Krampus: The Three Sisters (The Krampus Chronicles Book 1) (10 page)

One of the attackers was a red-faced McNutt, fuming as he struggled to keep Henry from slipping away. Maggie couldn’t see the Garrison who had her hands pinned behind her back, but out of the corner of her eye, she read the name
Cromer
on his polished nameplate.

“We’ve got them,” Cromer grunted.

Out of the darkness, another figure emerged. But it wasn’t a Garrison or even a Foundling. Instead an elderly woman walked forward, hands folded together. Her face wore a firm expression.

“These are the intruders, Madame Welles,” said McNutt. His voice held a faint Irish accent. “Shall I get Castriot?”

Madame Welles looked at Henry and then Maggie. The woman’s short gray hair was feathery and her face only slightly wrinkled. She was tall with broad shoulders, appearing to be around Grandfather Clement’s age. And she looked just as domineering, if not more so.

“No,” she replied sharply. “Bring them to the workshop first.”

aggie and Henry were led down another stairwell in what felt like an endless maze. Eventually, they entered an industrial-styled space the size of the banquet hall. There were long tables covered in all sorts of curious tools and materials, including metal springs, buckets of paint, wooden shapes, and glass figurines.

But neither Maggie nor Henry had the chance to study all the clutter before being tossed through a crooked doorframe. McNutt and Cromer tried to follow, but Madame Welles cut them off.

“I’ll take it from here, gentlemen,” she said, sliding between the Garrisons and slamming the door closed before they could argue.

A desk took up most of the room’s cramped quarters. The only window was located on the door where Maggie could see McNutt staring intensely from the workshop. Although she wanted to hate McNutt for punching Henry, after listening to how the other Garrisons made fun of him, Maggie felt somewhat sorry for the redheaded young man.

Madame Welles nodded to a pair of chairs stuffed between the desk and wall. “Take a seat,” she directed, closing the blinds on the door and vanishing McNutt’s face.

“Excuse me, but I have been assaulted by one of your men,” Henry said, crossing his arms. “My friend and I arrived here after following a boy who had broken into her home. We never intended any trouble, and quite frankly, are not even aware of where we are. So if you could just show us how to leave, we will be on our way.”

Madame Welles stared at Henry, blinked a few times and then firmly said, “Sit.”

Something about her tone caused Maggie and Henry to stumble around the desk and slip into the chairs without further questions.

“Now explain who you are and what you are doing here,” Madame Welles said, wringing her hands. “And do so as quickly and concisely as you can.”

Maggie and Henry disclosed their night, from spotting the burgundy-coated boy in the Great Room to following him down the ash pit and through the sleigh tunnel.

“And where exactly are you two coming from?” Madame Welles asked.

“Chelsea Manor.”

Madame Welles gasped. “Are you related to Clement Clarke Moore?”

Maggie hesitantly nodded. “He’s my grandfather.”

Madame Welles promptly turned her attention to Henry. “Henry, is it? Henry what? What is your last name?”

“Livingston.”

For a brief moment, Madame Welles appeared like her legs might buckle underneath her. She stared at Maggie and Henry as though they were ghosts.

“What happened after you got to the Sleigh Pit? Who did you see? Or more importantly, who saw you?”

They talked about McNutt punching Henry in Myra Lane and then spying on the Garrisons in the tavern. But they didn’t share what they had heard the men discussing.

“And you saw Castriot?” Madame Welles asked. “But he didn’t see you?”

“Yes. At least I believe it was him,” Maggie replied. “The man they called Castriot had a black beard. And he was quite angry. He threw a glass against a wall.”

Madame Welles sighed. “That was indeed Castriot.”

“Could you just tell us where we are?” Henry pressed.

Madame Welles folded her hands together. “You two have discovered Poppel, Mr. Livingston.”

Maggie and Henry stared blankly at the old woman.

“Nikolaos of Myra founded the original settlement in Belgium. But Poppel eventually relocated to Manhattan in the seventeenth century when Annette Loockerman came to America and married a Dutchman named Oloff. And this underground settlement thrived independently until about thirty years ago.”

“And how exactly are these names and dates relevant to us right now?” Henry asked with annoyance.

But Maggie was intrigued and wanted to hear more. “Who are Annette Loockerman and Nikolaos of Myra? And what happened thirty years ago?”

“Clement Clarke Moore’s poem happened,” Madame Welles stated.

“It wasn’t his poem,” Henry snapped, but Madame Welles and Maggie ignored him.

“How do you know about my grandfather?”

“I have never met Clement Clarke Moore. But I knew your grandmother, Catharine,” Madame Welles said and then turned to Henry. “And I presume Sidney Livingston was your father.”

Madame Welles finally had Henry’s full attention. Maggie watched his jaw tighten. “How did you know that?”

“Catharine and Sidney used to visit Poppel with Catharine’s daughter, Margaret. That was before Clement Clarke Moore published the poem. And yes, Henry, I know―Major Henry’s poem,” Madame Welles added, anticipating his retort. “But it really doesn’t matter who wrote it at this point. What matters is that it entered into the public eye, and confirmed already established suspicions. We had struggled to stay hidden, but once the poem came to light, it didn’t take long for us to be found. The city officials knew we were able to get in and out of houses, but it wasn’t until the poem that they made the connection to fireplaces and Christmas Eve.”

