The Heart of the Island
“We trample upon their ancient cities and loot their sacred treasures. We think there will be no accounting for that. There will be no balancing of the books."
“Nearly two hundred years ago, the Rasphuis was a convent before it became a prison for men in fifteen ninety-six,” the white-haired Sergeant-of-the-guard looked over his shoulder at Daan Heppostall.
The Dutch lawyer followed the Sergeant-of-the-Guard up the torchlit stone stairway, his buckled shoe sending a small rat scampering down the stairs. Behind him, two men followed, carrying a short wooden stool and a small writing desk. Each man wore the black prison guard uniform of the Rasphuis, with white-frilled collars and long, thin rapiers.
“Our prisoners shave wood from Brazilwood trees and make a powder used in red pigment for paint in Amsterdam. It keeps the prisoners occupied, and it’s very profitable for the prison,” the Sergeant sounded disinterested, as if he was reciting the words from rote memorization.
“Mr. Van der Sloot does manual labor here?” Daan could not hide the surprise in his voice.
The Sergeant stopped his ascent up the stairs and turned to face the young attorney. Pale blue eyes stared coldly at Daan as the man’s white forked beard surrounded lips drawn tightly together.
“No,” the Sergeant failed to contain the distaste in his tone. “That particular prisoner does not participate in work activities.”
He grunted and placed a gnarled hand on his sword hilt as he returned to his trek up the stairs. They continued the rest of the climb in silence, their heavy footfalls echoing in the long, narrow stairway.
The stairs ended on a small landing containing a single thick wooden door with a barred window no larger than the palm of a man’s hand. Daan watched as the Sergeant unlocked the room with a large iron key and swung open the door.
Daan followed the Sergeant into the dimly lit chamber, illuminated only by the light of a small barred window, ten or twelve feet off the floor. The air in the room smelled of damp, musty stone mingled with the odor of human waste that Daan surmised came from the chamber pot in one darkened corner.
A prisoner lay atop a straw-filled mattress on a wooden cot against the wall, the room’s only furnishing, and he sat up as the small procession entered the room. The man’s bare feet and hands were manacled together and connected with a short length of heavy chain that Daan imagined made it impossible to stand fully upright.
He wore a shirt and trousers that may have once been white but had grayed with the constant grime of the cell. The man’s thinning blonde hair was greasy and clung close to his scalp as he studied them with deep-set blue eyes. He breathed deeply through a nose that was too large for his face and spat a wad of mucus into the corner of the room before turning to grin at the Sergeant with yelling teeth.
“I’d walk over and spit in the chamber pot,” the man raised a manacled hand to a purplish bruise on his cheek as he glared at the white-haired guard. “But it seems I’m a bit clumsy when I try and walk.”
The Sergeant glared at the prisoner as the two guards set the small writing table and chair down in the room.
“Mr. Heppostall is here to prepare your case for the magistrate,” the Sergeant gestured to Daan and then turned to face him. “We will be outside on the landing if you require assistance.”
“Don’t worry, Sergeant, I’ll be on my best behavior,” the prisoner winked at the guards. “But I’ll be sure to call you boys if I need any assistance wiping myself later.”
The Sergeant only grunted as he left the room with the two guards, swinging the heavy wooden door closed behind them. Daan sat down on the stool and withdrew a piece of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill pen which he placed on the writing table. He felt the prisoner studying him, from the tips of his dark buckled shoes to the perfectly clean frill of his circular collar and the shoulder-length curls of the powder-white wig. Daan smiled awkwardly at the man as he shifted the inkwell and parchment on the desk.
“Mr. Van der Sloot, I am Daan Heppostall; the Dutch East India Company has sent me to…,” Daan clasped his hands together to keep from nervously fidgeting.
“I know who you are,” the prisoner leaned forward from his seat on the edge of the bed, letting the light streaming through the small window fall across his homely face. “I requested Mr. Von Drieberg send you specifically.”
“So I have been informed. Mr. Van der Sloot, you are charged with a very heinous crime. The gruesome murder of a young woman, and if you are found guilty, you will hang from the neck until dead,” Daan spoke slowly to be sure the man understood what he was saying. “We have far more experienced lawyers that may be better suited to make your case before the magistrate. I am still apprenticing with Mr. Von Drieberg; my responsibilities have largely consisted of drawing up routine contracts and wills.”
