POE MUST DIE

by Marc Olden

  Bootham nodded vigorously. “Yes, Mr. Poe. That seems to be a wise course.”

  Poe took his hat, stick and greatcoat from the bed. “I go to Rachel now. She is somewhat better, though still in the grip of nightmares and horrendous deliriums. I shall also continue my attempts to locate Hugh Larney. I am convinced that the death of Rachel’s physician means that Larney can tell us where our mystical friend is. Larney knows, Mr. Figg, and that is why he is avoiding us until the day of the fight. He enjoys his games, does Hugh Larney. He enjoys mortal combat from a distance and I am sure he is intoxicated at the idea of watching it once more, while harming you and I.”

  Figg nodded. “Guard yerself well, squire. Larney is a blackguard.”

  “I am of no consequence to him until the conclusion of the duel, Mr. Figg. By absenting himself, he not only aids Jonathan, he also avoids having to confront our pressing inquiries. I assume my life is safe until the termination of the duel. I do not wish to think of Larney and his Negro triumphing over you, but should that happen, I believe my life to be forfeit. And the child Dearborn becomes his. Good day Mr. Figg, Mr. Bootham.”

  * * * *

  Larney watched Thor punch the sandbag suspended from a beam in the barn. The Negro was barechested, sweating, hitting the bag with powerful blows.

  Larney, several feet away, turned to the man who had ridden out from New York to report to him.

  “Poe is askin’ all over town,” said the man. “He’s inquisitive about the dead doctor, your whereabouts, everything.”

  Larney frowned. “I would say kill him but there exists a peculiar truce between our camps and this fight is attracting much interest. A dead Poe would cancel the occasion and what would I tell my guests, who expect some diversion after a long and tedious sea voyage.”

  He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “Let him live. And on the day of the fight, on that very day, I think, I think I shall re-enter Mr. Poe’s dreadful life, to his undying displeasure. Undying, dear friend.”

  Larney threw back his head and roared.

  * * * *

  Martin said, “Hammer blows he uses. Brings his right hand high and down on your head, relyin’ on his strength. Will crowd you if he can. Likes to grapple, hug you close, squeeze your back ‘til it hurts.”

  Figg nodded.

  “Watch yer eyes,” said Tabby, pointing to his eye patch. “Took out mine, he did. Thumbs. Presses down. Nigger’s a tall one. He jes’ presses down.”

  Figg said, “’Ow’s ‘is moves left and right?”

  Martin shook his head. “Ain’t got none. Straight ahead, right Tabby?”

  The one-eyed man nodded. “Black bastard is like a damn train. Straight ahead and nothin’ else. Both of his hands are like the wrath of God. Long arms and he can keep you at a distance, if he wants. Punches down. He’s almost seven feet.”

  “Nahhhh,” said Martin scowling. “Over six to be sure, but under seven by five inches or more.”

  They argued over Thor’s height until Figg gently stopped them. There was agreement over the Negro’s boxing skills; the two men drinking Figg’s whiskey in Bootham’s parlor estimated that Thor had defeated more than thirty men in the ring.

  There was no way to estimate what the Negro had done outside of the ring. Only Larney and Thor himself knew those deadly figures.

  Thirty fights, resulting in cripplings, blindings and at least two deaths. Figg was facing the challenge of his life.

  When he’d given the men a few shillings and the remainder of the whiskey and sent them on their way, he returned to Bootham’s cellar where he trained alone and in secret, despite the pleas from Bootham’s English friends to watch him prepare. Figg was taking no chances that Jonathan or Larney had planted a spy anywhere near him.

  Tomorrow Figg would talk to another survivor of Thor’s boxing ability, this one a man who Bootham said was half blind and addled, but who could talk. Several men who had fought Thor refused to talk to Bootham. Larney would not like it, they said.

  And as Figg reminded himself, two boxers wouldn’t talk because they were dead, as dead as Rachel Coltman’s doctor.

  In the cellar, in candlelight and musty heat, Figg trained.

  And worried.

  FORTY-TWO

  JONATHAN. THE SIXTH NIGHT.

  Asmodeus had given him the name of the victim selected for the final blood rite.

  Rachel Coltman.

  The rite was to be performed in the barn, without leaving the circle; Jonathan was to lure the woman here, then carve out her heart and liver, burning them. If the husband is to be removed from the world of death, let the wife take his place; she was the price Jonathan must pay before reaching the end of the rite.

  Kill Rachel Coltman here on the final day, on the ninth day.

  * * * *

  Poe closed his eyes, rubbing the corners with his fingers.

  Figures, names, dates all swam in front of him and he saw nothing. But he had to see, he had to!

  He wanted liquor, he wanted its warmth and protection, but he would have to deny himself that salvation. Does a man gain salvation by denying himself salvation?

