by Marc Olden
“Sacrifice her,” replied Asmodeus, “and you are forever free from me.”
Jonathan, eyes closed, spoke to the demon king with this thoughts. “But you will never be free from me. Never. You will serve me as I wish. You will serve me forever, for soon I shall hold dominion over you.”
The howling winds suddenly disappeared. He fears me, thought Jonathan. He fears me.
Jonathan remained seated, eyes closed. He waited. It was less than three hours to midnight on the ninth and final day.
* * * *
Holding Dearborn’s hand tightly, a nervous and bitter Hugh Larney hurried from the doctor’s small clapboard house and rushed down the stairs towards his carriage. Thor was still bleeding from the nose and mouth and he couldn’t talk. That last punch in the throat had crushed something and Larney didn’t know or care what it was. Let the doctor worry about it. Larney was concerned with Figg. The Englishman was alive and the smartest thing Larney could do was flee to his small farmhouse and hide there.
Figg. Damn him, damn him, damn him! He’d cost Larney $100,000 and the best prizefighter in New York; Thor would never be the same man again, no matter what the doctor did for him. And what bothered Larney more than anything else was the loss of prestige, to have this defeat occur in front of his friends.
Jonathan had been correct. Beware Poe and Figg. Well, little Poe was no longer a bother to anyone, not where he was at the moment. Lying in a coffin, in an unmarked grave, perhaps still drugged by wine, perhaps screaming and begging to be let out. Perhaps dead from fright by now. He deserved it, the snivelling little bastard. Larney was not going to be humiliated by the likes of a shabby, dirt poor writer who lacked even the money to bet on the man who was taking his place in the prize ring. Larney had money, position. Poe had none of these things, so why should he be proud? He had nothing to be proud of. Let him now be proud in his coffin let him parade and boast in front of the worms who would soon be drilling holes in his sallow flesh.
Larney had left two men with Thor, to bring the Negro back to the farm when the doctor said he could travel. Jacob Cribb was waiting in Larney’s carriage to drive him out of Manhattan, away from Figg. It would be wise to get as far away from Figg as possible.
At the carriage, Larney lifted Dearborn up, then climbed inside himself.
His jaw dropped.
Figg, in the seat across from him, rasped, “I’m here to get yer congratulations, Mr. Larney. You left without sayin’ ’well don, Mr. Figg.’ ”
Larney looked at the horrible dwarf who stood on the seat beside Figg, a flintlock aimed up at the back of Jacob Cribb, who sat outside on the driver’s seat.
“How, how did you—?”
“Find you, Mr. Larney? Little Merlin ‘ere, ‘im and another one of Mr. Barnum’s friends followed you and one of ’em comes back and tells me. Little fella like ‘im must be hard to see at night.”
Figg leaned forward. “And now you are goin’ to tell me, mate. Where is Mr. Poe and where is Jonathan?”
“I do not—”
Figg leaned over and backhanded a slap in his face. Larney fell to the side and lay there, whimpering.
Dearborn said softly, “They took Mr. Poe to the cemetery and left him there.”
Figg grabbed Larney’s hair, jerking him upright again. “If Poe is dead, you will lie beside him, me promise on that. Merlin!”
The dwarf jammed Figg’s flintlock into Jacob Cribb’s back. The carriage jerked forward, pulling away into the night.
* * * *
“Sweet Jesus,” muttered Figg.
He, Dearborn and Merlin stood beside the open grave as a disheveled, dirt-covered Hugh Larney and Jacob Cribb, pulled the cover from the coffin with bloodied hands.
Poe lay curled on his side. He didn’t move.
“Take ‘im out you two and pray to God ‘e ain’t dead, ‘cause if ‘e is, then you two will be as well.”
Larney and Cribb supported Poe between them. Was he breathing? Figg watched him carefully. Poe’s head snapped up and his eyes widened in his pale face. There was dirt on his wide forehead and on his mustache.
Figg grinned. “Evenin’ squire.”
“Mr., Mr. Figg. You, you do not look well, sir.”
“You ain’t no ‘angin’ tapestry yerself. Glad to see you, I am.”
“And I you, sir. And I you.”
“Little Miss Dearborn ‘ere, she tells me she saw you twice tonight. Sees you drive off with Miss Rachel, and quick after that she sees you tied up in Mr. Larney’s carriage. She is the one what told me you were ’ere in this awful place.”
