POE MUST DIE (48 page)

By tradition seconds place one knee on the ground, with the other knee upraised for the fighter to rest on between rounds or while recovering from a knockdown. On Larney’s orders, Thor was taking his rest. Larney moved to stand behind Thor, a hand on his broad, sweaty shoulders, his lips close to the Negro’s ear. Both men smiled across the ring at Figg, who thought
damn them.
If they think I am to worry about what they say to one another, they got another think comin’. I could die here tonight but I’m dyin’ like a man. Like an Englishman. With pride.

“Time!”

Figg rose from Barnum’s knee, shuffled forward, both arms extended stiffly towards Thor. When both men reached the line drawn in the dirt cellar floor, the umpire yelled, “Commence fighting!”

Thor jabbed quickly with his left, his long reach making Figg lean backwards and, with Figg off-balance, Thor put his head down and charged, butting Figg in the stomach, knocking the wind from him and then the Negro had Figg’s arms pinned to his side, squeezing, threatening to break them.

He lifted Figg in the air and hurled him to the ground, throwing his own body after him, trying to crush Figg’s chest with his 250 pounds. Using instincts learned long ago, Figg rolled clear; Thor missed him by inches.

But Figg was hurt.

His arms ached, his chest felt on fire. The crowd roared and Figg struggled to get to his feet. He was on his hands and knees, trying to clear his head. Two umpires and a timekeeper struggled to keep Thor from kicking him while he was down.

Behind a dazed, pained Figg, Bootham yelled, “Up Mr. Figg! Please get up, sir!”

Figg tried to push himself up and collapsed. He lay open mouthed on the ground and tasted dirt.

*     *     *     *

With only four hours to midnight, Jonathan prepared to summon the spirit of Justin Coltman. He sprinkled salt and water, symbols of life, around Coltman’s coffin. Laertes, shuffling like a man almost dead, lit the two white candles, one at the head, the other at the foot of the coffin.

The incense—a combination of opium, hemlock, henbane, wood, saffron and mandrake—was burning in two wooden bowls. Soon Jonathan would wave eleven puffs of it to Qliphoth, the evil spirit of damnation. And there would be the use of the Athame, the ritual knife, to be held in both hands, point up and offered to the four powers in turn, east, south, west and at the north, he would stop.

To the candle burning at the north point of the magic circle, he would offer eleven more puffs of the incense, then touch the northern point of the circle eleven times with the ritual knife. North, the compass point sacred to devil worshippers.

The forces would gather at Jonathan’s command and he would charge and command the spirit of Justin Coltman through the power of Astoreth, Demon of Death and Lord of the Flies, of Loki, Qliphoth and Satan, all of whom would be ordered to return the body of Justin Coltman to this earth from whence it came.

It was then that Justin Coltman would speak to Jonathan, telling him where the grimoires could be found, the grimoires that would lead the magician to the Throne of Solomon.

Speak and tell me what I want to know.

Yes, there was the matter of the sacrifice, but that was easily taken care of. Asmodeus’ challenge had been a pitiful one, one simple to deal with. Jonathan had projected his mind to Rachel Coltman, giving her a strong reason for leaving her home immediately and coming to Jonathan.

Rachel Coltman was more drawn to Poe than she would admit and Jonathan, ruthlessly using that weakness, sent Poe’s image to her. He let her hear Poe’s voice. To Rachel’s mind, disturbed by her kidnapping by Hamlet Sproul and by the shock of learning that Paracelsus was indeed the murderous Jonathan, the projected image of Poe was quickly and easily accepted as the writer himself.

She heard and saw Poe in her bedroom. It was Poe who ordered her to get a carriage and team of horses and come with him to an abandoned barn where she would see Justin Coltman
alive.

It was Poe she believed, but it was Jonathan she obeyed.

*     *     *     *

The wine had been drugged; he sensed it more than knew it for certain, for Poe was now in a world that he had dreaded all his life, a world that he did not want to focus on. Was he buried alive? Had it happened to him again?