“Madame Welles,” Maggie interjected. “I truly do not understand any of this.”

Madame Welles sighed. “Oh, I suppose I’ll have to start at the beginning. But I must make this quick.”

Maggie and Henry exchanged uncertain glances.

“Very long ago there was a good man named Nikolaos of Myra who lived east of the Mediterranean Sea. He was a kind and generous bishop, known for his particular concern for the wellbeing of children and women. There were three young sisters named Grace, Sarah, and Lily whose father was very poor and unable to provide them with a dowry to be wed. He was going to sell Grace, Sarah, and Lily into slavery, but before he could, each daughter mysteriously received a bag of gold.”

“From the bishop?” Henry asked.

Madame Welles nodded. “The gold was meant to liberate the sisters. But the sisters soon realized that the cruel men they were set to marry were no better than enslavement. And this is where Nikolaos of Myra gave the sisters true freedom.”

Captivated by the story, Maggie leaned forward and rested her elbows on the desk, cupping her face in her hands.

“Nikolaos was a skilled seaman. He helped the sisters escape by sailing them across the Mediterranean and then up the Atlantic Ocean before finally settling in Belgium where they founded the village of Poppel. Nikolaos of Myra became known as Nicolas Poppelius, and he and the sisters focused on assisting the poor and helpless. However, Nicolas’ whereabouts were nervously monitored by men of great power who did not trust individual charity, believing it undermined the need for people to rely solely on their church, monarch, or government. Nicolas was seen by many as a vigilante with an extraordinary amount of influence, offering things other institutions weren’t providing.”

“So what became of him?” Henry interrupted.

“At the time, there was enormous tension in Belgium and the Netherlands between the Catholics and the Protestants. And Nicolas Poppelius tried diffusing the religious hatred and violence. In 1572, after an attempt to save eighteen Catholic clerics―later known as the Martyrs of Gorkum―from torture and certain death, Nicolas Poppelius was never seen again. Grace, Sarah, and Lily continued to run Poppel until Grace fell in love with a man in the nearby village of Turnhout named Jan Loockerman.”

“Was he related to Annette Loockerman?” Maggie asked eagerly. “The woman who moved Poppel to America.”

Madame Welles nodded. “Jan and Grace had a daughter named Annette who married Oloff Van Cortlandt and reestablished Poppel here in Manhattan.”

“Van Cortlandt,” Maggie repeated. “My grandmother descended from the Van Cortlandts.”

Madame Welles ignored the comment. Maggie didn’t know if it was intentional, or if the old woman just didn’t think it was worth the time to respond. Van Cortlandt was a prominent name in New York but not that uncommon.

“About thirty years ago we were finally discovered and taken over by the Garrisons,” Madame Welles continued, “The Garrisons worked under a special department of the city.”

“But what really happened to Nikolaos of Myra?” Henry asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The Garrisons seemed to think that a man named Nicky―I’m assuming Nikolaos of Myra―could return on December twenty-fifth,” Henry said. “But according to your story, it sounds like he died hundreds of years ago. So which is it?”

“The man who was Nikolaos of Myra has long ago deceased, but the spirit―known by many as St. Nicholas―lives on.”

“St. Nicholas?” Maggie blurted. “St. Nicholas of Christmas? But that’s impossible!”

“Over the years since Annette Loockerman brought Poppel to America, most of the story had turned into myth, but Nikolaos of Myra was never quite forgotten, especially in a new country worried for its own survival,” Madame Welles explained. “Officials had become less concerned about Poppel’s possible existence until a certain Christmas poem immortalized St. Nicholas all over again. Although the traditional lore that has been associated with St. Nicholas is mostly inaccurate, he was still a real man who inspired the stories and whose spirit continues to embody December twenty-fifth.”

Maggie and Henry looked at each other again in disbelief.

“Just so I understand all of this,” Henry said slowly. “Nikolaos of Myra escaped with three sisters to Belgium, established Poppel, and eventually, the daughter of one of the sisters came to America and set up a new underground village. And now the Garrisons have taken over because of Major Henry’s poem. But who exactly are you and the Foundlings?”

Madame Welles raised her eyebrows and placed her hands on her hips, seeming a bit surprised at the amount of terms Henry had already picked up that evening.

“The Foundlings are children brought to live in Poppel, because they had nowhere else to go. In the beginning, they made supplies that were delivered to the impoverished. However, it was difficult to stay undetected. If people were suddenly receiving anonymous gifts throughout the year, our whereabouts could be easily tracked. So it was decided that the year would be spent making these gifts, but they would only been given on one day known for presents and celebration―Christmas.”

“But why are the Garrisons running the place now?” Maggie asked. “Just because of a poem?”

“When
‘Twas the Night Before Christmas
became such a sensation, there was a panic to find whatever was left behind of the great Nikolaos of Myra. It didn’t take long for those in power to discover us. The poem gave them all the needed information―Christmas and the fireplaces. Except Foundlings travel up fireplaces, not down.”