by Marc Olden
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 talk of its hidden wisdom.”
Poe dropped the spoon. ‘’I too consider the existence of more things than we now know but I am concerned with the imagination, with the depths of the mind, with examining the fullest extent of the human spirit. Though my way sometimes seems dark, it is destructive only to me if to anyone, for I have lived with the demons of suffering and frustration found in this world and in desperation I turn inward, exploring, ever exploring. For someone like me, there is no remaining challenge in a world such as this save that to be found in the world of the imagination. In this particular world, I find my own magic. In the world within, I rely on … I am not yet sure what I rely on. I live from hour to hour and I hope that I do not go insane.”
Reaching to touch his hand, Mrs. Clemm said softly, “Oh dearest Eddy—” In silent gratitude he smiled sadly at her.
Poe turned to Figg, “You have mentioned that Jonathan fears you, a fact told to you by the assassins who attacked you in London.”
“That is correct.”
“Has it occurred to you, Mr. Figg, that Jonathan sees in you a primitive force perhaps equal to or surpassing his own?”
“I don’t see how, Mr. Poe. I ain’t but a normal man. Nothin’ special ’bout me. ’ceptin’ I plan to kill Jonathan. Beggin’ your pardon, missus.”
Mrs. Clemm nodded, fascinated at hearing one man actually say he planned to kill another. But this Jonathan had tried to harm her Eddy, so he must be detestable. Let Mr. Figg indeed take Mr. Jonathan’s life.
“Mr. Figg,” said Poe, “I assume you know nothing of witchcraft.”
“’Ere now, what do you take me for? I ain’t no witch.”
“And yet I heard you make a reference to ‘scoring above the breath,’ did I not?”
“Me wife Althea said that. She ‘eard it from Jonathan, but yeah, I know what it means. Every Englishman knows that it means you kill a witch by slicing her ’cross the forehead, by spillin’ her blood above her nose. Her power is in ‘er blood. That’s the way to do ’er.”
“Did I not see you eat a hard-boiled egg, then turn the shell upside down?”
“Every child in England does it. Keeps witches away. Just a habit, that’s all. Did it without thinkin’. You sayin’ I’m some kinda demon meself?”
“No, Mr. Figg. I am saying you and others know more about the black arts than you are aware of and perhaps you, in other lives, in another existence—”
Figg smiled, waving Poe away. “Go on, now, squire. I ain’t been alive but once. This ‘ere life is it. I knows that much, I do.”
“I will not press the question, sir. I merely state that you could be more of a supernatural force than you recognize and Jonathan, having trained his intelligence along certain lines, can see things in you that no one else does. It is a fact, Mr. Figg, that your English ancestors, the Celts, the Angles, the Saxons, yes even that most dangerous priesthood the Druids, worshipped strange gods and conceived peculiar rituals, many of which still exist throughout England today. Is it not possible that some of these ancient forces, in a benign, decent way, are manifest in you?”
Figg chuckled. “You likes to carry on, squire. Now you have ‘ad your little joke—”
“Mr. Figg, tell me of the legend of the magpie as it is believed in the British Isles.”
Figg frowned. “I knows you spent some time in England but—”
“Please tell me.”
“Well, as lads we was told that the magpie did not mourn properly when Christ he was on the cross, so we look on it as an evil bird and it is supposed to carry a drop of the devil’s blood under its tongue.”
“And is it not traditional that English lads still hunt and kill the wren, the king of birds and on December 26th, which is called Boxing Day in your country, is it not traditional for the boys to carry the dead bodies of freshly murdered wrens from house to house, collecting coins?”
Figg nodded grimly.
“Mr. Figg, is it not true that in England people refuse to talk near cats, believing cats to be witches in disguise and thus it is feared that witches, through cats, will learn your secrets? Do you believe this to be true?”
Figg shrugged, admitting nothing. He wondered if Poe was making fun of him, trying to show him as a stupid man filled with superstitions. He decided no, Poe wasn’t doing that. There was no venom in the writer’s voice, no poison in his tone.
Figg said, “Hares are supposed to turn themselves into witches, too. And we was told that dogs can see ghosts, but nobody really takes that twaddle seriously. Leastwise I don’t.”
“But you are aware of it, Mr. Figg, and of more as well. Have you not heard, for example, that the Celts believed the souls of the dead travel on horse to that land where the dead go and do not return and that witches in England are still said to ‘hag ride’ a horse during the night, bringing him back to his owner at dawn sweated and exhausted.”
Figg nodded. “As boys, we ‘eard it but I ain’t never seen it.”
