POE MUST DIE

by Marc Olden

  Poe started slowly walking up the stairs. “He makes money because people want to know if what he sells is real or humbug. First he tricks them and then they pay to hear him tell how he did it. Barnum could swindle a man out of twenty dollars and the man would give a quarter to hear Barnum tell of it. I have an intense desire to avoid all eagles in the future, living or dead. Tomorrow the Renaissance Players, I assume.”

  “You assume correct.”

  “Forgive me if I do not join the slaughter.”

  Poe would always remember Figg’s soft, husky voice. “There will be no forgiveness for me until I do what has to be done.”

  Poe, hearing the determination to destroy in the boxer’s voice, continued climbing the stairs, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  That had been hours ago.

  Now Poe, staring up at the ceiling, felt Figg nudge him.

  “Ain’t sleepin’, is you?”

  “With my eyes open? Hardly.”

  “You was so quiet, like you was driftin’ off or somethin’.”

  “Thinking about Barnum, our meeting with him earlier tonight. I know you have those travelling players on your mind, but tomorrow I intend to visit the newspaper where I am employed to see if Rachel Coltman has left a message for me. She has no idea where I am.”

  Figg nodded. “Anything to keep you happy, squire. We do that first thing, then we go to see the play actors. It’s them two what I seen in front of the museum talkin’ with Mrs. Coltman and one other gent. They are gonna tell me how to find Jonathan. After that, they won’t be needin’ to travel anywhere. I saw you tryin’ to write a bit before we went to sleep, but you hid your papers like you was afraid I was goin’ to eat them for me supper.”

  “It is my habit when writing. I desire no audience until a completed work is achieved.”

  “How long it take you to write a poem?”

  “As long as it takes. Which is usually not long. I prefer short works of art, since I am in constant need of money and the quicker I finish, the quicker I can begin the obscene practice of begging people to buy my work.”

  Figg nodded, his head cocked far to the right. He looked down at Poe, studying him carefully. Poe ignored the boxer, his mind on other matters. Rachel. My dearest Rachel.

  Figg said, “She know you love her?”

  Poe eyed him and said nothing. He didn’t want any intimacy with Figg, but at times Poe had the feeling that he had grossly underestimated the boxer’s mind. Still, he continued to push him away. “My private life is none of your business.”

  “Tell her, squire. Tell her before it is too late.”

  “My very own cupid. Did you not promise me you would keep her alive if I aided you in your search for vengeance?”

  “I did promise. But I am only a man, squire, and there is the chance I might fail, might even lose me own life. This Jonathan, he is a man but more than a man. Don’t know if I am makin’ meself clear. I could die in this cold country of yours, so you best make yer peace with Mrs. Coltman and tell her you love her and see what she says.”

  “How do I tell her that she is my last hope, my last chance to be a man, to live and love, and yes, to obtain money enough to start my own magazine.” poe sat up quickly in his bed. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Did you want me to bare my soul to you? Well I have and now please cease to torment me with your questions. If it is no bother to you, and since I cannot sleep, I would like to continue using hotel pen and paper and make some attempt at putting down a few lines in this story which will not leave my head any more than you will leave my side.”

  Figg brightened, “You are really goin’ to work on a story while I watch? Never seen a real writer write before. Always wondered how it was done. What is the story about, squire?”

  “It is a story of revenge and I shall call it Hop-Frog.’ It is a tale of a man abused who strikes back at his enemies, destroying all of them.”

  “Sounds like somethin’ you would like to do, eh squire?”

  Which is why I am writing it, thought Poe. And this brute quickly perceives the truth, that I apply to paper and with bitter precision, all of my darkest fantasies and daydreams, that I write of the life I ofttimes wish were mine. He perceives this.

  Poe swung off the bed, turned up the gaslight and walked away from Figg. Seated at the desk, he began to write as though he were alone in the room. Once he was able to write fifteen hours a day almost without stopping. Now he no longer had heart nor energy to do that. So he wrote when he could and now he wanted to.

  Hop-Frog.

  Yes, Hop-Frog is a dwarf, a jester, a man laughed at and scorned, one whose very life is in the world only so that others may exploit him. But the jester will have his pound of flesh. Hop-Frog will have his revenge. On paper.