“Mr. Heppostall, I don’t give a rat’s ass about the magistrate, and I think we both know that I am guilty of what I am accused,” Van der Sloot stared fixedly at the young lawyer. “I asked for you because I want you to write down my tale, then I will give you something and ask something of you in return.”
“I…I don’t understand,” Daan looked at the prisoner in confusion.
“You will,” Van der Sloot sat back in the shadows and leaned against the wall. “To comprehend the reason for my rise and fall, you must understand the island of Lanka, where I have spent most of my adult life.
“I had seen you before, Mr. Heppostall when I was a man of some prominence with the Dutch East India Company. Underneath that wig and white powder, I recognized your features. You are a Dutch Burgher, half Dutch and half Sri Lankan. My guess is your mother was an island girl.”
Daan opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. He studied Van der Sloot for a long moment before he spoke, “Yes, I am a Burgher, and you are correct; my mother is, was, Sri Lankan. She is deceased now. However, I do not see how this has any bearing on your murder of a young woman.”
“Ahh, but it does, young Heppostall. It has everything to do with the murder,” Daan could make out the faint lines of the man’s face in the shadows. “It has everything to do with the murder; it has everything to do with the cause of her death.”
“And why is that, Mr. Van der Sloot?”
Van der Sloot leaned forward, and the sunlight caught a gleam of madness in his eyes, “Because it has to do with the heart of the island.”
“I first set foot on Sri Lanka almost thirty years ago; I was just a lad in my twenties then, but I was already the second in command under Captain Andies Villiers, the Dutch East India Company’s commandant of Mullaitivu,” Van der Sloot’s eyes took on a far off look. “It was a paradise. The Portuguese were gone, the women were beautiful, and we had peace with the island’s Kandyan Kingdom. I was in charge of exports of cinnamon and betel; Captain Villiers and I could have grown rich on that alone. We even shipped elephants to Bengal and Golconda. For use in battle, of all things!”
Daan looked up from his writing and saw Van der Sloot’s look had gone wistful. “However, Captain Villiers had higher aspirations than just riches; he wanted power. Villiers desired real power, and not just in Sri Lanka. He wanted power in Amsterdam.
“So he set his sights on the gemstone trade, and to his credit, we made an abundant trade in tourmaline. Labor was cheaper than harvesting cinnamon, and Europe could not get enough of it. We were making more money than we ever imagined, and the Dutch East India Company could not be more pleased.”
“This won’t last, Van der Sloot,” he told me one night over drinks. “Sri Lanka is too profitable for those fatted calves in Amsterdam to let us keep running things.”
“We have done well here. I told Villiers that if the company moves us, they will send us someplace even more profitable, like India or the Spice Islands. But he insisted that our days in Sri Lanka were numbered, and we would need to secure our financial futures before that day came.”
Van der Sloot laughed mirthlessly and shook his head, “That is when Pieter Crozier came to us. May the Devil take that man for what he started.”
“Who is Crozier?” Daan glanced up at Van der Sloot.
“Crozier was a Dutch Burgher, like you,” Van der Sloot pointed at the young lawyer. “He worked within the Kandyans, in the central area of Sri Lanka. Crozier came to Villiers and me with a fantastic story.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Van der Sloot, I find this all very interesting,” Daan laid the quill down on the writing desk. “But I fail to see how this has any bearing on the murder.”
Van der Sloot’s expression soured, and he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. The chains affixed to the manacles rattled loudly as he moved. “Don’t you worry, Heppostall; just keep writing.”
Daan sighed, picking up his quill and dipping it in ink, “Very well, proceed.”
“In four seventy-two AD, Kasyapa the First, the Sri Lankan king’s son by a royal consort, usurped the throne and became ruler of the Moriyan Dynasty. There was a legend that Kasyapa was aided in the takeover by the discovery of an Alexandrite stone in one of the mines of Rathnapura. The stone was rumored to be as large as a plum and would turn a brilliant green in sunlight and violet-red in the torchlight. However, when Kasyapa held the gem in his hand, it would turn into a cat’s eye, with a band of light running right through the middle of the stone.”
“Kasyapa used this stone to finance the overthrow of his father?” Daan looked up at the disgraced merchant.
“No, son, this gemstone had a magic all its own. It was the heart of the island, and it saw into the soul of Kasyapa, learned what he desired most, and granted it to him. But it also carried a curse.”
“A curse?” Daan eyed the prisoner curiously.