“The-the duel, Mr. Figg. Did you—”
“We were victorious, Mr. Poe.”
Poe’s smile was weak. “I am delighted, sir. I am extremely delighted and pleased beyond measure.”
Pushing himself clear of Larney and Cribb, Poe staggered forward, found his balance and straightened up. “Wine, that bane of my existence, in essence saved me, for through its drugged mercies, I slept much more than I screamed and clawed at the coffin lid. Even now, I am not entirely in control of my mental faculties, but soon I shall be. Soon. I never imagined myself as ever being grateful to alcohol, but it was that which gave me welcomed sleep. Welcomed sleep.”
Poe stepped towards Figg. “You say I drove away with Mrs. Coltman?”
“That’s right.”
“I most certainly did not. I have not seen her in two days, having spent my time securing intelligence regarding the property owned by Mr. Larney. It is for that reason that I feel I know where Jonathan is.”
Figg held his breath. “We gots barely two hours before—”
“I know, Mr. Figg. I know.”
“One thing, squire. If it was not you what drove off with Miss Rachel tonight, then ’oo was it?”
Fear descended on Poe. ‘I am terrified, Mr. Figg. Not for myself but for Mrs. Coltman. Only one man has the power to create such forceful illusions, for it was not I who took her tonight. It was Jonathan. Even though he cannot leave the site of his evil ritual, somehow he managed to convince her that it was I who was beside her and so she succumbed to his illusion. Mr. Figg let us leave this place. We shall need fast horses, for we ride to the country, to the north of the city, to a certain abandoned horse farm—”
“No!” Larney took a step forward, then stopped. “I mean—”
Poe coughed. “You mean, Mr. Larney, that you pay the least taxes on that particular piece of land, that it has been under the least scrutiny by municipal authorities, that it has been without human habitation for over two years. You mean that Jonathan is there, as opposed to being on land of yours that contains tenants, cattle, hay, buildings. It is all there in the records, sir. All except where Jonathan is and you have just admitted that I am correct in my assumption.”
Poe looked at him with contempt. “That is why you and this swine Jacob Cribb, deceived me with a false note from my dear Muddy. You deceived me, then did this to me. There is no hell on earth that could properly torment the both of you.”
Figg looked at Larney and Cribb. “We needs a guide, Mr. Poe, and that would be Mr. Larney, willin’ or unwillin’. I am certain I can convince ‘im to make the journey with us. Merlin, you and Mr. Poe take the child with you back to the carriage. You go with them, Mr. Larney. Merlin, should Mr. Larney prove difficult in any fashion, put a ball in ‘im. Aim for his stomach.”
The dwarf leered and nodded.
As the men left, Jacob Cribb started to follow them. “Not you, Mr. Cribb.” Figg’s hand was inside his frock coat. In the moonlit darkness of the graveyard, Figg looked terrifying. Jacob Cribb trembled.
Figg walked toward him, the hand still inside the coat and on the belt buckle. “Somebody’s got to stay behind, Mr. Cribb, and I reckon it should be you.”
Seconds later, Figg joined Poe, Merlin, Larney and Dearborn at the carriage. No one asked why Jacob Cribb was not with him.
FORTY-SIX
AS POE TIED the horses to the trees, Figg pu
lled Larney down from the saddle.
“YOU goin’ in first, mate. And remember: You get the idea to shake a loose leg and I will put a ball in you before you have run very far.”
Larney closed his eyes. His hands were tied in front of him and he’d ridden through the night on the same horse as Figg. There had been the hell of Figg literally breathing down his neck for the three-mile ride and the worse hell of knowing they were speeding to meet Jonathan. Jonathan who would soon be completing the nine-day ritual. Jonathan, who tonight would unleash dark forces that no man on earth could contend with. Larney had wanted to see Jonathan conjure the Throne of Solomon, but he had not wanted to come upon the magician in this fashion. Not as a prisoner, not with Poe and Figg at his back.
The three men stood in the small grove of trees, eyes on the barn that lay across an open expanse of moonlit snow. Poe shivered. His fears for Rachel were stronger than his fears for himself. Thanks to the drugged wine, the experience of being buried alive had emerged as almost unreal.