  And Foe will become Hop-Frog, getting back at a world which has given him nothing but pain and failure. Poe will have his revenge. On paper.

  He wrote.

  And Figg lay silently on the bed and watched him, awed and mystified at actually seeing a man write.

  SEVENTEEN

  JONATHAN CHANTED IN latin.

  Noscere, audere, velle, tacere.

  Naked and face down, he lay inside the magic circle on the wooden floor, his slim body beaded with perspiration and rigid with concentration. Both legs were wide apart, his arms straight out from his sides; head, hands and feet formed the five points of a star. Neither gaslight from the street below nor moonlight penetrated the humid darkness of the room in which the only light came from four black candles just outside of the magic circle. The circle was composed of powdered human and animal bone sprinkled on the floor.

  Noscere, audere, velle, tacere.

  To know, to dare, to will, to be silent.

  Four powers of the magician. Qualities needed for the successful practice of any magic. All four must be present, each balancing the other.

  Knowledge without daring was useless, as useless as daring without knowledge. And while the will engendered persistence, persistence was useless unless the magician possessed the daring to begin.

  The fourth power—silence—was the most important of all. To tell others your thoughts and plans was to weaken the force behind all you wished to attain. To violate the power of silence was to betray yourself; your lack of discretion was a warning to your enemies.

  Noscere, audere, velle, tacere.

  Jonathan chanted. He concentrated.

  The ritual was for the demon Asmodeus, to let him know that tonight would bring three more blood sacrifices in appeasement, three more deaths to buy Jonathan time in his search for the Throne of Solomon. Tonight, Jonathan was going to kill Hamlet Sproul’s woman and two children. Like Lucifer, Jonathan had courage and cunning, wisdom and insight, along with an implacable and incurable hatred towards the human race. Hamlet Sproul’s betrayal in keeping Justin Coltman’s body must be met with an all consuming vengeance.

  The ritual murders of the grave robber’s woman and children was part of that revenge; it would bring pain to Hamlet Sproul for the rest of his days, weakening his mind and soul, turning him into a shaken adversary. Most important of all, these murders would satisfy Asmodeus for a time. Not for long, just for a time.

  Incense floated from four corners of the dark room. The four black candles, placed north, east, south and west at points on the compass, sent small black shadows dancing across Jonathan’s sweating, naked body like so many tiny bats. Written in dog’s blood on the floor near each candle was the name of four other demons.

  Zimmar, who ruled the north.

  Gorson, who ruled the south.

  Amayan, who ruled the east.

  Goap, who ruled the west.

  The dog’s blood was in homage to Hecate, goddess of witches, magicians, and ruler of the world of darkness, who was always accompanied by howling dogs, long considered symbols of death.

  By remaining within the circle, Jonathan protected himself from Asmodeus and those demons he might raise but be unable to control. The circ
le also kept in the magical energy produced during the ritual; being naked allowed Jonathan’s energy and power to flow unobstructed.

  Jonathan chanted.

  He chanted incantations long forgotten by almost all of mankind, incantations first spoken by the ancient Egyptians, then by the Magi, those priests of old Persia, who served Zoroaster and who gave their name to magic and magicians and who worshipped on tops of mountains, sacrificing to the sun, moon, earth, fire and winds long before and after the birth of Christ.

  He chanted incantations from ancient Greece and from the Moors who carried wicca, craft of the wise, from north Africa to western Europe where it became witchcraft.

  Jonathan’s body was now totally rigid on the floor as he forced his mind deeper into that world of darkness which had belonged to the universe for as long as time.

  Through clenched teeth, he whispered the nine mystic names in words combining Greek and Hebrew: Shaddai, Elohim Tzabaoth, El Adonai Tzabaoth, Eloah V a-Daath, lod, Eheieh, Tetragrammaton Elohim, El, Elohim Gibor.

  Suddenly he heard a rush of wind in the closed room, felt its blood-freezing chill sweep across his body and still he lay face down, chanting, chanting, chanting.

  Within the room Jonathan heard moans, shrieks from souls lost and still wandering in darkness, souls of men and women desperate to find their way back to this world. They were a danger to Jonathan, for if they could, these souls would enter his body to spare themselves further torment in the world of darkness.

