The opium, I reached for the opium. But the brown paper wrapping was empty. I realized with a shock that I must have kicked the ball off with my foot when I fell backwards. Where was it? I scrabbled around on my hands and knees, searching for a small black ball of tar on blackened ancient planks on a dark wharf.
“Where are you? Where are you?” I was furiously running my hands across the boards. A splinter stabbed me, then another. “Where are you?” Poe remained in his cataleptic state, if that’s what it was, cold beside the boxes.
I don’t know how long I searched. Was it five minutes? It seemed like five hours. I searched long after I realized that it was only vain hope that I would locate the tiny black marble. There were too many cracks, too many holes, too little light – the opium was lost. I was as blind in my search as was Thamyris after his challenge to the Muses. What was I to do? I slammed my fist down on the planks in frustration – so hard I near broke my hand.
But… But… What was this? What had stuck to the heel of my hand? A half-inch ball of tar? Yes, I had found it. Did I shout in triumph? I may have.
Still, I did not know the proportions. I did not know if I had enough of Jupiter’s ingredients for this to work. I did not even know exactly what effect this was intended to have on Poe. I only did what he had asked me to do. I took the ball of opium and put it in the palm of my hand. Then I poured half of what remained of the white powder over it and began kneading the lump as if it were some small dark loaf of bread. I worked the powders into the tar until all the ingredients had been incorporated into the amalgam in my hand.
At that point, I cursed again. How was I to administer this palliative? I searched Poe’s jacket and retrieved the small glass pipe he had used at Barnum’s. But after going through all of his pockets, there were no matches to be found. The closet flame was in the hydrogen streetlamp some thirty yards away. There was no possibility of using that source.
I sat back against the boxes again, and I laughed. Or did I cry? That part of my memory is unclear, and such frustration as I faced that moment may elicit either emotion. I remembered Zeus and his affliction. Where was Prometheus? Would he not now steal the god’s flame and bring it to me?
The particulars of the myth came back to me. Zeus had eaten his wife and… Yes, that was the solution. Perhaps I was as insane as my companion. Perhaps I was beginning to see through the masks of reality to the truth. I cannot say even now.
I bent over Poe and forced his mouth open. It was difficult, for his jaw was locked stiff, as if rigor had begun to freeze him. I took the ball of opium, mixed with Jupiter’s ingredients and pushed it back on Poe’s dry tongue. I forced it back as far as I could until I thought it must surely choke him. Then I closed his mouth and shook him. I slapped him full and hard on the face. I pushed on his ribs and his stomach as hard as I could. “Swallow, Poe. Damn you. Swallow!”
It was no use. He remained completely still. The myth. Yes, the myth. Prometheus would come. I had no axe, but lying on the boards was Poe’s silver-headed cane. I picked it up. I held it by the shaft and brought the tarnished angel grip down with force on Poe’s forehead. As Prometheus had struck the Father of Gods, I struck Poe.
He lurched with the impact. There was a suck of air and a wet gulping sound. Poe had swallowed! Athena had not sprung from his head in a shower of blood, though there was a trickle of red from a cut near his hairline. But, Poe had swallowed.
Nothing happened.
At least, at first – there was no sign of movement after the convulsive intake of breath and the ingestion of my haphazard invention. Minutes passed. Nothing. More minutes went by and still nothing.
I shouted in frustration. “God help us!” The night absorbed my cry.
In my memory, I think I despaired at that moment. My faith had been tested again, and again I had failed. A man of the true God, I had blasphemed and placed my trust in the pagan Olympians. “Jesus, forgive me!” I shouted.
“Griswold?” Poe’s voice was quiet, but clear.
“Poe?” I went to him. His eyes were open. “Poe?”
“Griswold, you’re here. Good.”
“My God, Poe. Are you recovered?”
“I think so.” Poe sat up with some difficulty. He raised a hand to his forehead and pulled it away after touching the place where I had struck him. He looked at his finger. “Blood.”
“Yes, I had to…”
There was a sudden sound, a creak in the stack of boxes behind us. Then another. A shadow leapt from atop the pile and landed light-footed in front of us. In the darkness, it was difficult to see who confronted us so unexpectedly. My hand tightened around the shaft of the Malacca cane.
