Figg’s bulldog face was firm. “In this place of Scotch Ann, beggin’ yer pardon miss for havin’ to mention it once more, you say all the pretty ladies is really pretty men?”
“Yes, Mr. Figg.”
“This is a peculiar business, Mr. Poe. I ain’t never been in a place like this before.”
“Yes, Mr. Figg. I note your rigid jaw when you speak of Scotch Ann’s. You will not have to dance or embrace anyone there, you have my word.”
“I hold you to it, Mr. Poe.”
Figg lifted his jaw in the air and sat firm, the picture of an Englishman who knew where the line had to be drawn.
THIRTY-FOUR
The night of the first day.
As called for in the ritual, Jonathan slept during the day. He was scheduled to do this for the full nine days, waking only at night to perform the rites. Laertes, who would assist, lay beside him on the dirt floor of the abandoned barn; to make certain they slept, each man had sipped drugged, unfermented wine. Cold sunlight shone through cracks in the barn walls, throwing long, golden stripes across the bodies of the two sleeping men, both of whom wore stained, dirt encrusted grave clothes torn from recently dug up corpses.
Jonathan and Laertes slept within a magic circle nine feet in diameter, a circle dug in the ground by Jonathan, who had used an
Preparation, summoning, dismissal. The three parts of the black art of necromancy.
Preparation. All items to be used lay within and just outside the circle. Torches. Flint for making fire. A bowl containing a mixture of opium, hemlock, saffron, wood chips, mandrake and henbane. Six white candles, salt, water, a mallet and sharpened wooden stake.
For food, there was the flesh of dogs. And bread. Black, unleavened and unsalted bread and more unfermented wine. The dog served Hecate, goddess of death. The bread and wine, lacking yeast, salt and fermentation, were without life and served as needed barren symbols. Jonathan and Laertes were to eat sparsely and only at midnight.
Midnight.
The summoning of Justin Coltman’s spirit began.
Jonathan and Laertes had eaten and both now sat within the first consecrated circle. Each had sprinkled human ashes into his hair. Laertes held a flaming torch in each hand, his eyes closed, his mind directed to Jonathan’s chanting.
Jonathan’s hypnotic voice lulled Laertes into a half sleep; he had to force himself to keep his eyes open. He listened.
His eyes went to the mallet and sharpened wooden stake which lay to his left. Dismissal. When the spirit had been raised and when it had done the magician’s bidding, the wooden stake would be driven through its heart so that never again could it be used for such rites.
Laertes snapped his head up. Jonathan had just raised his voice.
Our name is legion, for we are many.
Behind Laertes, a sudden wind slapped loudly against the barn and the torchlight flickered, the flames snapping like whips. Laertes’ hands shook. But he remained sitting, eyes on Jonathan’s back as the sorcerer continued to summon the spirit of Justin Coltman who lay rotting in his coffin only three feet away.
* * * *
The gaslight had been lit, casting huge, pale yellow circles on the night-blackened streets of Manhattan. Poe’s slight body gently swayed side to side with the carriage’s motion. Sparks flew when the iron shod hoofs of the horses struck cobblestones.
Figg said, “You are quiet, Mr. Poe.”
“Next week, Mr. Figg, is Valentine’s Day. It will be the second such melancholy occasion since the death of my dear wife. I was thinking of the valentine she wrote me on February 14th, 1846, the last Valentine’s Day we spent together. She was dying even then. Had been dying for four years.”
“Was it a nice one?”
Poe smiled, remembering. “Quite nice. Simple and charming, as was she. The first letters of each line spelled out my name.”
“Say now, that’s right clever.”
Figg sighed, reaching over to pat Poe on the knee. “Right sweet, it is. Yes, I did enjoy that.”
Poe touched his heart. “It is written here and shall remain here forever. The document is too precious to me, so I do not carry it for fear of losing it.”
Figg said, “You’re smart to do that, squire. Where we are goin’, a man can lose more than a scrap of paper.”
Poe chuckled. “Scotch Ann’s seems to have put you on the defensive, Mr. Figg. You have my word that you do not have to partake of anything-”
Figg snapped. “Aint’ right fer a man to feel that way about another man. That sort of thing does not meet with acceptance in England, I’ll have you know.”
“It is disgraceful here as well, Mr. Figg. There can be nothing more loathsome than a man who engages in such unnatural practices.”
“The Queen herself has said that such things are an abomination. She says women don’t do it, not ever.”
“I am afraid, Mr. Figg, that the inhabitants of Scotch Ann’s are not of a mind to be told they are in error in their proclivities. Pray that we encounter Volney Gunning there. One day has passed.”
Figg looked out at the dark Manhattan streets. The stench of a slaughterhouse reached his nose and as the
