The Orphanmaster (28 page)

Emily shook her head. “I merely executed what you told me.” It had been the strangest commission she had ever received, on a surface she had never tried. She could not understand to what use the final product might be put.

With a shiver she recalled the gentleman coming to her with the job. She welcomed the work, any work, and was extremely adaptable as to subject. She could not afford to be picky. These were like miniatures, and she had done miniatures many times before.

What troubled her was the trance that the gentleman entered into when he described the pictures he wished Emily to paint upon the individual pieces of glass. In a spill of words he described fangs, glaring eyes, fierce claws. His respiration became rapid, his eyes glazed over.

But he had promised her a full guilder in advance, and another upon completion of the work. Not seawan, either, but real coin. Now he seemed quite happy with the result, and carefully reinserted the slides into their slotted box.

“You will come to see your pictures displayed?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” Emily said. “I have Mother.” She indicated the lump of blankets on the bed.

“Perhaps it is better,” the gentleman said. “You will speak to no one about this.”

A command, not a question. Emily reached out and patted the man’s
breast, smiling a desperate smile. “Is there anything else I could do for you?”

The impulse seemed an inexperienced stab at the coquettish, the effect, the exact opposite. The man reached hurriedly into his purse. “Thank you, no. I must leave.”

“I don’t know if you saw,” Emily said. “The image of the Lord Christ Our Savior?” She tapped the open box, indicating the last painted-glass slide in the bunch.

“Yes?”

“I rendered him with your face.”

He gave her two guilders instead of one. She looked at the gold in her hand and impulsively reached out to embrace him, smearing his cheek with an awkward kiss.

The gentleman appeared horrified. Grabbing his little box, he fled down the rickety stairs as though he were pursued by the very demons Emily had painted upon the rectangles of glass.

A
et Visser liked to visit the work yard on High Street, behind Missy Flamsteed’s taproom on the Strand. He’d pass out dried fruit, talk with his wards, attempt to convince the ones who were not under his authority to come inside the fold. Sometimes he brought his strange half-indian companion, Lightning, with him, other times other men in scarlet heels.

Tibb Dunbar, also known as Gypsy Davey, made himself scarce during such visits. He counseled his High Street followers to do the same.

“They ain’t no friends of ours,” he growled, talking about Visser, Lightning, adults in general, scarlet-heeled or not.

Not all boys listened. An orphan child named Dickie, sickly and meek, newly arrived in the colony, did not know enough to wipe the dirty snot off his face, much less how to negotiate the perils and pitfalls of a parlous world.

Dickie was seen leaving the work yard with a gentleman who some said was Aet Visser and who others swore was the half-indian Lightning. It didn’t matter. The two of them, the orphanmaster and his shadow, who all the orphans called “the Crease” for the ugly runnel on his head, were thick as twins.

“They probably promised him a Christmas gift,” Tibb Dunbar said, taking a deep suck on his pipe. “We won’t be seeing little Dickie again.”

And they didn’t.

Sinterklass—Santa Claus or Saint Nicholas—came to New Amsterdam in early December, arriving with a ship that sailed all the way from Patria laden with toys and other gifts. Children laid out their shoes on the hearth the night of December fifth. The next morning, they would find them filled with nuts, sweets and, for a fortunate few, gold coins.

Sinterklass himself rode slowly down the Broad Way and along Pearl Street on a stolid white mare, fairly gleaming in his long, draping robe, pearly beard and tall red bishop’s hat and miter, brandishing a golden
crosier with a curled top. He had apples for everyone, hard candy, frosted nuts.

But these treats were only a precursor to the grand feast celebrated the following day, December sixth, when wealthier colonists served roast goose and potatoes and
kool slaw
drenched in vinegar and melted butter. Sinterklass was the patron saint of children, doling out gifts to the well-behaved, though everyone got their share regardless of how naughty they had been.

Each child knew the story of the three little orphans during a terrible famine, how a malicious butcher lured them into his house, slaughtered and carved them up, then placed their remains in a barrel to cure, planning to sell them off as ham. Saint Nicholas resurrected the three boys from the barrel by his prayers, bringing the orphans magically back alive through the power of faith.

