Poe must die

“All of us, we are stakin’ our lives on this business.”

Poe pointed his stick. “Red candles. Red is the color of life. The Celtic ancient tribes believed that to dance around flame was a method of raising power. That is also why certain rituals were performed naked, to allow the power to flow unobstructed.”

Figg cleared his throat. “I does what makes me comfortable. I ain’t been in a prize ring in seven years and I will be facin’ a younger man, a stronger man, a killer. I does what is comfortable, Mr. Poe.”

Poe smiled. “I have been told that when one speaks of black magic, one is speaking of what others are involved in.”

Figg snapped, “Ain’t no black magic bein’ done ’ere.”

“Forgive me, dear friend. I-”

“Jes doin’ what’s comfortable, is all.”

Poe looked around in the darkness. Blankets over the windows, a stale, musty odor inside. Darkness lit only by two red candles. Figg was returning to the strength of his ancestors. No matter how much he denied it, ‘the cult of the wise’ was within him.

The boxer must be a desperate, frightened man. Suddenly Poe started coughing and couldn’t stop. His head spun and he blacked out, pitching forward and down the stairs.

When he opened his eyes, a worried, sweating and naked Figg was hovering over him.

“You been workin’ too hard, squire.” The hostility was gone from Figg’s voice.

“I am a man of honor, Mr. Figg, and I have a debt. I owe you for agreeing to fight in my stead, and so I am doing all I can to locate Larney and Jonathan. I feel certain,” he coughed, “certain that Larney knows Jonathan’s hiding place and that hiding place is on property owned by Larney.”

He coughed again. Figg bent down, lifting him into a sitting position.

“Bet you ain’t been eatin’ much.”

“I take my cue from you, sir.”

“I does what must be done.”

“I know.”

Figg sighed. “I feel the need of this, Mr. Poe. Them crowds outside, they look at me like I am an animal, something penned up in ‘ere for their amusement. It’s a game to them, somethin’ to cheer on. For me, it could be me last fight. The blackamoor is strong and I do not mind tellin’ you in the quiet of this room that I am a man with more than small fears within ‘im. I have been in this country almost two weeks and it could well be that I die ’ere. I feel tired, Mr. Poe, tired and alone. Huntin’ Jonathan has taken much out of me. I am not a young man anymore and me skills are not what they used to be. I feel the need to prepare in this fashion and I would be thankin’ you muchly if you were not to tell anyone what you have seen down ’ere or what you have deducted with yer thinkin’!”

Poe nodded. “You have my word, Mr. Figg. Nothing that has transpired in this room will pass my lips. And I shall insist that Bootham stop your exuberant fellow Englishmen from rapping at your window.”

“Blankets can keep their bleedin’ faces from me sight, but not their knuckles from tappin’ on the glass. They are enjoyin’ themselves makin’ wagers and cursin’ the Americans. I figger to be their bleedin’ savior, it appears.”

He and Poe smiled. Poe said, “A residue of the two wars between our countries, dear friend. It is harmless, this patriotic excess. Barnum is growing impatient to see you. He is your champion.”

“’E sees me on the day of the fight. Make it known that anyone what comes down them stairs is riskin’.”

“Done. I shall calm Mr. Bootham, and myself, allow me to return here on the day appointed to escort you to the site. The police have wind of the duel and will do their best to prevent it. Prizefighting and all forms of personal combat are prohibited, which does not in any way stop them from occurring. They merely occur in secret.”

And men bear their pain in quiet forests and on secluded farmland.

There was a light tapping at a tiny cellar window. An English voice shouted, “Hello in there! You are our man, Pierce James Figg! Our money is on you! A cheer for Figg. Hip, hip hooray! Hip, hip hooray! Hip, hip hooray!”

An unimpressed Figg looked towards the sound. “Like to kick them all in the bleedin’ arse with a pair of hobnail boots, I would. Bet Mr. Bootham’s neighbors got their own thoughts on all this ’ere noise what’s going’ on.”

Poe took a bloodstained handkerchief from his greatcoat pocket and coughed into it. It was the lavender handkerchief given him by Figg.

“I shall give your regards to Rachel and to the child, Dearborn. She is a delightful creature, little Dearborn. So much like my Sissy.”

“Make sure you eats some decent grub. You looks like a horse sat on you.”

Poe smiled. “I dare say I do not resemble a dashing beau. My gratitude for the use of your room at the boarding house. With my perennially impaired financial position-”

“It’s yers, mate. Rent has been paid fer two weeks. If I get meself kilt by the blackamoor, you got a place to mourn. If, if somethin’ like that does ’appen, there are some private things in me carpetbag, a ring that belonged to me wife, a tiny paintin’ of her and Will. There is a family bible and-”

Poe swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “I shall see that they are buried with you, Mr. Figg.”

“Thankin’ you muchly. Now please leave me be. There are some things in me mind and it’s bein’ alone that will ’elp me deal with ’em.”

Poe looked at the sweating, naked man. Scars on the outside of him, scars on the inside. And like all warriors, the day he had long dreaded had come to Figg, the day when he doubted if his fighting skills were enough to keep him alive.

Poe was halfway up the stairs when he stopped and turned. “Thus thou shalt possess the glory of the whole world; and all darkness will flee from you.”

Figg had stepped back into darkness. “Sounds like the bible.”

“No. It is from an ancient occult inscription which some claim was discovered by Sara, wife of Abraham and others say was found in a cave by Alexander the Great. Medieval students were quite fond of quoting it, though the entire inscription runs much longer.”

“Sounds pleasant. I appreciates you sayin’ it to me.”

“With all my heart, dear friend. I say it to you with all my heart.”

“You ain’t startin’ to believe any of this, this ‘old religion,’ are you, Mr. Poe?”

“Be it as your faith, Mr. Figg. So Christ said to one who came to him for a miracle. May your faith in whatever you believe be strong enough to bring you victory.”

Silence.

Poe turned and continued up the stairs.

FORTY-FOUR

Jonathan. Sundown of the ninth day

An exhausted, drugged Laertes, more dead than alive, slept. Jonathan sat inside of the protective circle and conjured. Fatigue and strain were forgotten. The sour taste in his mouth from the uncooked dog meat no longer disturbed him; the excitement of being mere hours from obtaining the Throne of Solomon gave him added strength. The goal was within reach.

Jonathan’s power was almighty. There was no one on earth to equal him. No one.

Across space and time, his mind sought out Rachel Coltman. His eyes were closed, his arms extended to the side, his thoughts all directed to him.

Come to me, come to me, come to me. Come …

She would! He knew it. She could not withstand his power; she would have to obey him. And when she was sacrificed to Asmodeus, her dead husband would be next to obey the command to appear and all power that could be imagined would belong to Jonathan. The Throne of Solomon would be his as it was destined to be.

He directed his mind to Rachel Coltman miles away in her Manhattan home.

* * * *