Van der Sloot nodded slowly, “Such powers are not to be trifled with. We are all fools to think we could control such power. The Heart of the Island betrayed Kasyapa, as it did to all who thought they had mastery over it.
“In four hundred and ninety-five, Moggallana, the rightful heir to the throne, made war upon Kasyapa. The king rode into battle on a war elephant with the Heart of the Island embedded in a crown atop his head. The legends say that the cursed stone drove the elephant mad in the thick of the fight, and it fled the battlefield with Kasyapa still upon its back. Thinking their king was fleeing, Kasyapa’s army deserted, and Mogallana seized the throne. Rather than be captured, Kasyapa committed suicide. However, before he did so, he entrusted a loyal servant to bring the stone back to its resting place in Rathnapura.
“The lure of the Heart of the Island was too great for the servant to part with, and he secreted it somewhere within the old fortress on top of the Sigiriya rock. The servant took its location to the grave, and its hiding place remained a mystery.”
“Until Crozier?” Daan looked up, proud of his deduction.
“Until Crozier.” Van der Sloot nodded appreciably. “The man was accompanying merchants to a Buddhist temple on Sigiriya when he stopped to draw water from an octagonal pool with a raised podium in its northeast corner. As he filled his waterskin, the strap snared upon a stone at the podium’s base, just below the water line. While freeing the waterskin, Crozier dislodged the rock and found it intentionally hollowed out.
“Crozier reached into the hollowed space in the podium, and his fingers ran over something large and round but with facets, not smooth like a stone. When Crozier withdrew his hand, he saw through the water it was the largest Alexandrite gemstone he had ever seen. He feared taking it from the water lest one of the merchants or Buddhist monks spy what he discovered and seize it. So he replaced it in the hollow and covered it with the stone so that he could return for it.”
“Did Crozier sell you the Heart of the Island?” Daan was reluctantly beginning to find himself caught up in the tale.
“Not exactly,” Van der Sloot shook his head. “He wanted to partner with Villiers and me to use our company contacts to sell the stone in Europe, perhaps to one of the royal families. We would split the proceeds evenly amongst the three of us.
“But first, he needed our assistance in retrieving the gem. Sigiriya is deep within the lands of Sri Rajadhi Rajasinha, the Kandyan king. The way is long and fraught with many dangers; carrying the Heart of the Island such a distance would be perilous, even for one as skilled as Crozier. So he needed our assistance.”
“The company allowed you to take soldiers into Kandy?” Daan could not contain his shock.
“Heavens no,” Van der Sloot laughed bitterly. “To do so would violate every treaty we had with the Kandyans. They would we be raiding our forts and burning our garrisons just like they did thirty years ago. The Governor would have had Villiers and I on the first ship back to Amsterdam if we even suggested such a thing.”
“So what did you do?”
Van der Sloot gave him a wry smile and a shrug, “We did it anyway. Villiers selected a dozen of our best men, and we traveled to Sigiriya disguised as merchants. Kasyapa’s palace lies in ruin now, maybe for a thousand years or more, but what a spectacle it must have been in the days. The frescos, the gardens, the Lion’s Gate.”
The prisoner sighed and fell silent for so long Daan began to wonder if he had fallen asleep. When Van der Sloot spoke again, he sounded contemplative.
“The Dutch, the English, the French, the Portuguese, all of us. We think the world is ripe for our taking; we go to lands we have no business in and claim them for our own. Our explorers discover lands inhabited by peoples since the dawn of time,” Van der Sloot laughed mirthlessly. “How do you discover a land where people have lived for millennia?
“We trample upon their ancient cities and loot their sacred treasures. We think there will be no accounting for that. There will be no balancing of the books. Villiers, Crozier, and I should have left the Heart of the Island in its hiding place. We had no claim to such a treasure. In our arrogance, we brought about our ruination.”
Daan studied Van der Sloot quietly and asked, “What happened?”
“We had almost made it back to Dutch territory when we encountered the Kandyan patrol. Villiers feared they would discover the Heart of the Island. A melee ensued as muskets were drawn and shots fired. I would tell you that I fought valiantly beside my comrades, but we are both well past believing I am the hero of any tale. I fell to my knees and hid among the brush until the shouts and firing stopped. When I emerged from my hiding place, I found all the Kandyans and our men slain. Crozier lay dead with a musket ball through the eye. Only Villiers remained alive, albeit just barely. He was shot in the leg and gutted with a sword; I discovered him sitting up against a tree, trying to keep his innards from spilling out — a horrible way to die, slow and painful. We were not the best of friends, but I liked the man, and I sat with him until he gasped his last breath. Then I pried the Heart of the Island from his bloody, clenched fist and left.
