‘It’s my admiration for your husband that brings me here,’ he said, as Creesjie gulped wine to steady herself. ‘Two years ago, I received a letter from him begging for my help. He told me he was being hunted by a demon called Old Tom, which he’d battled across the Provinces. He told me he was fleeing to Batavia and sent funds that I might book passage on a ship and join him. Together, he believed we could finally put an end to this devil.’
Creesjie put her wine down softly, confusion writ plain on her face. ‘That’s not how it happened,’ she said. ‘The demon found us, yes. But we fled to Lille. And that was four years ago, not two. My husband was long dead by the time you received that letter.’
Sander was perplexed. ‘Perhaps he meant to travel to Batavia afterwards, but –’
‘He’d never heard of Batavia,’ disagreed Creesjie. ‘Neither of us had. The only reason I’m here is because Jan Haan summoned me to Batavia after he heard about my husband’s death.’
The predikant’s old face wrinkled, his thoughts drifting into unmapped waters. ‘But he sent for me,’ he repeated stubbornly.
‘Are you quite sure of the details?’ asked Sara.
‘Of course,’ he huffed, annoyed at the question. ‘I’ve read that summons a hundred times if I’ve read it once.’ He looked across to Isabel. ‘Would you fetch it for me, my dear? It’s in my trunk.’ She took a step towards the door. ‘Please leave the book, we’ll have need of it.’
She stared at him with misgiving, earning a reprimanding scowl. Cowed, she lifted the heavy satchel over her head, depositing it with great care on Creesjie’s writing desk.
A moment later, she was gone.
‘After I received Pieter’s letter, I booked passage on a ship to Batavia,’ continued Sander, hobbling over to the desk. ‘But when I arrived, I learned Mistress Jens was already widowed. I assumed it had happened in the city and tried to see you, but you’d already taken residence in the fort. The guards were unsympathetic, and sent me away. They wouldn’t even hear a message, so I set about establishing a small church and asking my congregation to bring me news of the city’s infernal happenings. My investigations had reached an impasse, when a carpenter came to my church for confession. He said that he’d heard a whisper in the darkness calling itself Old Tom. It had bargained with him, offering to make him wealthy in exchange for a few small favours. The carpenter wanted to know if God would forgive him.’
The predikant’s words were so thick with judgement, Sara was surprised he hadn’t choked on them.
‘Was the carpenter’s name Bosey?’ she asked.
‘Something along those lines,’ he replied vaguely, waving his hand. ‘He was lame.’
‘That’s Bosey,’ confirmed Sara. ‘Did he have leprosy when you met him?’
‘No, but that would certainly have been Old Tom’s doing.’ His eyes gleamed savagely. ‘Those who bargain are enthralled to him. If they resist his will, they begin to decay and can only restore themselves by obeying his commands. He uses these blighted creatures as heralds. They’re his foot soldiers.’
Lia fidgeted anxiously. ‘Mama,’ she hissed. ‘We can’t be late for breakfast, Father will –’
‘Did Bosey tell you what favour was asked of him?’ interrupted Sara, gesturing for Lia to quieten.
‘Apparently, Old Tom planned to sail aboard the Saardam, but first it needed to be made ready.’
‘Made ready how?’ wondered Creesjie.
‘He didn’t say. He only told me that Old Tom planned to feast on suffering so great it would nourish him for years, though the carpenter knew nothing more about it.’
Unlatching the satchel, he carefully slid a leather-bound book out of its sheepskin wrapping.
‘That’s a daemonologica,’ said Creesjie, in amazement.
‘What’s a daemonologica?’ asked Lia, approaching the book.
‘A taxonomy of devils,’ replied Sander, rubbing a spot of dust from the cover with his sleeve. ‘It lists their hierarchies, their particular methods of corruption, and how to rid ourselves of them. It’s a witchfinder’s greatest weapon. Everybody in my order keeps their own copy.’
‘I’ve heard King James has compiled a tome of similar purpose,’ said Lia, peering over his bony shoulder nervously.
Sara smiled. Even terrified, her daughter couldn’t resist knowledge.
‘Incomplete and speculative,’ said Sander scornfully. ‘Its conclusions are derived from hearsay.’ He ran a loving fingertip along the spine of the book. ‘Members of my order meet regularly to share what we’ve learned during our investigations, and we scribe this new information into our own books. Every daemonologica contains the collected wisdom of all witchfinders, obtained from several lifetimes spent investigating maleficium. Only the Bible rivals it for wisdom.’
Sander turned the vellum pages of his daemonologica with trembling fingers. Each one was covered in intricate drawings and framed by ornate Latin script. After finding the one he wanted, he stood aside, so they could see it.
The company shied back. Lia made a small gurgle of disgust, while Creesjie instinctively drew the sign of the cross in the air. Even Sara averted her eyes.
The drawing was horrific.
It showed a naked old man with bat wings, riding a wolf with a bat’s head. The wolf was pinning down a young boy and the old man was stroking his cheek with a clawed hand. A ring of cowled lepers surrounded them.
‘Is that Old Tom?’ asked Sara, shivering with disgust.
‘Yes,’ replied Sander.
‘If this thing were aboard the Saardam, we’d know it,’ said Creesjie disbelievingly.
‘This is one of the devil’s many forms, but not the one it’s using currently,’ he said. ‘Old Tom walked aboard the Saardam looking just like one of us.’
‘Are you saying it’s –’
‘Possessing one of the passengers.’
Stunned silence fell upon them.
‘Who?’ asked Sara eventually.
The predikant shook his head. ‘That is what I’m here to determine.’
24
There was a knock on the door as Isabel returned with the letter, which she handed to Sander. He immediately gave it to Creesjie, who was staring out of the porthole in thought. Sara’s head was bowed with fierce concentration over the picture of Old Tom.
Creesjie unrolled the letter gingerly, as if afraid something sharp would fall out.
Upon reading its contents, her face hardened. ‘This is my husband’s seal, but not his quillmanship,’ she said abruptly. ‘Pieter didn’t write this summons.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Sander Kers.
‘That you were lured here.’ Sara closed the book with a thump. ‘Something wanted you in Batavia, Sander. And the same thing likely lured you on to the Saardam. Can you think why?’
Shock caused his legs to buckle, forcing Isabel to rush beneath him.
‘I’m the last of them,’ he said, running a hand over his face.
‘The last of whom?’
‘My witchfinding order,’ he said. ‘After Pieter died, they started … there were accidents and murders. Some of them disappeared, but … I’m the last now. I’ve been hiding for years. I changed my name and abandoned my vocation to become a predikant.’
‘If you were hiding, how did this summons find you?’ wondered Creesjie.
‘My order travelled extensively, so we’d send all our messages to a church in Axel. We knew to stop by there every few months to check them. That’s where I found the missive from Pieter, but only those in my order would have known to leave it there.’
‘My husband was tortured before he died,’ said Creesjie painfully. ‘It’s possible he relinquished the name of the church.’