He was in darkness, musty smelling darkness and his mind fought to cling to sanity. What did he remember? The note from Muddy saying come quickly, she needed his help and Poe had gone with the man who’d brought the note to the boarding house, a man claiming to be a farmer in Fordham, employed at the nearby college of Jesuit priests.

Poe, edgy about tonight’s duel in which Figg was risking his life in Poe’s stead, had naturally followed the man from the boarding house. Yes, he remembered that much. Then he’d climbed into the carriage, wondering if he could get to Fordham then back into Manhattan in time for the duel. Someone, no it was two men. Yes two men had forced him to drink wine, held the bottle to his lips, holding his nose so that he had to open his mouth and the bitter taste of the wine had told him it was drugged.

He’d heard Hugh Larney’s voice, then turned to see the man’s little face. After that, there had been blackness. For a brief moment or two, Poe had been conscious and he’d seen Dearborn Lapham sitting across from him in a carriage, a smirking Hugh Larney beside her. Then it was into darkness and distance again. Had Poe died?

And now his mind tormented him. The darkness would not leave and he cried out against it. He saw Jonathan’s face, the face of Valentine Greatrakes and he saw Rachel lying dead while beasts tore at her flesh. The drugged wine claimed him and he passed out.

Passed out in a coffin buried two feet under the earth in a cemetery directly across from City Hall.

*     *     *     *

Merlin held the bottle of water to Figg’s swollen lips. Barnum, whose knee was being used as the boxer’s chair, wiped blood from a cut around an almost closed left eye.

“Twenty-three rounds, Mr. Figg.” The showman frowned with worry. “That left eye of yours is all but closed, I fear. The colored has gone after it with a vengeance, the bastard.”

Figg’s chest heaved. “Doin’ what I’d be doin’, if I was in his black skin.”

Titus Bootham was close to tears. “Let me throw in the sponge, Mr. Figg. You have taken enough punishment for Poe, who is not decent enough to come here tonight and support you. He has no right to carry your colors, sir.”

“I ain’t quittin’. Never quit in me life and ain’t of a mind to now. All I got left is what I am as a man. You throw in the sponge and you are no friend of mine.”

The tears rolled from Bootham’s eyes as he gently wiped Figg’s face. “Yes sir. I-I had no idea it could be like this. The blood, I mean.”

Figg’s smile through swollen, bleeding lips, was hideous. “Always been that way, mate.”

“Timer
!
”

Figg pushed himself off Barnum’s knee, forced his one good eye open as far as he could and limped forward to meet Thor. The colored had given him the worst beating of his life. Worse, Figg had never hit a man so many times and not have him go down. Thor had taken Figg’s best blows, most of them to the body and still he was on his feet, strong, aggressive. Like now.

Thor threw a right uppercut that barely missed Figg’s jaw, then brought his huge left fist straight down as though it were a hammer, missing Figg’s head but hitting his shoulder and sending him staggering sideways.
Panic.
The blow numbed Figg’s shoulder for a few seconds; he could lift the arm but there was no power in it. All he could do was back away, keep out of range of those long, powerful arms.

Thor jabbed with his left. Figg leaned away, then ducked under it, hooking a right into the Negro’s side. The punch had nothing behind it; the shoulder was still numb. Figg rushed him, grabbing Thor around the waist, trying to lift him from the ground and thrown him down.
Panic.
Thor was smiling down at him. Figg hadn’t moved him.

Thor brought his knee up into Figg’s groin and a series of harsh and blinding white lights exploded in the Englishman’s head. The pain was searing, speeding from his groin to his head and back again and Figg fell forward to the ground.

Dimly, he heard Barnum and Bootham yelling “Foul!", heard the Britons in the huge cellar take up the cry. “Foul! Foul! Foul!” Someone threw an empty whiskey bottle and a half-eaten sandwich into the ring.