“The incident caused quite the uproar on the island. The Governor accused the Kandyans of attacking a merchant party, and the Kandyans accused us of a military incursion into their territory. It was quite the diplomatic roe. I claimed ignorance of the incident and let the blame fall upon Villiers and Crozier as I traveled to the court of the Kandyan king to make amends. The company and the Governor were so happy with my handling of the situation that I received an appointment to handle all of the company’s affairs on the island. In a very short time, I became the wealthiest merchant on the island.”
“And what of the Heart of the Island?” Daan was enrapt in the merchant’s tale as he dipped the quill’s tip into the inkwell.
“I kept it locked away after the Villiers-Crozier Affair; possessing such a treasure would have raised too many questions at a sensitive time. However, I suspected that, like Kasyapa before me, my rise to power came from the stone’s mysterious power. I was just too arrogant to believe that I, too, would fall under its curse.” Van der Sloot stared down at his manacles and ran the thick iron chain through his fingers.
“What evidence do you have that the stone had anything to do with your success in Sri Lanka?” Daan set the quill pen down on the writing table and folded his arms across his chest. “It sounds very logical that someone in your position with the Dutch East India Company on an island such as Sri Lanka would enjoy rich financial rewards. Is it not conceivable that your rise and fall were wholly your own doing and this ancient legend surrounding the stone is a mere fable?”
Van der Sloot leaned forward, his blue eyes slit into a gaze that reminded Daan of a serpent preparing to strike, “I have been a merchant my whole life; you strike a deal when an arrangement is advantageous to both parties. Occasionally, you come across a fool agreeing to more profitable terms for you than for them. Once I came into possession of the Heart of the Island, people always agreed to terms that benefitted me disproportionately, and they did so with a smile on their faces. I do not profess to understand how the stone’s power works, but I believe it is how Kasyapa was able to win the hearts and minds of his countrymen to overthrow a just and righteous king and place him on the throne.”
“So you have no empirical evidence to support your claim. Will you not at least entertain the notion that you were responsible for your success and undoing?” Daan stared defiantly at Van der Sloot. “If you genuinely believed in the stone’s power of persuasion, then why not use it to convince the magistrate to let you walk free? Why continue with this farce of laying the culpability for the murder of a young woman on an inanimate gemstone?”
“Let me be clear with you, young Heppostall,” Van der Sloot’s face contorted into a mask of contempt. “I have never assuaged my responsibility for the crimes committed, and I welcome the final justice of the gallow. It is what I deserve and desire.”
“You said that you wished to ask something of me and, in turn, had something for me,” Daan did not shrink from the man’s withering gaze. “You can tell me what they are now, or I will burn this parchment and leave you alone with your stinking chamber pot.”
Van der Sloot stared at Daan, his blue eyes icy cold. He then slid his hand along the sweat-stained sheet to a hole toward the foot of the bed. His fingers dug inside the hole and withdrew a small folded slip of parchment that he unceremoniously tossed onto the writing table.
“What is this?” Daan picked up the parchment, unfolded it, and scanned the scrawled writing inside.
“It’s instructions on how to retrieve the Heart of the Island from its hiding place,” Van der Sloot whispered, casting a wary eye toward the cell door to catch any guards eavesdropping. “You wanted to know what I would ask of you? Bring the stone back to Rathnapura.”
“And do what with it?” Daan looked from the note to Van der Sloot. “Just hand it to the King of Kandy?”
Van der Sloot shrugged, “Bury it in the ground or throw it in a lake, I don’t know. Just bring it back to Rathnapura before the curse spreads any further.”
“Spreads to who?”
“I don’t know. It could spread to the company, Amsterdam, or maybe the whole republic,” Van der Sloot shook his head at the limitless possibilities and met his lawyer’s gaze. “You wanted to know what I would ask of you; there it is. As to what I would give you, you will have to wait until the end of my tale. We’re almost there.”
Daan looked at the prisoner and saw him, really saw him for the first time. Van der Sloot was a sad, pathetic man -likely insane. At one time, Van der Sloot was one of the most powerful men in the Republic of the Seven United Netherlands; now, he stood accused of an unspeakable crime and faced certain death on the gallows. He picked up the quill pen, blew a deep breath, then nodded for Van der Sloot to continue his tale.
