Did she want to get back to the Now or not?
Grimly, she gritted her teeth, pulled off Aaron’s glove, tucked it under her arm, and pried at the horrendously slimy thong knotted around the book. Her fingernails slid in the repulsive goop. It got under them to the point that she would need a scrub brush to get it back out. She gagged more than once. But finally, the damn knot loosened, and she untied the wretched knot and flung back the gross ends of cording.
“I’ll just….” Aaron gestured at the book while Esmie wiped her hands on her leggings in almost atavistic disgust. “Canyou hand me your light? I can’t see anything with it bouncing around.”
“Sorry. Just… ugh.” She handed over her cell phone, then pulled on the glove as if it could retroactively save her from feeling the gooshy grossness she’d just encountered. It had been like trying to dissect a semisolid ball of snot. “What’s it say?”
“Maybe we should take it up to Chad. This writing is really old. It’s a journal, I think. At least, it’s dated entries. That much I can tell just from the format.”
“Let me see, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Help yourself.”
She took the book into her gloved hand—no more touching revolting things, thanks—and turned it toward the light. Spidery, sharply slanted cursive flowed over the page. It almost looked like a foreign language, it was so elaborately written. She could decipher some of the words, but only just.
“Sermon… Light of God… blah blah blah… townsfolk… yada yada….” She muttered under her breath. “Blessed the food… elaborate dinner at… someone’s house? I can’t read the name.” She turned the fragile page carefully with her ungloved hand. “Holy shit!”
“I didn’t expect that to be in there.”
“No,” she said, too excited to laugh. “Look. Van Tassel. That’s one of the names from the story! This is from the right time period! Or at least the right family name.”
“No way.” He sounded ridiculously proud. “Esmie, you really are a wonder!”
She huffed. “I didn’t do this by myself. I wouldn’t have made it down the steps without you, ya know.”
He shifted his feet, which gritted on the cellar floor. “You’d have found a way.”
“No, seriously, Aaron.” She reached out with her bare hand and touched his arm. “Thank you. This is important, and youhelped find it.” She grinned crookedly, and not just because her face was still a little swollen from her faceplant. “Now, let’s take this up and see if Chad can speed read some old cursive and get us out of the Between.”
He shifted his feet one last time, then abruptly held out his elbow to her. She carefully closed the book, tucked it under her arm, and curled her arm through his. And though she wouldn’t have allowed just anyone to do so, she let him lead her like a courtly knight of old up and out of the cellar and into the dim light of day.
7
The group sat in a much clearer area, huddled in a little circle, surrounded by the grazing horses. Esmie had her light on and aimed at the book as she sat next to Chad, leaning against his side while he skimmed pages in the journal. She caught the occasional phrase, but the writing really was too old-fashioned and elegant for her to decipher at a glance.
Chad, of course, seemed to have little trouble.
Finally, after a seeming eternity of him silently reading, he began to read out loud.
“Friday, the Thirteenth of October, 1790. Praise be to God who reigns above, but the Hessian is dead. One of God’s holy men hath found a way to slay he who could not be slain, and his head hath been struck from his shoulders. Even the Unholy could not survive such a dolorous blow.
“O, horror of horrors, his unholy beast rose up from its grievous wounds, the Hessian’s stricken head caught upon a bit of shrapnel on its saddle, and ran away with the dreadful prize, and good riddance. The Hessian shall never again rise to this world. God be praised.
“We could not, however, in all good conscience, deny the fallen enemy a Christian burial. Perhaps in this holy rest, his unholy spirit shall find peace and leave our good land as quiet as it was before he came.”
Esmie sat silent for a moment, absorbing the short tale, her mind working at it, translating the fancy, old-fashioned language into modern English. The Hessian was defeated, but the head caught on some shrapnel on the horse’s saddle. Jesus. What a mess.
“So….” She winced, then tried again. “So the horse… ran away with the head? Am I hearing that right?”
They all turned to look at the horses grazing on substandard grass around them.
“Lightning,” Jerome said, suddenly serious, “have you been holding out on me all these decades? Where is the Horseman’s head?”
Aaron tsked. “Rain would never. He would have taken us to the head if he knew.”
She blinked, sidetracked for a moment. “Thunder? Lightning? Rain? I’m sensing a theme, here, but I don’t?—”
“The Three Storms.” Jerome waited. She didn’t get it.“Big Trouble in Little China.”He waited again. She still didn’t get it. “Girl?—”