Figg looked at his pocket watch, squinting to see the hands in the moonlight.
“Gone half eleven, it has. We best be gettin’—”
From the barn, a woman screamed.
Poe clutched Figg’s arm. “It is her! It is Rachel!” He ran, loping through the snow, lifting his knees high, his dark brown hair wild around his head and face, his mouth open, a man obsessed with saving the woman he loved.
He screamed her name.
A frozen wind suddenly blew swirling snow around him and he was temporarily blinded. Then he saw the barn again, saw the candle glow within it.
“Rachel!” He fell forward in the snow, rose, his front covered by the soft, cold white powder and he ran towards her, towards Jonathan.
Figg jammed his flintlock in Larney’s back. “You too, mate. Let’s go.”
“I, I—”
“You will die ‘ere or you will run towards that barn. Which is it gonna be?”
Larney, weeping and moaning, stumbled forward, following the gouges in the snow left by Poe.
A frightened Figg followed him. But first he looked up at the moon.
* * * *
Inside the barn, Rachel scratched Laertes’ face, frantically struggling with him as he tried to keep her down on the ground. Jonathan stood holding the ritual knife point up towards the ceiling. Both men were gaunt, haggard, dusty with human ashes and foul smelling from the grave clothes they had worn for nine days and nights. The men and Rachel were within the protective circle.
The wind howled around the barn.
Asmodeus. He has come, thought Jonathan. Let him receive the sacrifice, thus freeing me from him forever. Let him receive—
“Stop!”
Poe stood in the doorway of the barn. The wind grew stronger. Two candles around the protective circle toppled over.
The wind tossed Poe’s hair around his face. “I command you to stop!”
Jonathan turned quickly to face him. “Fool! She has to die! Only she stands between me and the Throne of Solomon. Asmodeus has claimed her and—”
The wind was stronger, rattling the rotting wood of the barn. Poe clung to the inside of the barn door. “You cannot kill her! You cannot!”
Figg, pushing Hugh Larney ahead of him, reached Poe. Figg and Jonathan stared at each other. For a few seconds, neither man moved.
And then Jonathan knew. “No! Nooooo!”
The wind blew louder, filling the inside of the barn with dust and dirt, whipping the dirt into the eyes of Poe and Figg, stinging their faces.
Within the wind, Asmodeus spoke only to Jonathan, who alone heard him. The demon king’s laughter was cruel. “You fool! I have tricked you and now I shall have you! I have won, and you have lost. Your pride has been your downfall, for you have attempted to be as God and no man, not even Solomon himself can long hold dominion over us.”
Jonathan turned frantically, listening, listening.
Asmodeus spoke within the wind. “Your pride made you accept the challenge, magician, and in drawing the woman to you, you drew the one mortal man you fear, the one mortal who can and will destroy you. He followed the woman as I knew he would and now you will be sacrificed to me.”
“Noooooo!” Jonathan screamed at the top of his voice. The incredibly strong wind pushed Poe, Figg and Larney into the barn. Laertes straddled Rachel Coltman’s body, a knife in his hand, the blade raised high.
“Kill her!” shouted Jonathan. “Let her die! The sacrifice will save us!”
Figg had been looking behind him. There was a blizzard in the open field, a vicious swirl of blinding, stinging snow and there was nowhere to run but inside the barn. It was as though he, Poe and Larney were being pushed inside the barn, forced to enter it. Figg was convinced of it.
Jonathan shouted again. “Laertes! Kill her!”
Figg turned and fired quickly. The ball went into Laertes’ side. He jerked, remaining on top of Rachel Coltman. Figg squinted, trying to focus in the dust storm. He fired his second pistol and Laertes’ face turned bloody and he fell backwards.
Figg pushed Poe ahead of him. “Into the circle! Quick, run!”
Poe ran. The strength of the wind increased and both men leaned into it, feeling the frozen air gnaw at their faces, pull at their eyes, lips, jam their throats with dirt.
Jonathan was pained and angered at having been tricked; he knew the power was also within Figg. He recognized a kinship but one opposed to all that Jonathan believed in. The spirits rested within Figg though he had little awareness of it. Figg sought no power, sought no gain and the spirits in touch with him were benign, restrained and would never appear unless summoned for no less than survival. But they were spirits and Jonathan feared them, for he could not dominate them.