“Her name was Priya,” Van der Sloot gave a sad, wistful smile. “She was the daughter of a pearl diver in Colombo. I know I am not handsome, but I could have any woman I wanted with my wealth except for Priya. We met at the Governor’s estate during a dinner party to celebrate the Christmas holiday; she was a serving girl in the palace and one of the favorites of the Governor’s wife. Her hair was long and black, and her dark eyes peered from a face of perfect, tan skin. I was smitten from the first time I met her.
“I began to court Priya immediately, bestowing lavish gifts upon her and her family. Her father was thrilled at the prospects of a union so high above his family’s station, but Priya only smiled politely and engaged in small talk. I arranged to have her moved from the Governor’s home to work in my estate, which soured the Governor’s wife toward me from that day forward. Priya initially protested until I offered to provide accommodations for her family on the estate, and even then, she only accepted to improve her family’s life.
“One evening, she approached me and asked to speak with me after the evening meal. I acquiesced enthusiastically, thinking I had finally made progress with her affections. That evening I cleaned under my fingernails and ate dinner in my finest coat and trousers. I dismissed the servants early and awaited her by the fireplace with a bottle of wine and two goblets.
“Priya smiled tentatively when she approached me, looking nervously from the bottle of wine to her feet. When she met my eyes, I felt my soul swooning in the darkness of her pupils.”
“Mr. Van der Sloot,” She immediately corrected herself when she saw me open my mouth to protest. “Hendrik. You have been very kind to me and my family.”
“I can do so much more for them…and you if you let me,” I told her as I placed her hands in mine.
Priya smiled and looked away for a moment, staring into the fire. When she faced me again, there were tears in her eyes. “Hendrik, I believe you are a good and kind man, but I am sorry; I need you to understand that I will never love you in the way you desire. I am going to go to my room and pack my possessions. Tomorrow I will return to the Governor’s home; the Governess will take care of all the arrangements.”
“She squeezed my hand and gave me a sad smile as she turned and left me standing agape,” Van der Sloot’s eyes had a far-off look, lost in memories. “My heart was racing, and my mind spiraled as a final desperate thought took hold.”
Daan looked up from his writing, studying Van der Sloot carefully as his voice hinted at madness.
“I grabbed Priya’s arm to stop her from going, and I could see the alarm in her eyes. I asked her, begged her, to allow me one indulgence before she left.”
“Hendrik,” her deep brown eyes looked into my face, and I could see the discomfort this prolonged goodbye was causing her.
“Before you go, let me just show you something. I promise I will not hinder you further if you allow me this kindness.” I let go of her arm and held my hands up in a non-threatening act of contrition.
“Priya sighed deeply and gave me a slight nod of capitulation. I saw her concern and hesitation when I told her what I wanted to show her was in my bedroom; however, I assured her my intentions were only honorable. Even so, she entered the bedroom just beyond the threshold and watched me apprehensively as I worked the lock on the ornate chest on my nightstand.”
Van der Sloot looked at Daan with eyes alight with excitement, “ I will never forget Priya’s reaction when she first looked upon the Heart of the Island. She gasped as her breath caught in her chest and looked incredulously from the stone to me.”
“May I touch it,” Priya reached a trembling hand toward the gem, and I nodded slowly.
Van der Sloot laughed bitterly and shook his head, “In all the time the Heart of the Island was in my possession, I never witnessed the cat’s eye effect in the gem. However, the second it lay in Priya’s gentle hands, I saw that cat’s eye right through the center of the stone. I should have given it to her right there and then and been done with it. We all would have been better off.”
He fell silent after that, and Daan watched as he ran his tongue over his top teeth, lost in thought.
“Priya fell in love that evening. Not with me, of course, with the Heart of the Island. It was no superficial affection like the women of Amsterdam feel toward their beautiful trinkets and bobbles; Priya detected some inner beauty in the stone that intoxicated and consumed her. When I withdrew it from her grasp, she had the desperate look of an opium fiend deprived of their smoke.
“I will admit to you that all manner of chivalry left me at that moment as I spied her desperation for the stone. I told her that if she stayed, if she came to my bed chamber in the evenings and indulged my carnal desires, I would allow her to hold the Heart of the Island until morning. She, of course, agreed.”
Van der Sloot looked up and smiled at the look of distaste on Daan’s face, “I see you think I am a cad, and I can not say that I disagree with you. However, there was little joy in my victory. I shared my bed with a woman who held no interest or affection for me yet lovingly curled her body around that damn stone like a woman suckling a newborn.
