Poe must die

was no power in it. All he could do was back away, keep out of range of those long, powerful arms.

Thor jabbed with his left. Figg leaned away, then ducked under it, hooking a right into the Negro’s side. The punch had nothing behind it; the shoulder was still numb. Figg rushed him, grabbing Thor around the waist, trying to lift him from the ground and thrown him down. Panic. Thor was smiling down at him. Figg hadn’t moved him.

Thor brought his knee up into Figg’s groin and a series of harsh and blinding white lights exploded in the Englishman’s head. The pain was searing, speeding from his groin to his head and back again and Figg fell forward to the ground.

Dimly, he heard Barnum and Bootham yelling “Foul!', heard the Britons in the huge cellar take up the cry. “Foul! Foul! Foul!” Someone threw an empty whiskey bottle and a half-eaten sandwich into the ring.

Figg, still on the ground, fought to breathe. His knees were drawn up to his stomach. Pain squeezed his brain, his stomach, his groin.

And suddenly-from far away, he heard the voices of a chorus of old men. “YOUhave called. We have come. Celts of old have come.”

Figg rolled over on his stomach, forcing himself to his knees. The roar of the men in the cellar filled his brain and he could not hear the voices of the old men. His one good eye went to a window high and to the right. He saw the moon. Large, round, full and yellow. It seemed to grow right in front of him.

He remembered, Power grows when the moon grows. When the moon grows strong, all beneath it grow strong.

Show your new money to the moon so that it may grow as the moon grows. Sow crops just before a new moon. Wish on a new moon, bow to it and turn around nine times.

In his travels throughout all of England, Figg had heard these things many times. Old wives’ tales, he’d thought. Superstitions remaining from the days of the ancient tribes, left over from the Druids, a priesthood so powerful that not even Julius Caesar could stamp it out.

“Celts of old have come.” The sound of the old men once more.

“Mars Cocidius,” said the old men. “He is with you. You have called upon him, upon us and we have come. We are we and you are you.”

Mars Cocidius. The Druids and Celts had adopted those Roman gods which coincided with theirs. Mars, the Roman god of war, became Mars Cocidius, god of war for Britain’s ancient tribes. Had Figg called on him for help? He couldn’t remember. Perhaps he had during those lonely, frightened days spent alone in Titus Bootham’s cellar.

Figg could not remember.

Merlin the dwarf poured water into Figg’s mouth. Barnum was shouting something in his ear and Mr. Bootham, little Mr. Bootham was weeping because he could no longer stand to see Figg take a beating. The Englishmen in the crowd had pushed to the edge of the ring, screaming, threatening to kill the umpires, timekeepers, Thor, Hugh Larney and his friends. The situation was ugly.

Again Figg and Figg alone, heard the voices.

“Widdershins, widdershins, widdershins … ”

Widdershins. The counterclockwise motion used by witches in casting spells. Christianity had outlawed ‘the old religion’ and in retaliation, ‘the old religion’ had declared itself the opposite of all Christianity stood for.

In medieval times, armies marched counterclockwise around a castle before attacking it, the better to work up strength and increase their chances for victory.

Figg pushed himself to his feet, swayed, blinked and tried to focus his one good eye. There was Larney, bloated with arrogance now, accepting the congratulations of his friends on his victory and there was Thor turning to him and grinning. On their side of the ring, men cheered, whooped, drank and jeered at Figg. The betting in the cellar had gotten out of hand; Larney had increased his wager to $100,000 in gold and the English, in the heat of patriotic fever and a hatred for the Americans, had matched the bet among themselves.

Widdershins.

“Be it as your faith,” said the old men.

Me faith, muttered Figg.

He looked at the moon. As he did so, the pain in his body seemed to ease. Suddenly there was some sight in his left eye and the right eye was fine. Perfect. He blinked. He could lift his right arm.

“Time!”

Figg looked into the moon once more, then limped forward to meet a supremely confident Thor.

Widdershins.

Figg limped to his left. Counterclockwise.

Thor stalked him.

* * * *

Rachel felt secure, safe. She sat in the carriage beside Eddy, dear Eddy and soon she would see Justin once more. Eddy had done this for her, he had made it possible for her to see Justin again. Both men were so dear to her; how fortunate she was to have them in her life. She felt peaceful now, rested. There was nothing to worry about.

The carriage rolled slowly, steadily through the moonlit night, along snow-covered roads, through woods, over low hills and across flatlands.

Towards Hugh Larney’s abandoned farm.

Towards Jonathan.

And a mesmerized Rachel, not knowing she was in a trance, sat contented beside an apparition.

* * * *

Poe awoke. He was still in darkness. And there was the dampness around him, the stale air. The coffin lid. He kicked it, punched it, cursed it.

He screamed and screamed and the sound of his voice remained as trapped in the small, hellish prison, as did Poe himself.

* * * *

Thor was confused. He frowned, licked the blood from his lips and charged once more. Waiting until the last second, Figg sidestepped to his left, hooking his left fist into the Negro’s rib cage, then driving his right, arm fully extended, into the same spot. Thor’s eyes became all whites. He staggered backward.

For the past few minutes the Englishman had been hitting him in the same spot, the right rib cage and the pain was growing. All of the white man’s blows had been concentrated there, nowhere else and Thor was feeling it. What Thor hated most of all was that the white man had knocked him down three times and the last time, Thor had found himself getting up slowly.

The Negro, more cautious now, flicked his bloodied left fist at Figg’s face. The Englishman stayed out of reach, continuing to circle to his left. Two more swings by Thor and again, they missed and when the Negro was leaning forward, slightly off-balance, Figg flicked a small jab at his face. The blow stung.

Widdershins.

Every man in the cellar was on his feet, shouting, cursing, encouraging. Some who had been against Figg were now for the squat, bulldog-faced Englishman. His courage had impressed them, his ability to absorb punishment and not quit had won their fickle allegiance. A worried Hugh Larney chewed his tiny lower lip as Figg faked right with his head, drawing a reaction from an anxious Thor, then stepped left, punching on the move, hooking his left fist under the Negro’s heart.

Thor staggered backward, surprised, but he didn’t go down. He’d never seen a man punch and move at the same time. Most boxers planted both feet, then swung from a firm stance. Suddenly the old man in front of him was running all over the ring, hitting while he ran and the blows were hurting Thor.

Thor was angry. He wasn’t going to lose a fight to this old white man, this man who could not walk without dragging a foot behind him, this man with scars on his face and body. Thor was going to kill him and not just for the $100 in gold. He was going to kill him because he now hated him more than he’d hated anyone in his life.

Figg felt strong, confident. He gave no thought as to how that had come about. That it had come about was all that mattered. If he was a part of a tradition that had lived long before Christ and was still alive in the hills and dark woods of England, then so be it. All he was certain of was that now it was a different fight between him and