minor miracle. It was Poe’s shame and disappointment that he was too poor to give her a better life; it was his good fortune that she was loyal and believed in him.
Poe said, “Please excuse our sad table, Mr. Figg. My fortunes are at their usual low ebb and I cannot afford to dine any better than the lowliest immigrant.”
Figg put down his bowl. “Mr. Poe, the worms would be dinin’ on me tonight, if you had not saved me life. This ‘ere soup and bread tastes just fine, thankin’ you much.”
Poe nodded. “You have performed a similar service for me, sir.” Ironic, he thought, thinking back to the stable where he’d first seen Figg. He’d come down from above, looking more like a gargoyle than an angel and he delivered me from the hands of mine enemies. Last night, while only a millimeter short of being paralytic drunk, I delivered
Poe, having saved Figg’s life, sensed the boxer’s increasing respect for him. No more naked and undisguised contempt between the two men; contempt seemed to have slipped from their manner with almost miraculous ease. Figg, Poe noticed, was independent as opposed to surly, a man lacking pretense and pomposity. The boxer was a man of morals and principles, at home with thieves and kings, yet retaining his own integrity and sense of worth. Figg, like Poe, was his own man.
True, Figg was no formal scholar and if he could read, he undoubtedly did so by moving his lips and drawing his finger slowly across the page. Yet despite remaining areas of disagreement between the two men (there were more than a few), Poe reluctantly admitted to himself-he dared not admit it to others-that he was pleased and gratified by Figg’s silent, unspoken respect, this same Figg who not too long ago, Poe had considered as monumentally stupid and bordering on the sub-human.
Poe had told Muddy that the gas which had almost killed Figg last night at the Hotel Astor had also made Poe ill to the point of collapse. Neither he nor Figg had added that two glasses of wine prior to inhaling the gas had almost destroyed Poe’s ability to think, walk, speak and function in any capacity whatsoever. How he’d managed to save Figg’s life eluded him.
Neither gas nor cheap wine were a boost to the health of a man whose thirty-nine years on earth had consisted of bad health in both body and mind, who had been engaged in a lifelong and savage struggle for bread and had thus been doomed to soul destroying poverty, along with lacerations of the mind, heart and soul. Poe needed a day’s rest in his small Fordham cottage and Figg had taken him there on a train which had sped dangerously across ill-laid tracks, somehow managing to avoid an accident, a miracle considering the poor safety record on nineteenth-century American trains.
Poe had slept, a sleep not entirely free from personal demons but it was badly needed rest and the smell and taste of gas had eventually left him. At Muddy’s insistence, he’d eaten a handful or two of food, not enough to cover his protruding ribs with flesh, but he’d eaten. Then it was sleep once more and when he’d awakened Figg had been looking down at him; the boxer seemed surprised that Poe was still lingering in this world instead of floating somewhere in the next.
Poe felt he’d be strong enough to return to the city tomorrow and once again a surprise; Figg had nodded, saying tomorrow was time enough for his own return as well and with Poe’s permission he’d be pleased to spend the night in the tiny, heatless cottage. And as Muddy prepared food on a little stove, the two men had quietly talked of their lives, with Figg slowly, carefully, cleaning and re-loading his two pistols.
Now over their meager supper, there was more conversation, with Poe doing most of the talking. Figg and Mrs. Clemm listened intently.
“To understand the tradition of the occult is to understand the mind of Jonathan and those sources upon which he draws his knowledge and strength. Ancient Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks, Romans, Semite civilizations and those societies of early Europe all had systems of magic as part of their religion and priestcraft. Thus magic was endowed with an official, state approved status. It is with the advent of Christianity that the attitude towards magic undergoes a change, for the church condemned it, denied it, branded it as being against the spirit of Jesus Christ.
“It is not surprising that this pronouncement in effect created two camps: Christianity on one side, black arts on the other. Magic and sorcery were driven underground where they elevated demons and devils to positions of adoration. If magic was to be in opposition to Mother Church, then it would exist with opposite effects to call its own. So it is here that we get the black mass, the anti-Christ, the bowing down to evil and to forces of destruction.”