“The arrangement caused me far greater trouble than joy. Her father disapproved, so I had to ship him and her mother off to Mullaitivu to work on one of my lesser holdings. The Governess was displeased that I had once again deprived her of Priya’s services and company, and I fell out of favor with the Governor.
“Due to our nightly relations, Priya quickly became with child, and I had to arrange for a merchant acquaintance to take the wretched thing once it was born for fear she would neglect it unto death. She was like a wraith, haunting the halls of my home, devoid of all joy except when holding that damn stone. I soon became as disinterested in her as she was in me.”
“On the night that I told Priya she would be leaving in the morning to join her parents in Mullaitivu, she clutched the Heart of the Island close to her breast and begged to take it. She said the stone belonged to her and she to it. When I told Priya I intended to sell the stone, she flew into a rage. The woman was like a person possessed by a demon. Clawing. Biting.”
Van der Sloot became suddenly quiet, his eyes downcast toward the floor.
“Sir?” Daan’s voice was hushed as he prodded the man to continue.
“We struggled,” Van der Sloot’s eyes looked hollow and haunted when they met the young lawyer’s gaze. “Priya fell. Her head struck the nightstand, and there was a loud snapping noise. Her neck, I think. She just lay there on the floor, hands locked around the stone. Priya’s eyes were wide open, and she stared at me unblinkingly. Her mouth hung open, emitting a horrible keening, a constant wailing sound, with no changes in pitch or pauses for breath — just that ceaseless wail.
“I tried to get her to stop. I begged her to stop. The sound was maddening; I couldn’t think straight. I just wanted her to stop making that terrible noise. I grabbed a pillow off the bed and put it over her face.”
Daan stopped writing and looked at Van der Sloot in shock and horror. The man stared at the floor as if seeing Priya lying there, his arms outstretched, chains and manacles rattling. Then his shoulders slumped in resignation, and his hands collapsed into his lap as he exhaled a long breath.
“I just wanted her to stop. When she finally did, and I removed the pillow, she was gone. Priya’s dark eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling; her mouth hung open in an eternal scream.”
“I told everyone it was an accident, that Priya slipped and fell getting out of bed. The incident would have passed quietly with my connections and money. However, the Governess would not let it rest and insisted action be taken. My money and influence put me beyond even her reach; however, in the end, the company decided re-assigning me was in the best interest of everyone involved. I spent ten years in Bengal and another twelve in Golconda afterward.
“I had opportunities to sell the Heart of the Island a hundred times for incredible prices, but in the end, I could not. Maybe it was guilt over Priya’s death or a sense of the wrongness I committed by taking the gem from the island. I don’t know.” Van der Sloot’s voice trailed off.
“Mr. Van der Sloot,” Daan chose his words carefully. “This written account could be construed as your confession to the murder of the young lady.”
“I know,” Van der Sloot nodded. “I see her almost every night in my dreams. Sometimes I dream that she is in the room with me, or I spot her from very far off, but she is always staring at me with those unblinking eyes, that open mouth, and making that horrible keening noise. Often I wake screaming and covered in sweat. An Irish merchant said they call such a thing a Banshee in his country.
“I finally returned to Amsterdam last year for the first time in almost four decades, a very wealthy and eligible bachelor. Some friends introduced me to the dowager daughter of the Marquise van Eeden, a delightful creature. Emma was a kind and beautiful woman whose only misfortune in life was marrying a Dutch Officer who got himself killed in the Transvaal.
“Our courtship became quite the topic of conversation among the nobility, even in the court of William the Fifth. The wealthy bachelor from the Far East and the even wealthier widow from one of the most powerful families in the Republic of the Seven United Netherlands, we had all the gossiping tongues wagging.”
Van der Sloot pursed his lips and looked at Daans with an expression that the young lawyer took for genuine earnestness, “I loved Emma; I loved her very much. With all I have accomplished across the empire, winning her hand was my most outstanding achievement. She made my waking hours pure paradise.”
“However, once I was alone in the dark,” Van der Sloot’s face was a tumult of storming emotions that Daan could not read. “ My nightmares had gotten worse since I arrived back in Amsterdam. It was as if the further I traveled from Sri Lanka, the more my dreams intensified. Priya haunted my dreams every night, making that continuous horrific wailing noise as she clawed at my sheets, chased me through the corridors of my home, or ransacked my room, searching for the Heart of the Island, I presume. I would awaken in the night shrieking so loud that my throat became sore and hoarse the next morning. I feared explaining my constant night terrors to Emma once we married and shared a bed.”