The silhouetted figure in front of us lifted an arm in our direction. In the dim light from the street, it was clear there was a metallic object in the hand. There was a heavy sound of a cylinder turning and a click. It was a gun, and it had been cocked.
“So here you are.” The voice was light and almost musical. Even so, my sense of threat did not diminish.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Poe laughed. “You mean you’ve been hunting for us.”
“As you will.”
I realized, and with no small measure of surprise, the voice was feminine. Our stalker was a woman. Athena had sprung forth after all, but not with a spear – with a pistol.
And so we faced the justice of the gods.
Chapter 17
September 29, 1849 11:30 p.m. - The Awful Disclosures of Molly Monk -
The commandment is clear, “I am the Lord Thy God. Thou shall worship no god before me.” How sure we are of our divine enlightenment. How safe in our outward rejection of our pagan natures. We imagine that we have accepted the One. Yet the veneer is thin. Bring flood or deny us progeny, and we turn to the magic of the primitive faiths. We knock wood, and we build great shrines. We sacrifice by way of tithe and spare the lambs. Jehovah does not destroy Zeus – he swallows him. Dionysius becomes Jesus as we pretend a higher plane but live still in the primitive mud. And all the gods live on.
“You have been hunting us?” I asked.
“Aye. And not too fucking hard a hunt, either. What with both of you yelling out louder than any shit-crusted church bell.” She was not a refined woman. But then, wearing trousers of some sort, which I could distinguish by her profile in the dimness of the wharf, and holding a pistol, her lack of culture was not, in context, surprising.
Poe got to his feet. There was no sign of the crisis he had just endured. In fact he moved with the alacrity of a younger man. “And why, pray tell, have we become your prey?”
“You’re the mutts that killed Sean.”
“O’Hanlon? Oh, God.” I began composing my last words. I considered denying her charges, but Poe spoke before I could mount any effective defense.
“Yes, we killed Mr. O’Hanlon. That is, I did.”
“And then who’s this fancy boy with you, your cocksucking butler?” She pointed at me with the gun. I shivered at the stare of its muzzle.
“I am Edgar Allan Poe, and this is my friend, Rufus Wilmot Griswold, of New York.” Poe gave a small bow as if we were in a parlor during a reception.
“Fancy names for such cold dogs.” She stepped back half a pace, still holding the gun on us. When she retreated, her face came into a small bit of reflected light.
Her skin was dark, but not Negro, not a mongrel mix, more an olive shade. Her raven hair was worn up on her head that sat like sculpture on a long, graceful neck. Even in that limited view, her beauty was evident and yet so was a subtle defect. Under a smooth proud forehead, her eyes were large and luminous even in the night. Her nose was of perfect proportion between the prominent cheekbones of an ancient provenance. Though her lips were full, there was a downward twist in the right-hand corner of what might have been a smile. When she spoke, only the left side of her mouth moved freely. I do not wish to mislead, the effect was not at all unpleasant, for it lent an air of uniqueness to her aura. I wa
s entranced.
“And you are?” Poe wished to complete the introductions.
“I am?” she taunted, “I am fucking trouble for you.”
“Well, even if you won’t do us the courtesy,” Poe went on, “I am most pleased to meet you, Molly.”
“How’d you know my name?”
“Mr. O’Hanlon spoke of you highly.”
“Ha!” Molly slapped her thigh with the pistol. I flinched, thinking it might discharge. “He spoke highly of his Molly, did he?”
“Oh, yes he did. He did,” I interjected, thinking I might add to the distraction of the conversation. The gun pointed at me again as a result.
“And what did he say about his sweet Molly, you prissy cocksucker?”
“He said…” I searched my memory for O’Hanlon’s words. Then realizing none were truly useful as complements, I stammered, “He said… that… ah… that you were… that you were sweet… yes, he said that you were sweet.”
“As if I ever let him put his tongue near my hemp to find out.” Such a well-heard voice to be uttering such ill-made words.