Figg, still on the ground, fought to breathe. His knees were drawn up to his stomach. Pain squeezed his brain, his stomach, his groin.

And suddenly—from far away, he heard the voices of a chorus of old men. “
YOU
have called. We have come. Celts of old have come.”

Figg rolled over on his stomach, forcing himself to his knees. The roar of the men in the cellar filled his brain and he could not hear the voices of the old men. His one good eye went to a window high and to the right. He saw the moon. Large, round, full and yellow. It seemed to grow right in front of him.

He remembered,
Power grows when the moon grows. When the moon grows strong, all beneath it grow strong.

Show your new money to the moon so that it may grow as the moon grows. Sow crops just before a new moon. Wish on a new moon, bow to it and turn around nine times.

In his travels throughout all of England, Figg had heard these things many times. Old wives’ tales, he’d thought. Superstitions remaining from the days of the ancient tribes, left over from the Druids, a priesthood so powerful that not even Julius Caesar could stamp it out.

“Celts of old have come.”
The sound of the old men once more.

“Mars Cocidius,
” said the old men.
“He is with you. You have called upon him, upon us and we have come. We are we and you are you.”

Mars Cocidius. The Druids and Celts had adopted those Roman gods which coincided with theirs. Mars, the Roman god of war, became Mars Cocidius, god of war for Britain’s ancient tribes. Had Figg called on him for help? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps he had during those lonely, frightened days spent alone in Titus Bootham’s cellar.

Figg could not remember.

Merlin the dwarf poured water into Figg’s mouth. Barnum was shouting something in his ear and Mr. Bootham, little Mr. Bootham was weeping because he could no longer stand to see Figg take a beating. The Englishmen in the crowd had pushed to the edge of the ring, screaming, threatening to kill the umpires, timekeepers, Thor, Hugh Larney and his friends. The situation was ugly.

Again Figg and Figg alone, heard the voices.

“Widdershins, widdershins, widdershins
… ”

Widdershins. The counterclockwise motion used by witches in casting spells. Christianity had outlawed ‘the old religion’ and in retaliation, ‘the old religion’ had declared itself the opposite of all Christianity stood for.

In medieval times, armies marched counterclockwise around a castle before attacking it, the better to work up strength and increase their chances for victory.

Figg pushed himself to his feet, swayed, blinked and tried to focus his one good eye. There was Larney, bloated with arrogance now, accepting the congratulations of his friends on his
victory
and there was Thor turning to him and grinning. On their side of the ring, men cheered, whooped, drank and jeered at Figg. The betting in the cellar had gotten out of hand; Larney had increased his wager to $100,000 in gold and the English, in the heat of patriotic fever and a hatred for the Americans, had matched the bet among themselves.

Widdershins.

“Be it as your faith,” said the old men.

Me faith, muttered Figg.

He looked at the moon. As he did so, the pain in his body seemed to ease. Suddenly there was some sight in his left eye and the right eye was fine. Perfect. He blinked. He could lift his right arm.

“Time!”

Figg looked into the moon once more, then limped forward to meet a supremely confident Thor.

Widdershins.

Figg limped to his left. Counterclockwise.

Thor stalked him.

*     *     *     *

Rachel felt secure, safe. She sat in the carriage beside Eddy, dear Eddy and soon she would see Justin once more. Eddy had done this for her, he had made it possible for her to see Justin again. Both men were so dear to her; how fortunate she was to have them in her life. She felt peaceful now, rested. There was nothing to worry about.

The carriage rolled slowly, steadily through the moonlit night, along snow-covered roads, through woods, over low hills and across flatlands.

Towards Hugh Larney’s abandoned farm.

Towards Jonathan.

And a mesmerized Rachel, not knowing she was in a trance, sat contented beside an apparition.

*     *     *     *

Poe awoke. He was still in darkness. And there was the dampness around him, the stale air. The coffin lid. He kicked it, punched it, cursed it.