And now Figg was here, Figg with the unknown forces that had helped him all his life. Jonathan, half crazed with fear, faced the boxer.
Somewhere in the dust storm filling the barn, Hugh Larney cried out. “Jonathan help me! Help meeee!”
Figg and Poe reached the protective circle. Figg crouched, his swollen face hideous in the dust storm. “Me and you, magician! It has come down to that, it has! Me and you!”
Poe crawled to Rachel, taking her in his arms, holding her tight, burying her face in his shoulder. The eerie storm around them was filled with howling winds, shrieking sounds as though men and animals in pain were calling out for help.
The ritual! Jonathan had raised forces that were out of his control! Or was this just a sudden, vicious storm. Was it just a storm? On the ground, Poe clung tightly to Rachel. Through the dust, Figg and Jonathan were only vague shadows.
He heard Figg’s voice over the shrieking winds. “Do not leave the circle, Mr. Poe! Whatever you do! Do not leave! Your life depends on it!”
“Jonathannnnnnn!” Again Hugh Larney. “Jonathan, they have me! They have me! Oh, God, no! Dear God, I beg you do not … Aieeeeee!” And his voice was swallowed up in the howling winds.
Jonathan, his grave clothes flapping in the wind, gripped the Athame, the ritual knife, in both hands. He crouched, squinting in the swirling, stinging dust, trying to see Figg, trying to …
Figg was on him, a hand pressing the knife down, the other hand punching him in the face, punching, punching, knocking him to the ground.
Then the Athame was in Figg’s hands and the boxer gazed down at the man he had come so far to kill. Suddenly Figg stopped and listened to the wind.
He listened, and Jonathan screamed “Nooo! Noooo!” The magician had heard what Figg heard. They had both heard the order for Jonathan’s death.
Figg heard the voices of the old men. “We are you, we are one. All is one, all is one … ”
Figg, his top hat long blown away, straddled Jonathan, quickly slashing his throat. The magician’s feet jerked; his blood spurted up on Figg’s hands and coat.
As the wind continued to howl in an ear-piercing, murderous fury, Figg tore at Jonathan’s filthy, grave clothes.
Instan
tly, a shocked Poe knew what Figg intended. “Good Lord, man! Are you mad? What are you going to do?”
Poe knew.
Figg snapped his head towards Poe. “Lie down flat and cover the woman’s face! She must not see me do this, this thing! The wind, it will destroy us all if I do not act! There is no choice, Mr. Poe, and I think you know what I am sayin’.”
“But we cannot act as he would have done!”
“Damn it, man, I tell you we will not leave this place alive unless we do, unless I do what has to be done! I have jes’ been told that it must be this way! My, my spirits tell me! I do this on their orders, not because of Jonathan’s devil god! Jonathan has begun a thing and a promise must be kept! He, the thing, he cannot have the woman but he must ‘ave somebody, do you understand what I am sayin’?”
The wind tore at them and Poe knew they could not stay much longer in this brutal, unearthly storm, this sudden storm that screamed around them and pulled at their flesh like the claws and teeth of a thousand rats. The storm that Poe also knew could kill them, unless—
It must be done and Poe was sick to his stomach. Almost completely blinded by the stinging dust that filled the barn, he fell to the ground and held Rachel to him, a hand behind her head, keeping her face in his chest. Figg the primitive was sensitive to forces that Poe could only imagine.
And that’s why Jonathan had feared the boxer.
Poe screamed over the wind, “Do as you must! Do as you must!”
Still straddling the dead magician, Figg rubbed dirt from his own eyes.
And with a trembling hand, began to cut out Jonathan’s heart.
New York, March 10, 1848
My Dear Mr. Figg,
In this letter, I am forced to acknowledge some things which should not be acknowledged at all. I am certain that you do not wish my gratitude in the matter of the two gold sovereigns you left behind in my cottage. One could say you forgot them, mislaid them, but Mr. Figg, I am not of a mind to underestimate your intelligence, which regrettably, once was the attitude I carried with me in viewing your existence. I do not accept charity, sir, but my dear Muddy, Mrs. Maria Clemm, assures me that your intentions were honorable and that in no way did you seek to demean me. Therefore, let me say that the receipt of the money is appreciated and Muddy and I will make the wisest use of it possible, though money does not long remain in my company.