Poe’s voice was very soft. “Jonathan fears you, Mr. Figg. Whatever the forces within you, he fears you and that places you in mortal danger. Jonathan follows ‘the left-handed path,” for such is the name given to black magic.”
Figg looked into his empty coffee cup. “You
claims to be a logical man, a man what thinks and who don’t believe in such things as spiritualism and the black arts.”
“Ah Mr. Figg, but I do. I believe in such thoughts for those who believe in such thoughts. If a man believes that eating mud will give him a presentable face and an extra toe on each foot, it is entirely possible that he will indeed become more presentable and have twelve toes, but it is for him that such a thing is possible. My belief is limited to that of an observer. I feel that such an outlook is functional for those with such faith and such needs. I do not believe, Mr. Figg. Others do and let them. I remain unconvinced, though my mind will deal with it as a matter of scholarship, nothing else.”
“Tell you the truth, Mr. Poe, I have me own thoughts. I don’t want to believe in such things but Jonathan ain’t normal. ‘E’s got somethin’ beyond, well all I can say is so long as I keep on hatin’ ’im I have the backbone to seek ‘im out. I jes’ want to complete me business with ‘im before I gets to fearin’ ’im more than I do and between you and me, I fears ’im a little.”
“Mr. Figg, whether or not I believe in a thing has little to do with its existence, for truth is that which is true under all circumstances. Truth is that which does not take into consideration the opinions of anyone. In performing necromancy, Jonathan must deal with the dead and he must control them, bringing them from beyond in spite of their wish to remain there. He has offended Asmodeus, King of Demons, or he feels he has and so he kills to stay alive. He sacrifices his own flesh, his little fingers, to stay alive. Jonathan will call on powerful spirits to aid him, any and all of which could destroy him if the ritual is performed incorrectly. I say this to you, Mr. Figg: Should you come upon Jonathan during this ritual, it is possible that you, sir, will suffer grievous injury of some kind. Kill him, yes, but before he begins the ceremony. Before.”
Figg said, “You claim it takes nine days to perform, once he gets the body.”
“‘The dead rise and come to me,’ begins the ceremony which is performed at night, always at night and in such places as a graveyard, a forest, a crossroads, a crypt. There are circles of power drawn on the ground and he must remain in them, for this is a terribly dangerous ceremony. And there is the danger, real or imagined of Asmodeus. Jonathan will cut himself off from the world for nine days. He will dress in a shroud, sleep by day and move by night. He will eat only at midnight and then it will be the flesh of dogs, unfermented wine and unleavened bread, these last two foods lacking life. The dog serves Hecate, goddess of death.”
Figg sighed. “So we must find Jonathan before the ceremony.”
Poe nodded. “Before the ceremony, certainly before the ninth day, for by then he will charge and command the spirit of the dead to come forth. He will offer worship to all four points of the compass, ending with the north. Only one group of people in the world venerate the north as a holy point: the dreaded Yezidi of south Asia, who worship the devil in all his evil. Most of humanity regards the north as black, the home of Satan, the abode of freezing wind and death.”
Poe rubbed the back of his neck, then scratched his high, wide forehead. “Christians have long feared the north, reserving the north side of a churchyard for suicides, those unfortunates who cannot be buried in consecrated ground. Though I do not directly concern myself with these matters, save on the printed page, I tell you, Mr. Figg, that Jonathan has such faith in what he pursues that he is capable of unleashing a horror which could bring down a hell upon us all. Kill him swiftly, for all our sakes.”
Figg said, “If I do not claim his life, Mr. Poe, it will be because he has first succeeded in claiming mine. Is there more you can detect about Jonathan and his business?”
“Yes. He is European. The cult worship of Asmodeus has existed in that section of the world for years, even among members of royal houses. He is obviously a scholar, for merely to familiarize himself with occult writings requires intelligence, possibly linguistic abilities since many of the books and scrolls are written in Latin, Hebrew, Greek, old French and old German. And, as we have learned by his use of Althea and her father, he is careful to seek help if something is obscure. He is young, physically strong, trained in medicine, for he is able to remove body organs under primitive conditions and apparently fairly quickly.”
Poe looked up at the ceiling. “He is travelled; his association with the Renaissance Players indicates the need for a passport to get him easily from one country to another. Since I claim he is also Paracelsus, I submit Jonathan is an actor, skilled in stage technique and makeup. He is meticulous, thorough. This can be seen in how much he knows about the lives of those who seek him out as spiritualist. To deceive them, he must know everything about them so our Jonathan is a planner, a schemer, a man who looks ahead, who is able to convince one man to betray another by fair means or foul. He must be capable of inspiring some degree of loyalty, for it is not possible to purchase the hearts and minds of everyone in the universe.