“He said you were just a doxy, yes, that was it, a doxy that he rubbed. He also referred to you as a sweet padded thing.” Poe just told the truth of it.
Hoping to save the situation, I said, “See? There. He called you a sweet thing.”
“Ha!” Molly let the gun fall to her waist. She eased the hammer down and stepped back towards the Lee Street wall. “So, do you two work for Fox?”
“No,” I answered quickly.
“You didn’t kill him on Fox’s orders?”
“We had our own reasons,” Poe said. There was a hint of regret in his voice.
“Where’s your nigger?”
“Our nigger?” Poe pretended ignorance.
“Listen, I was listening in the crib when Sean and Allie got the job. Remember? I’m the sweet padded doxy. They were to grab a big black buck and the two white troublemakers he was traveling with. Where’s the nigger? Sean kill him?”
As if I were compelled to answer by the goddess herself, I said more than I’m sure Poe wished me to. “They grabbed Jupiter and sold him to the slavers.”
“That’d sound right. A little extra coin for old O’Hanlon.” Molly scratched her nose with the barrel of the gun. “
I could not contain myself. “And he said he was going to escort us to the Odalisk where we would find…”
Poe cut me off. “Where we might find some pleasures to amuse us.”
Molly gave me, I believe it’s called, a once over, and shook her head. “Pleasures? Well, the Odalisk handles all tastes.”
“Do you still work there?” Poe asked.
“Well, aren’t you the smart one?” Molly started pacing.
She kept her distance. And there was still the matter of the pistol in her hand. I was convinced that she was debating our fate in her crude little mind. The thought of a mere woman holding such power terrified and yet excited me. The situation was perverse in its very nature.
“You weren’t going to the Odalisk for pleasure,” she said.
“We weren’t?” Poe gave her the opportunity to explain.
“No. Remember, I heard the plot.” Molly stopped pacing and turned towards Poe. She used the gun like a finger, pointing it at him to emphasize her salient points. “I heard Ready Tom and Big Billy talking to Sean and Allie.”
“Ready Tom?” I blurted out. “From the alley when the New Market urchins surrounded us – and Big Billy?” I remembered the two well.
“Oh, you’ve met the fine gentlemen. A bit higher up in Fox’s den tunnels than Sean and the other errand boys.” Molly paused for a moment. “You were going to the Odalisk to fetch the black girl.”
“We were?”
“Do you shit on your fingers, Poe?” Molly had no jest in her tone. “Don’t be playing the ignorant mule to me. You were going to fetch the black girl. What’s his name? Jupiter? Yeah, you were to grab Jupiter’s black girl, Eulalie.”
Poe took in a quick breath. “Eulalie?”
“But Jupiter’s wife’s name is Marie,” I said.
“Marie? Well, boys, we all change our names when we take to the sheets at the Odalisk. They call her Eulalie now. Some call her the Black Pearl. She works the top of the stairs. With the special ones.”
“The special ones?”
“Now, Mr. Poe, it’s not your turn to ask yet.”
“Your pardon.”
“You were going to steal away Jupiter’s wife. As if Fox would let that happen. Still, there’s something missing here. Sean was supposed to kill the nigger and take you two to the Odalisk.”
“For pleasure,” I insisted.
“Idiot. He was to take you to the Odalisk because Fox wanted you there. Fox was having him deliver your fucked little arses to his tender embrace. If there’s pleasure in that, I’ve not seen it.”
“Of course you are right.” For the first time, I noticed that Poe had his silver-headed cane in his hands. I hadn’t seen him pick it up.
“That’s the puzzle, isn’t it, Poe?” Molly had her eye on the cane as well. “Your friend here may actually shit on his fingers. But not you, Poe. Not you. You must have known that Fox was luring you. So I have to ask. Are you a madman, Mr. Poe?”
“Most assuredly,” Poe replied.
“Poe, we were walking into a trap?” I was struggling to understand the insanity of the situation I found myself in. “We would have been killed?”
“Possibly.”
