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
SEVENTEEN
Jonathan chanted in latin.
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.
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.
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 circle 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
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:
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