The spirit of the season ruled New Amsterdam between the Feast of Sinterklass on the sixth and
Kerstydt
, Christmas, on the twenty-fifth. The director general, who made clear his disgust with any drunken carousing during the holidays, yet made his Great House ablaze with candles and invited colonists in to dance in the entry hall.

But the mood this year was on the whole muted. Murder dampens the spirit.

Young Peer Gravenraet had only recently reached the age when he could be about outside after dark, at least in his home neighborhood of Beaver Street. The family lived in a new three-bay house overlooking the canal, with two proud chimney stacks. Passing his twelfth birthday gave the son of Femmie and Aalbert Gravenraet the freedom he coveted. During the day, his parents allowed him the run of the settlement, river to river, palisade to strand.

And then, suddenly, just this holiday season when it would have been so great to roam wild, the newly earned freedom was withdrawn. His mother sat him down.

“Peer, my darling, your father and I are going to say, just for now, that you must remain close to home,” Femmie said.

“Why, Mother?”

Femmie looked at him sharply. He was not yet of the age where he could ask why.

“There are evil doings in the colony, things you know nothing about,” Femmie said.

Things Peer knew nothing about? Of course, he knew everything about everything. His mother didn’t know half what he knew.

“Children have gone missing,” Femmie said. Yes, yes. The Imbrock boy, so stupid he wouldn’t be able to find a button on a shirt.

“An indian demon is abroad,” she continued. I know all about that, too, Peer thought smugly. The witika. Whoo-ooo! Peer owned a penknife. He’d like to see the witika try anything on him.

Then Femmie said, “A witch lives within the palisade.” Hello. What’s that all about? Peer needed to know more, much more, such as what was the woman’s name. A witch! He’d like to get some of his friends together, they would go make a visit, toss some stones at her window, get her to show her long-nosed face.

Kidnappings, demons, witches. That was that, as far as Femmie and Aalbert Gravenraet were concerned. Peer’s roaming privileges were curtailed.

“It is only for now,” Femmie said, attempting to tamp down her son’s tendency toward rebellion.

He thought to argue. I am not an orphan, Peer could have told Femmie. The witika takes only orphan children. So how am I in danger?

He knew what would happen if he raised that objection. A hard-knuckle rap on the head, and an admonition not to talk back to his elders, who knew better than Peer did.

It seemed all the mothers had conspired to rein in their children. Peer’s friends had the “talking to” also. None of them had the freedom any longer to go abroad after dark.

“Mother?”

“Yes, Peer?”

“May I still go to the Kerstydt Eve pageant? It is just down at the Stadt Huys. I told Rem we would go together.”

“You will go with me and your father.”

No appeal. Peer would not be allowed to dash freely through the meeting-hall after Roose van der Demme. No horseplay. He’d be under the thumb—and within reach of the hard knuckles—of his parents.

“There is to be a fright show of the Devil,” Peer said.

“Who told you that?”

“The crier said it.”

Oyez, oyez,
Peer heard the town crier call that noonday,
a Christmastide entertainment in the Stadt Huys, come one, come all, at evening drumbeat
.

“Well, maybe there will be, and perhaps good boys who behave may see it, in order to have some sense scared into them. But no roistering about. Promise, Peer?”

“I promise, Mother.”

So it was not until Christmas Eve that young Peer ventured out of doors after dark. The sky over the great bay to the west held the last fading light. Stars winked on overhead. Crowds of settlers streamed toward the Stadt Huys. Snow settled on the peaked rooflines.

Peer blew out his breath, experimenting with the various ways it frosted in the cold air, and tugged his parents forward. He was overjoyed to be out. He had the feeling of urgency, of a great event unfolding.

Hurrah for Christmas! He is born!

No wind, but the colonists beside Peer still cupped their hands around their tapers as they proceeded down Beaver Street, merging into another current of people at Pearl. The men wore heavy fur muffs and the women warm capes with close hoods. As families left their dwelling-houses to make their way to the Stadt Huys, Peer could see inside their rooms, a flickering golden light of many candles.

Dogs ran wild, snuffling the new snow and barking at the holiday commotion. The Stadt Huys loomed above Peer, a thousand stories tall.