  He concentrated with all of his mind, clenched fists vibrating with tension. The moans and shrieks stopped. Jonathan had defeated all attempts to possess him.

  Silence.

  Jonathan, weak with the strain of performing the ritual, did not leave the circle. He waited. To leave the circle now, was to die. Asmodeus was in the room.

  The smell of the demon king was horrible, beyond even the stench of burning human flesh, which Jonathan had smelled before. The odor was paralyzing, unearthly, a burning beyond all burnings and with it came the terrible sounds—the roar of a dragon, of a bull, the raw sound from the throat of a ram and the sound of a man screaming in maniacal rage.

  Jonathan, fighting an awesome fear, lifted his head inches from the floor and saw the demon king.

  The sight, sound and smell of him lasted brief seconds but it was terrifying. Jonathan trembled, forcing himself not to run, to stay within the protective magic circle.

  The demon king filled the room with his image and presence, seeming to be everywhere at once, beside Jonathan, then hovering over him, taunting, threatening, tempting him to leave the magic circle. Asmodeus’ face changed swiftly into different faces, each more terrible than the last and the demon’s three heads blended into one, then separated before blending into one again. Colors surrounding him came and went, shifting from the red of an open wound, to a black that blended purple with blue then became the deepest black once more. For terrible seconds, Jonathan feared he’d lost control, that for the first time he’d raised forces which he could not control. But the demon king did not enter the circle and Jonathan sent his thoughts out to him, telling Asmodeus of the blood sacrifice that was to be his, of the woman and children who would soon die to give Jonathan more time to locate the Throne of Solomon.

  Would Asmodeus accept this sacrifice as he had accepted the others?

  The dragon roared, the cold wind blew and Asmodeus opened the mouths on his three heads to show teeth glistening with spit and blood.

  Then the colors faded and the cold wind disappeared, and the demon king was gone. Asmodeus would accept the sacrifice. Jonathan had bought himself more time. Now there was no chance of him showing mercy to the woman and children; only if they died could Jonathan live.

  When Jonathan sensed that the room was empty, he stood and left the circle, stepping near the black candle facing north and into the blood-scrawled name of the demon Zimmar. Later, Jonathan would smile at the thought of demons being beneath his feet.

  EIGHTEEN

  RACHEL COLTMAN NOTICED that Eddy Poe was very much the polite and courtly southerner with the beautiful child Dearborn Lapham, who had arrived at Rachel’s Fifth Avenue home this afternoon with Hugh Larney and Miles Standish. The Eddy who was talking to little Dearborn was not the Eddy who used words with bitter precision. This Eddy Poe had the aristocratic charm of the Virginia in which he’d been raised; Rachel delighted in seeing his pleasantries to this lovely child, whom Hugh Larney had introduced as his niece.

  Dearborn, in an ankle-length dress of green taffeta, her golden curls reaching to her waist, stirred her tea with a delicate silver spoon gripped between thumb and forefinger, the other three fingers on her right hand pointing up at the ceiling.

  “I shall be an actress, you know. One day I shall.”

  Poe, sitting across from her, nodded with a half smile. “A laudable profession, Miss Lapham, one in which my mother excelled.”

  The child whore looked at him for several seconds. Her smile came after some small reflection, mildly surprising Rachel who found such poise intimidating in a child. Was it Rachel’s imagination or had Miles Standish actually smirked behind his hand when Hugh Larney had introduced Dearborn as his niece?

  Dearborn said, “Did your mother love the stage, sir?”

  “I am told she did. She died when I was but a child, just days short of my third birthday. Yes, she loved the stage. She performed some two hundred different roles, this in addition to her chorus and singing work.”

  “Your parents were travelling players, sir.”

  Poe smiled. “I am the son of an actress, Miss Lapham. It is my boast.”

  Dearborn sipped tea, gently placing the cup back on the saucer she held in her left hand. “I have never known my parents, sir.”