Van der Sloot sighed and looked sidelong at Daan, “When the day came, our wedding was a spectacle to behold. I spared no expense to ensure that Emma’s every wish was satisfied. It cost a small fortune, but it was worth it to see her radiant smile. The Netherlands had never seen a bride so beautiful, nor will it ever again.
“She delighted at the gasps and envy of the ladies of the court when I presented her with my gift at the reception- the Heart of the Island embedded as the center stone on a necklace of flawless Sri Lankan diamonds. The stone glowed a vibrant violet in the lights of the ballroom as we danced the night away.
“That night, as we slept in our marital bed, I had a terrifying nightmare of Priya’s hands, ice cold and boney, clasped around my ankles, pulling me down into the grave. My hands sought purchase but found only loose dirt, which ran through my fingers as she pulled me inexorably downward.
“I awoke with an overwhelming feeling of dread. As my beloved slumbered next to me, my eyes searched the room in vain for the source of my unease.
“Priya, I know you are here,” I called out. “Leave me be; go back to whatever dark hell births you every night and trouble my dreams no more.”
“My shouting awoke Emma, who sat up in our bed. I turned to comfort her but found myself staring into the milk-white eyes of Priya, her mouth wide open, clutching the Heart of the Island necklace to her breast. She began that terrible keening noise.
“I screamed in terror and covered my ears with my hands, but nothing diminished that horrible sound. I begged Priya to stop; however, when I opened my mouth to speak, I heard that horrendous wailing noise coming from my mouth as well. We sat there in bed, mouths open, wailing-the sound was maddening.
“I forced my mouth closed, grabbed Priya by the shoulders, and began shaking her. She fell back onto the bed, and I climbed atop her and grasped her jaw in my hands to force that fiendish mouth closed. The wailing continued unabated as I felt the bones of her jaws crack and shatter, her teeth tearing the flesh of my fingers as the broken jaw slammed shut. However, that horrible sound rose from her throat like a howl deep within a well. I clamped my fingers around her neck and squeezed with all my might until I felt her windpipe crush inward. The keening turned into a gasping hiss, and I pressed my fingers to her throat until Priya lay deathly still. Exhausted from the nightmare, I collapsed onto the bed and remembered no more.
“The following day, I awoke to a woman’s screams and sat bolt upright in bed to see our chambermaid run shrieking from the room. I looked in shock at my beloved and found my scream joined with the chambermaid’s. Emma lay there with sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, her sweet lips blue, her jaw broken and misshapen. Dark purple bruises ringed her neck where my hands squeezed her breath from her body, and dried streaks of tears ran down her face.”
Van der Sloot fell silent, his tale complete. Daan stared at the words on the page in horrified disbelief. It was a tale of madness.
“You believe this was the doing of the stone’s curse?” Daan did not look up from the parchment.
“I believe it does not matter if it was the stone’s curse or my insanity,” Van der Sloot’s voice came out as a harsh whisper. “I have killed them both, poor Priya and my beautiful Emma; for that, I welcome the gallow.”
“Why me?” Daan looked up at the man. “Why have you chosen me to record this terrible tale?
“I desire for you to be the one who confesses my guilt to the magistrate,” Van der Sloot smiled faintly. “I wanted to give you that satisfaction.”
Daan’s face was a mask of confusion as he stared at the disgraced nobleman.
“Come now, Heppostall, do you truly not know?” Van der Sloot narrowed his eyes at the lawyer. “You are the child I gave away. I gave you to Lars Heppostall and paid him handsomely for his discretion.”
“No,” Daan shook his head. “My mother died giving birth to me. Lars Heppostall is my father; you are a monster and a murderer.”
“I am that,” Van der Sloot nodded. “And in truth, Lars is more your father than I ever was or would have been. However, Priya was truly your mother, and it is only fitting that I give you the gift of seeing her killer brought to the gallows.”
“What you ask of me…” Daan began, but Van der Sloot cut him off.
“What I ask of you is for you to write up my confession to both the murder of Priya and Emma, I will sign it, and you will bring it to the magistrate. Make no mention of the Heart of the Island. When the deed is done, and my neck is stretched on the gallow, bring the stone back to Rathnapura and bury it deep so the curse may end before it brings even greater ruin.”