First, the carolers. A Christmas hymn. Then a Bible homily, “Joy in Our Hearts,” Isaiah 9:2–4, Titus 2:11–14 and Luke 2:1–16. A segment of a passion play, acted out by characters in costume.

“The time has come,” intoned Wilhelm Ruden, dressed as Lord Jesus, “for the lamb to return to Jerusalem to accomplish that which has been foretold.”

As the Christmastide pageant proceeded, the great Stadt Huys meeting-hall became close, its air clogged with tobacco smoke and
human exhalations. Three-legged stools had been arranged near the mammoth hearth, where a yule log the size of an ox smoldered.

It seemed as though all of New Amsterdam were there. The women’s cloaks dragged on the floor as they composed themselves, and the men sat squarely, their hats in their laps. Most were a bit sleepy, having overindulged on the day’s slices of venison, stews of hare and roasted sweet potatoes, with well-crusted bread and rich, dense cheeses to accompany it all.

Aet Visser, for one, drank too much gin at the Lion before meeting with Anna to escort her and the children to the show. To Anna’s discomfort, Lightning accompanied Visser. Kees Bayard stood at the back of the hall. Martyn Hendrickson leaned against the wall beside him, his glittering eyes surveying the audience.

In the crowd, Martyn picked out Polish laborers and Swedish artisans. A small clot of Africans, attending with a few friendly Canarsie
wilden
from Long Island. The Godbolt family. Martyn could see the girl Hannie, the one who had relayed stories of the witika in the clearing in the woods. And Maaje de Lang, accompanying the soon-to-be-wed Elsje Kip. Off in the far corner, looking typically supercilious, Edward Drummond, sitting so as to display his green-stockinged legs.

Set thy best foot forward
, recalled Martyn, thinking of the “which one?” jokes current in the colony.

Beside the Englisher, Blandine van Couvering, veiled and hooded, since at present she was in bad odor in the community. A face that pretty, thought Hendrickson, should not be obscured. Her figure, too. Strong as a pony with good little muscles.

Also in the audience, orphans. They had been much on the colony’s mind lately, and the room was full of them. The twins, Sebastian and Quinn Klos. Waldo Arentsen, a little towheaded boy. The silent one with the Godbolt children. Tara Oyo sitting among the Africans. Dirty-faced Laila Philipe, beside her fellow foster-child Geddy Jansen. Yes, and the child-rogue they called Gypsy Davey.

The passion performance finished up, with Wilhelm-as-Jesus proclaiming, “If any would come after me, he must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me. For whoever wants his life will lose it, but whoever
loses his life for me will find it. What good is gaining the world, if you lose your soul?”

Well, thought Martyn, the good is, you have the world.

Dominie Johannes Megapolensis assumed his place in front of the audience. “Satan!” he shouted. The chatter of the crowd immediately died.

“The Devil,” Megapolensis continued in his stentorian tones. “Beelzebub. Lucifer. Accursed Dragon. Old Scratch. Old Harry. Foul Spirit. Master of Deceit.”

The dominie glared around the huge hall, raising his arms. “I would like to introduce you to the Evil One tonight, since this is the black night before the birth of him who slays all evil, Our Lord Jesus.”

“Amen,” murmured members of the audience.

“Please snuff your candles,” Megapolensis said. “Go ahead. For the Prince of Darkness will only appear in darkness.”

The room dimmed as one after another the tapers were extinguished. The women blew out their candles, whereas the men pinched the glowing wicks between their spit-wet fingers. Claus van Elsant, funeral caller principally but the colony’s jack-of-all-trades, went around to each of the hall’s oil-lamp sconces and cupped them out.

The only light came from the hearth, and the embers of the dying yule log, which had been burning since mid-December but was now nearly consumed. A child whined and was shushed. The muffled sounds of two hundred human souls could not fully dispel the darkness.

They were already frightened, and the show had not even begun.

“Have you seen him in your dreams?” the dominie intoned, a voice in the night.

The black dark, complete. Suddenly, against the white plaster wall that faced the hearth, a shimmering image. A crimson-colored face, black scowling eyes, horns growing from the scalp like knife blades.

A woman—Gertrude Pont—screamed. Low moans.

The image flickered out. Darkness again. A frightened murmur rose from the crowd. Had they just seen what they thought they had seen? Had the Old One actually appeared among them?