pains began to come, few and far between for the first few hours. All the walking soon began to tire me, so Charlotte and Nancy let me rest for a bit, then made me get up and start walking again.

  As the pains began to come more frequently, they had me lie on the bed again so they could check my progress. “Your body has still not opened enough to expel the child,” Charlotte told me, in her calm healer’s voice. “It will be some time yet.”

  I groaned. “Do I need to walk some more?”

  “Yes, for a bit.”

  I grumbled but obeyed. Charlotte left to fix me some tea of raspberry leaves, to aid in the birthing process and left me to do my paces under Nancy’s supervision.

  Once she returned I was able to sit and drink, then it was back to pacing.

  After another couple of hours, the pains began coming faster. After further inspection, Nancy and Charlotte agreed it was time. “Do not be afraid, Katrina,” Charlotte soothed me. “Nancy and I are right here. This is nature’s way. The pain will be worth it, because it is bringing you a child.”

  Becoming irritable with exhaustion and pain, I wanted to snap at her, to ask her how she, a virgin with no child, could say such things. But I bit my tongue, knowing she was only trying to help.

  They helped me remove my robe so that I lay on the bed in just my shift. I gritted my teeth against another wave of pain. “What … must I do?”

  “You’ll need to push soon,” Nancy said. “But not quite yet.”

  “Push?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte explained. “Push with all the muscles in your lower body to help expel the child. But not yet. Wait until we tell you so.”

  They examined me again, and perhaps another hour passed as I lay in bed, riding each wave of pain that crested over me. Then they began to come faster still.

  “All right, Katrina,” Charlotte said, peering between my legs again. “When the next pain comes, you must push. Push back against it.”

  “How?” I cried, frustrated.

  “Your body knows what to do,” Nancy assured me. She stepped close to the bed. “Here, take my hand, and squeeze it when the pain gets to be too much.”

  I took her hand, and when the next pain came I bore down with all the strength in my lower body. While it did not lessen the pain, it felt satisfying all the same. No doubt this was what Charlotte meant.

  “Yes!” Charlotte encouraged me, from the end of the bed. “Very good. Keep doing just that.”

  I could not say how much time passed as I pushed and pushed against the pain, so that soon I was drenched in sweat and tears as I wept in frustration.

  “Why is it taking so long? Is the baby safe?” I sobbed.

  “This is how long it takes,” Charlotte said. Her calm, which had given me strength before, was now infuriating. “The first child always takes the longest. If you have another, it will likely go faster.”

  I laughed humorlessly. “That will never happen. You know that, Charlotte. I will never bear Brom a child.”

  Charlotte’s eyes quickly skittered up to Nancy’s face. I had no patience or energy for discretion just then, yet it did not matter. Nancy’s face betrayed not a flicker of surprise nor concern.

  “It will not be much longer now, Katrina,” Charlotte said. It was early afternoon by then, or so I thought. I had quite lost all sense of time. “Just keep pushing.”

  I did as she said, gripping Nancy’s hand all the while. “Oh, Nancy,” I said, more tears leaking out as another hideous cramp passed. “I am crushing your hand.” I tried to release her, but she held on firmly.

  “No, you’re not,” she said. “It’ll take more than a little thing like you to break these hard old bones, Katrina Van Tassel.”

  I laughed through the next pain.

  “Push!” Charlotte commanded.

  I was so, so tired; more exhausted than I could ever remember being. But some primal instinct urged me on, so I gathered my strength and pushed.

  “Yes!” Charlotte cried. “Nearly there! I can see the babe’s head!”

  The pain was nearly relentless now, and I pushed back against it just as relentlessly.

  “Harder!”

  With a cry of anguish and frustration I felt a great flood of fluid gush from between my legs, and the child being expelled with it. Moments later, an indignant cry split the air, a baby enraged at being pushed from its warm nest.

  I collapsed back against the pillow, my head thrown back in something like ecstasy.

  “Oh, Katrina,” Charlotte said, and I looked up to see her cradling the squalling, wrinkled, bloody infant in her hands. “You’ve done it!”