The rain fell steadily on the cobblestones as Daan watched the guards walk Van der Sloot up the wooden steps of the gallow and place a black hood over the man’s head. A horse-drawn carriage containing the Marquise van Eeden and his wife sat as the only other witness to the execution. Daan caught only glimpses of the grieving parents through the carriage’s curtained windows as the hangman slipped the thick rope noose over Van der Sloot’s neck.
The hangman drew back the lever, and a trap door beneath Van der Sloot’s feet fell away, and the man dropped two feet to dangle in the air. Whether by incompetence or intent, the noose was not sufficiently tight to break Van Der Sloot’s neck when the weight of his body pulled the rope taunt. He dangled in mid-air, manacled feet kicking, as a gruesome gurgling noise called forth from beneath the black hood. The man’s bladder and bowels emptied as his body gyrated, the gurgling lessening and kicks slowing until he hung still.
One of the guards casually released the rope, and Van der Sloot’s body crashed unceremoniously to the ground as the coachman slowly guided the Van Eeden’s carriage from the courtyard. Daan watched as the guards loaded the body onto a gurney and carried it back into the Rasphuis.
He knew that in the days to come, they would bury the body in a potters field in an unmarked grave and without the final sacraments of the church, as was befitting a murderer. Daan’s hand ran over the inside pocket of his coat, reassuring himself that the plum-sized gem remained secreted within as he left the courtyard and the prison behind.
Excerpt of a letter from Daan Heppostall to Lars Heppostall, 1795
Father, having now witnessed the unmatched beauty of Sri Lanka, I am certain Van der Sloot was wrong about the nature of the gemstone. He thought the stone possessed great power but bore a curse of equal strength with it.
The very nature of the stone is intertwined with the island of Sri Lanka. It is, in fact, the Heart of the Island and the magical wellspring of this land’s beauty and majesty. The stone freely bestows great fortune upon all who encounter it. However, the stone expects reciprocity for its gifts, asking only to be restored to the earth to continue its nurturing of Sri Lanka.
Like Kasyapa before him, Van der Sloot became enriched by the stone but reneged in his sacred duty to return it to the land and thus brought about his ruin. If they had freely given the stone back to Sri Lanka, they would have lived out a lifetime of prosperity.
I will endeavor to right the wrongs of these men and restore balance and harmony to the magic that makes this land so unique.
Author’s note:
According to historical records, Daan Heppostall died in Mullaitivu in 1795; there is no accounting of whether this was by misfortune or misdeed. He likely traveled to Mullaitivu to bury the Heart of the Island with Priya rather than in the mines of Rathnapura. Did he succeed before his untimely demise? I offer two bits of circumstantial evidence that he did not.
Firstly, Van der Sloot believed great misfortune lay ahead if the stone was not returned to its resting place within the Sri Lankan earth. Shortly after Heppostall’s death and the disappearance of the Heart of the Island from history, the Batavian Revolution overthrew the Republic of the Seven United Netherlands, the British replaced Dutch rule of Sri Lanka, and the Dutch East India Company, which stood as the most successful company in the world for over two hundred years, went bankrupt, and was dissolved. Curse or coincidence?
The second piece of circumstantial evidence surrounds Lieutenant Friedrich von Drieberg, Commandant of Mullaitivu. Heppostall was apprenticed to Von Drieberg’s father at the time of his encounter with Van der Sloot and his subsequent travels to Sri Lanka.
Nothing suggests that Von Drieberg hand any responsibility for Heppostall’s demise; however, he may have come, at least temporarily, into possession of the Heart of the Island. After a rise in fortunes, Von Drieberg suffered a series of crushing defeats at the hands of the famed Tamil chieftain, Pandara Vanniyan.
Even after the British took control of Sri Lanka from the Dutch, Von Drieberg stayed and continued his pursuit of Pandara Vanniyan. Is it possible that Von Drieberg came into possession of the Heart of the Island, only to have it liberated and secreted away by Pandara Vanniyan? The only existing clue may lie in a line written to Von Drieberg’s paramour in Amsterdam upon his decision to remain under British rule.
My love, I promise you will remain only so long until I have recaptured the heart of the island.
Is Von Drieberg speaking of strategic matters or something more? I’ll let you decide.
All the best,
Jack
Interesting story. I need your permission to use some of your stories in my podcast down the road. I plan to read one story a week from different writers and I wanted to include yours, if you please?
Absolutely brother!