“Certainly,” said Molly. “Mr. Fox employs only the most twisted of the vermin produced in this city’s shit holes. And if you’d killed them all with that fancy cane of yours, Mr. Poe, you’d still of had to face Fox himself. He kills in a different sort of way. I’ve seen him.” Molly shuddered. “But that’s not likely to be your concern now. You’re facing me, Mr. Poe. Will you kill me?”
“Must I?”
“You killed my man.”
“True.”
“So, what shall I do, Mr. Poe?”
“You will help us.”
“Sweet fucking Christ, you’re a strange one. I’m going to help you? And why will I do that?”
“Because you hated O’Hanlon. He beat you.”
“All men beat all women, Poe. There’s no magic in knowing that.”
“He knocked out some of your teeth – there on the left side.”
“They’d only rot like everything else rots with time.” Molly put her finger to her upper lip and pulled it aside. Half of one of her front incisors, all of another, and the entire adjacent canine were missing, leaving only fleshy sockets. “There. See what time does?”
“Berenice.” Poe whispered the name softly, but the sound carried. “Berenice.” He sighed and wobbled as if he were faint. “Berenice.”
“What?” Molly let her lip slip down and was beautiful again.
Poe regained his balance, shook his head as if to clear away some vision. When he spoke again, his voice was piercing. “Did Fox kill your sister?”
“My sister?” Molly staggered back against the brick wall as if Poe had kicked her. “You cannot have known of my sister!”
“You wear the ring.”
Molly grabbed at her left hand ring finger as if to shield it from the poet’s eyes.
“Too late, Molly. You can’t hide it from me. My vision is very acute, akin to a black cat, some say.” Poe stepped towards her – one step, and he stopped. “You wear the ‘Chi-Rho,’ the first two letters in ‘Christos’, the Christ. You are Greek, and your mother gave you and your sister one when you were very young to protect you. Your ring bears two birthstones, a pair of emeralds. She was born in June. You were born in June.”
“I must not…” Molly’s voice caught, and her shoulders slumped. There was a silence there on the wharf. A ship’s bell called out and was answered in the procession leading down the basin and off towards the Chesapeake in the distance. Bells rang.
Poe looked hard at the woman. His ha
nd went to his brow. “The stones match. The birthdays match. You have a twin sister.”
“How?” Molly’s eyes were wide.
“No magic, Molly,” Poe replied. “I know some of the Greek customs. I propose it, and you confirm with your eyes. You have a twin sister. I know this by your tears.”
Molly wiped at the telltale droplet on her cheek, and shouted, “Had. I had a twin sister.”
“Fox killed her?”
“I cannot help you,” she cried.
“You will help us.”
Molly sank to her knees, sobbing. “Don’t ask me. Fox can do worse than kill. I’ve seen. I’ve seen.”
“What’s your last name, Molly?” Poe asked an important question. In all the myths and fables, knowing a true name gave power.
“My name is Molly Monk.”
“No. That’s not your birth name.” Poe thought a moment. “Mykini. You were born Mykini. Here you were called ‘Monk.’ And your sister’s name?”
“Mynis.” Molly broke down. “Mykini and Mynis Athenos.”
“Athena,” I whispered to myself, amazed again by Poe’s inductive skills.
“How old are you, Molly?”
“Leave me alone!” Molly crawled towards Poe weeping like a child. “Stop. You don’t know what you are asking.”
Poe knelt down in front of Molly. He took her face in his hands and raised it up. Looking straight into her eyes he said, “I know exactly what I am asking, Mykini. And I know exactly what you will do and why.”
Molly caught her breath at last. “I will help you.”
“How old are you, Molly?”
She sniffled, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and sat up. “I’m very old.”
“How old?”
She lithely pushed herself up to her feet without using her hands as a brace. She turned like a dancer on her heel and walked over to where she had dropped her pistol. Molly bent down straight from the waist and retrieved the weapon. Still sniffling, she rubbed at her nose. “I’ll take you to the Odalisk. Fools.”
“Oh, not tonight, Molly,” Poe said. “Not tonight.”
Imp: Being the Lost Notebooks of Rufus Wilmot Griswold in the Matter of the Death of Edgar Allan Poe Page 12