Poe closed his eyes, breathing deeply to rid himself of the smell of gas suddenly returning to his nostrils. “The church’s opposition was in vain, for people had been too long involved with what was now branded pagan rituals or the occult. I submit that with these influences still very much in the world today, it is easy to understand how a man like Jonathan can so deeply submerge himself in such a philosophy. It is all around him.”
Poe smiled at Figg. “I see skepticism written upon your face, sir. You doubt my thesis?”
Figg put his soup bowl down on the table. “Now I knows you to be a right bright gent, I do, so I say maybe you knows what yer goin’ on about. But I wonder how much you can really tell me about Jonathan, what with yer never havin’ met ‘im and all. I sees him once or twice, real quick like and then ‘e’s gone like smoke blown before the wind. Understand I am a guest in yer home and I listens politely, but-”
“Oh Mr. Figg,” Mrs. Clemm reached over to touch his arm. “Eddy is most astute and possessed of deductive powers unequalled by anyone.”
“Yes, mum.” Figg wasn’t going to argue with the old lady. Not in her house, such as it was. Not much of a cottage, with three little rooms on the first floor and upstairs an attic divided into two rooms not much bigger than closets. Wasn’t much furniture about but the place was as neat as a pin, with floors scrubbed white as new flour. Not a bit of heat, though.
Figg was staying tonight because he wanted to make sure little Mr. Poe was alive and kicking. He was owed that much. Couldn’t stop Poe from talking, though to be fair he did talk pretty good, almost as good as Mr. Dickens.
Convinced of his superiority, Poe rarely ignored an opportunity to convince others. Now he swelled with pride, gray eyes boring into Figg.
“It was in Philadelphia some eight years ago. I edited a magazine for William Burton, though I was given neither credit nor responsibility as editor, and in the end Burton and I quarrelled, but no matter. It was here that I issued a challenge to the reading public: Send me cryptograms-coded epigrams-in French, Italian, Spanish, German, Latin, Greek and I will solve them. I received one hundred replies in these languages and I solved ninety-nine of them. Ninety-nine, Mr. Figg. The hundredth was inaccurate to begin with, thus a false challenge and so I discarded it.
“Now on to more serious challenges met and accomplished. A little over six years ago, there was a murder in this fair city of most interesting proportions. A beautiful and graceful girl, Mary Cecilia Rogers, who toiled as a tobacconist at the Hotel Astor, was murdered and the newspapers blazoned the story day after day. This foul deed attracted the interest of everyone, for Mary was known throughout the city for her beauty and many a man had tried his charm upon her. I used only the information available to me in the newspapers and with that and only that, I wrote a work of fiction, of make-believe, changing names but solving the murder, Mr. Figg. Solving the murder.”
“Months after my story, “The Mystery of Marie Roget,” was published, the actual murder was solved. Those confessing to it were the people I had fictionally described and they had done this deed in those ways I had indicated. I have written other such tales of detection and for all of the praise given me as the inventor of deductive policemen, I have yet to prosper from this genre. I, the father of detective stories, have apparently suffered one more literary stillbirth. Yes Mr. Figg, I know whereof I reason. It may appear guesswork, but it is not, sir. My mind never guesses, it only reasons. I serve logic, sir, not the whims of prevailing fashions no matter how acceptable they may be to the world around me. I serve truth with reckless abandon and such truthfulness, sir, has cost me acceptance, prosperity and I fear some portion of my sanity.”
Figg nodded, impressed but still watchful. Poe didn’t work hard at being likable, but he wasn’t a dull lot and he had saved Figg’s life.
Poe sank back in his chair, eyes on a spoon he rolled between thumb and forefinger. “Some say magic is superstition, the god of savages, a hidden force beyond the limits of those few exact sciences we now toy with and call ourselves informed. Magic and sorcery touch on philosophy, religion and much that is taboo and its believers