“Jonathan is vengeful, unforgiving. Witness the death of Sproul’s associates. I sense in him a strong ego, a love of power, the strong need to dominate, to have all bow to his will without question. He sees himself the equal of the gods, for he has challenged Asmodeus as evidenced by that barbaric ritual involving the slaughter of several people. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants and there are no barriers to his evil. Witness, Mr. Figg, what he did to your wife. Jonathan defies God and Satan and he wants to rank beside them, never beneath them. He dreams grand dreams, does Jonathan and he undoubtedly is the most intelligent, determined and deadly individual any of us have ever encountered.”
Poe leaned across the table. “And, Mr. Figg, he did not attempt to kill you last night.”
“Go on now, you bloomin’ well know he did. Who else wants me under the earth save ‘im?”
“Jonathan lives in darkness, Mr. Figg. His awareness of the Throne of Solomon and his single-mindedness in pursuing it, indicates a deep and abiding interest in magic. His slaying of your wife, his slaying of Sproul’s cohorts, his attempts at clouding my mind—all of these things were committed by a magician, a sorcerer. By comparison, the attempt at destroying you with gas seems crude, unimaginative, hasty and above all, absent from the realm of the supernatural. Even his bringing a painting to life at the home of Miles Standish—”
Poe stopped. He frowned. “Miles Standish. Miles Standish.” He looked at Figg, then smiled quickly. “Well sir, let us talk of lighter things for my Muddy is sitting between us stunned and made silent by these somber matters.”
She playfully slapped his hand. “Oh Eddy, do not make me out to be such a fossil.”
Figg wanted to ask more questions, but no sense in pushing Poe. Later he would get dear Eddy to talk some more. Did Poe believe Miles Standish to be behind that business with the gas? Well, no more talk of killing; ain’t the business of a man to speak these things in front of a woman.
Figg grinned. “Riddle me, riddle me ree.”
“Oh Eddy, a riddle. I do so love them.” Mrs. Clemm’s plain face broke out in a smile as she clapped her hands.
Poe smiled as Figg’s husky voice assumed the singsong rhythm of a child’s verse. “Little Nancy Etticoat/With a white petticoat/and a red nose She has no feet or hands/the longer she stands/the shorter she grows.”
Poe was quick. “A candle.”
“Right you are squire. Now try this ‘ere one. A house full, a hole full/You cannot gather a bowlful.”
Poe closed his eyes, then opened them. “Smoke. Perhaps, perhaps mist.”
All three laughed.
Figg tried several more and no matter how obscure they were, Poe guessed them all. The silliness of the game delighted him more than anything had in a long time. Muddy was pleased and if Poe had not brought her money or food this time, he’d brought her the surprising Pierce James Figg, pugilist and reciter of English children’s riddles.
And, for a short time, that was something for both of them to be warmed by in an existence where there was so little
to be warmed by.
* * * *
Upstairs, Mrs. Clemm stood in the tiny, cold attic room where Figg was to spend the night. The cold numbed his fingers, toes and he’d have to sleep with his clothes and boots on.
The yellow stub of a candle in her long fingers was the only light. “We have straw for you, Mr. Figg and I shall bring you the blanket from my room.”
“No mum. Ain’t takin’ a blanket away from no lady, thankin’ you muchly just the same. Straw is fine, for I was born on it and it’s been me bed more than once in me life.”
“You are our guest, sir. I can do no less than give you—”
“No mum. Now if you go and do such a thing, bring me your blanket I mean, then I will just wait until you fall asleep, and come into your room and cover you. It ain’t correct for a gentleman to enter a lady’s chamber in such fashion, so do not place me in such a predicament.”
Lord help us, he thought. If I was to go in for a bit of night crawlin’, with all due respect, Mrs. Clemm wouldn’t be what I’d care to see at the end of me creepin’.
She blushed. “I appreciate your good manners, Mr. Figg. Now allow me to give you all of the disturbing news at once. Eddy is downstairs attempting to write, so I am unable to leave you with even this small bit of candle. We cannot afford to purchase even the cheapest tallow. What light we have is necessary for his work. I—” She was too embarrassed to speak.
Figg said, “Mum, seein’ as how I shall be lyin’ ’ere with me eyes shut tight, a candle does not appear to be needed.”
“Thank you, Mr. Figg. Eddy has not been in good health of late and since the death one year ago of my daughter, his wife, he has written little. Two poems and a book review, plus what journalistic work he can obtain at only pennies a page. So whenever he feels the urge to write, I must encourage him. It is no secret that he is, perhaps, in the twilight of his life, though I hope and pray with all my heart that this is not so. Well, Mr. Figg, I bid you good ni—”