  I lifted my head. “Is … the child is well?” I asked.

  Nancy chuckled. “You can hear for yourself it’s got a fine set of lungs.”

  “Perfectly well,” Charlotte said. “It’s a girl, Katrina. You and—you have a daughter, just as you predicted.”

  I lay back again and closed my eyes, tears of relief and happiness spilling down my cheeks. “I knew it,” I sobbed. “I knew it.”

  Charlotte cut the cord and crossed the room to a basin of water. “I shall clean her up, and then you may hold her.”

  While Charlotte washed the child—my daughter—Nancy took some damp clothes and wiped the sweat and salt from my face. “We’ll get you into a bath soon,” she murmured soothingly. “Get you washed so infection doesn’t set in. But first you can hold your baby girl.”

  Charlotte brought her to me, washed and swaddled, and placed her in my arms. I scarcely noticed Nancy and Charlotte removing bloody cloths and checking my female parts, to make sure there was no dangerous tearing or bleeding. Charlotte was speaking to me again, applying an ointment between my legs that she said was to help stop the bleeding and promote healing, but I scarcely heard her. Instead I marveled at my daughter’s face as she settled against me, squirming slightly in her swaddling. When she opened her eyes, they were a brilliant blue, just like mine.

  And just like that, everything I had done in the last year, every decision I had made—no matter how ill-advised or how much it had pained me—was worth it.

  45

  Anneke

  Once the baby and I were both washed, I fed her from my breast, and then Charlotte tucked her into the wooden cradle that Brom had purchased in New York, wrapping her tightly even in the summer heat. I had Charlotte bring the cradle right beside the bed and could not stop myself from craning my neck to peer into the cradle every couple minutes, to make sure she was still there, still breathing, still well.

  Charlotte smiled at me. “She is not going anywhere, you know. And scarcely have I seen a newborn baby so sturdy and healthy. You have nothing to fear.”

  I sighed. “I know you are right, but somehow I cannot make myself stop worrying about her.”

  Charlotte laughed. “I know only what many new mothers have told me over the years, but I do not think that that feeling will ever fade.�
�

  It seemed exhausting to spend the rest of my life worrying about this small, perfect human being. Yet I knew I would do so gladly, would happily watch over her all the days of her life, as she grew from baby to girl and someday, into a woman.

  “And you need your rest, as well,” Charlotte said. “Let me go down and make you some more broth, and then you can sleep.”

  I nodded contentedly, my head against the pillows and my eyes on my baby.

  She left to prepare the soup—Nancy we had sent off to bed so she might rest—and I passed the time staring blissfully at the sleeping face of my daughter.

  “If only your father could see you,” I whispered softly. Tears sprang to my eyes, tears of joy and relief and sorrow and exhaustion. “If only he might someday know what a beautiful daughter he has.

  “If I could wish one thing for you, it is that you might never know sadness,” I went on. “No doubt such is impossible, but I will do everything in my power to make it so that your life is filled with only happiness.”

  Soon Charlotte returned and handed me a bowl of soup. “Eat all that,” she commanded, “and when you’re finished I’ve a cup of tea for you as well. There are herbs in it to help prevent infection.”

  I greedily slurped down the soup. I was suddenly ravenous and could not remember when I’d last eaten anything of substance. Once the soup was gone, I accepted the steaming mug of tea.

  “What will you name her?” Charlotte asked.

  I paused and considered my baby’s face again. “I do not know,” I said truthfully. “I have been thinking of it often over the last few months, but have not decided on anything quite right.”

  “No doubt Brom will have something to say about it,” Charlotte said.

  I snorted into my tea. “Who knows when he shall return from New York, and when he does no doubt he will be too busy getting over his disappointment that she is not a son,” I said. “I shall name her whatever I want. Though please God he shall never know it, she is my child, not his.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Well said.” Her smile faded slightly as she studied the sleeping baby’s face. “For her sake, though, I hope he is a loving father,” she said quietly. “Surely it is good for a girl to have a loving father.”