  Hugh Larney, sitting beside her on a small leather sofa near the fireplace, smiled into his half-filled glass of brandy. “She has a Dutch uncle who sees that her hands are never idle. I myself arrange excursions for our little Dearborn which take her far from this teeming metropolis. Why today, she accompanied me to the country where we had a rousing good time, did we not Dearborn?”

  The child looked down at her snow wet boots. “Yes sir. We did see some things indeed, sir.”

  She looked at Poe. “You are from the South, sir?”

  His smile was gentle. “Yes and no. I was born in Boston—”

  “That is far north, is it not, sir?”

  “Massachusetts. And not too far north. Then I spent some time in Virginia—”

  “Oh, I see, sir.”

  “Then it was to England where my family and I lived five years.”

  “Is England far, sir? Is it near Virginia?”

  “No, my dear. It is indeed far, a long way across the ocean.” She reminds me of Sissy, my dearest wife. She has the beauty and gentleness of darling Sissy, and she is around the age Sissy was when we married.

  But Dearborn Lapham was a child whore, one seen in the company of Hugh Larney on more than one occasion, one known to belong to Wade Bruenhausen, the blind, bible-reading Dutch procurer. In the child’s company, Poe had noticed the startling resemblance to his wife and first cousin, a resemblance that had overshadowed what he knew of Dearborn’s life. To think of her as a whore was to resent Hugh Larney more than usual, something Poe didn’t want to do this afternoon for Rachel’s sake.

  Rachel said, “I am glad you received my message, Eddy. I cannot tell you how ashamed I am of my behavior to you yesterday.”

  “Rachel please—”

  “No Eddy, it must be said.”

  “It has been said, dearest Rachel.”

  “I shall say it again. You are a most treasured friend and one I shall never again deceive or disgrace. I shall follow your advice in this personal matter, I give you my word.”

  Except, thought Poe, when it comes to renouncing any and all allegiance to Dr. Paracelsus. You will be guided by me in the matter of the ransom, providing we hear again from Hamlet Sproul. But in truth, you will
also be guided by Paracelsus, whom I truly suspect as being more deadly than his appearance conveys.

  Miles Standish said, “We assumed you would be in touch with Mrs. Coltman, which is why we are here. I would like to know if you are still in touch with Sproul?”

  “No.” Poe’s eyes were on Dearborn Lapham.

  Pierce James Figg, sitting near a window, took his gaze from Poe to look out onto the street at the huge black man who stood near Larney’s carriage talking to a tall white man in a top hat and ankle-length red fur coat. Then Figg looked back at Poe. Little Mr. Poe has a sudden interest in the tiny dolly mop, thought the boxer, but I don’t think it’s got anything to do with havin’ a go at her. That’s what the little dandy fella is doin’ what brought her here, the fella with the pointed chin and the look about him of a man who’ll steal shit from a parrot’s cage and sell it to you as mayonnaise. Figg did not trust a man with a mouth as small as Larney’s.

  Standish stood with his back to the fire. Rachel noticed that he treated Eddy as though Eddy were a wild beast about to strike unless spoken to in soft tones. Standish said, “Mr. Poe, I would like to know if you feel that the recent attack upon you signals an end to any communication with the ghouls.”

  With an effort Poe took his gaze away from Dearborn. “I have no answer for that, Mr. Standish. When time has elapsed and I hear nothing, I will then assume you are correct. The timely intervention of Mr. Figg has reduced the criminal population by two, but I have yet to learn if it has reduced my chances of recovering Justin Coltman.”

  Standish coughed into his fist. “I shall assume you will be in contact with me.”

  “And Rachel.”

  Standish coughed again. “Yes. Of course. I can leave a message for you—”

  “With Rachel or the Evening Mirror.” Poe turned his attention back to Dearborn.

  Rachel saw Eddy frown as he observed Hugh Larney reach out and pat the child’s knee. Eddy and Hugh Larney had not said much to each other, giving Rachel the distinct impression of mutual hostility. She found Larney weak, offering only surface charm and the self-serving efforts of the devoted social climber. If he and Eddy disliked each other, it was because Eddy was the more honest man. Or was it because of Dearborn Lapham. Dear God, what a horrible thought! Both men somehow involved with this beautiful child, this child who appeared far more knowing than her years warranted. No, such a thing was unimaginable. Eddy would not—