  Poe opened his eyes wide, drawing the lamp closer. He had much reading to do. He was checking land records to learn what Hugh Larney owned and where. The musty smell of the property building’s cellar was abominable and Poe was too sick to stand it for much longer, but he owed Figg.

  He owed him a great deal.

  Poe continued to turn the pages of the large book that recorded those dealings by which a handful of men were profiting on land that was becoming more and more valuable with each passing day.

  Later the clerk found Poe asleep, head down on one of the books.

  FORTY-THREE

  JONATHAN. THE SEVENTH NIGHT

  Jonathan, the evoker; Justin Coltman, the evoked. Magician and a dead man’s spirit drawn closer by a thought transmission unknown to human reason, a transmission that had been growing stronger for seven days, seven nights.

  Jonathan’s obsession with the Throne of Solomon gave him the physical and mental strength needed to proceed with this dangerous ritual, one which few magicians ever attempted. He was now in a world inhabited by the rarest of sorcerers, a world he’d conjured up with all of the magic at his command. He sensed th increasing presence of Justin Coltman and with it, that knowledge which could yield the Throne of Solomon

  The dead man knew the secret of the grimoires, those books of black magic stolen by the child thieves in London. That Justin Coltman lacked the knowledge to use them was a sign to Jonathan that he, and not any on else, was meant to triumph.

  In performing the ritual for the past seven days Jonathan was no longer functioning on mere reason; hi mind had now achieved a level of comprehension known only to those with faith in powers denied morta men. Be it as your faith. So said Jesus Christ and so say all beliefs. Be it as your faith and Jonathan’s faith in hi power as a sorcerer was never stronger than now.

  Behind him in the protective circle, Laertes sat chewing the raw, rancid dog meat. He chewed slowly, eye glazed, a face dusty with human ashes, a man with only the remnants of a mind and will of his own. The ordeal of the ritual had drained him and all he could do was mechanically obey Jonathan; his existence was in the magician’s hands. The restoration of his sanity was a matter that could wait until Jonathan had obtained the throne.

  Jonathan’s chanting was almost finished. “Has malim, enlighten me with the splendors of Eloi and Shechinah! Aralim, act! Ophanim, revolve and shine Hajoth a Kadosh, cry, speak, roar, bellow! Hallelu-jah Hallelu-jah. Hallelu-jah.”

  Two more days. And then he would have the greatest prize man had ever dreamed of.

  Suddenly the barn was filled with bright orange flames and the strong, foul smell of demons. Animals shrieked, threatened, and the cries of dead men were everywhere.

  Asmodeus!

  Again he had returned to demand his sacrifice.

  Magician, he cried, the woman offends me.


  Torment me not, thought Jonathan. I renounce her.

  Give her to me, magician. Bring her here and give her to me in sacrifice.

  I will. Before the ninth day ends.

  The fire disappeared. Asmodeus, the fire, animals, the dead men’s cries all vanished.

  Jonathan sat rigid. When his fears had eased and his hands had stopped trembling, he looked over his shoulder at Laertes who sat unseeing, showing no reaction to what had just occurred. I will save him on the final day, thought Jonathan, for then all power will be mine.

  Since demanding Rachel Coltman’s death in exchange for the soul of her dead husband, Asmodeus had not ceased to torment Jonathan. The demon king, in all his hideous fury, had appeared daily; the sight and smell of him would have defeated all men, except Jonathan. But Jonathan, tiring and fighting hard against collapse would need all of his concentration for the final day. Let Asmodeus have Rachel and leave Jonathan alone.

  The magician was working at full strength, exhausting himself and his powers, but the prize was worth it. The prize was within reach and Rachel Coltman’s life was a small price to pay for it.

  * * * *

  “Mr. Figg? It is I. Poe.”

  “I said no one was to come down ‘ere. No one!”

  “It is Poe.”

  “I know ’oo you are. I said no one, you hear me?”

  Poe stood in the middle of the cellar stairs, squinting down into the darkness. “Mr. Bootham and the others are worried about you. You seemed to have cut yourself off from them and I am told you eat very little. Why are you down here alone in this oppressive, foul-smelling darkness? Would you please light another candle? I cannot see—”

  “No candle!” Figg’s voice was a primeval, gutteral sound coming from the blackness. He was hostile, unfriendly and Poe was shocked.

  “Is there anything wrong, Mr. Figg?”

  “Jes’ leave me be, mate. Climb back up them stairs and leave me be. Tell the others I says to keep away and leave me be.”

  Poe stared down at the two candles flickering on top of barrels; the candles cast a pale red glow on the brown dirt cellar floor. Something was wrong. Figg was spending all of his time alone in Titus Bootham’s cellar, eating vegetables, drinking plain water. No meat, no milk or foods made from milk. If anyone saw him it was Bootham and then only briefly. With the duel less than two days away, an anxious Bootham had begged Poe to go down into the cellar and talk with the boxer. Because of Figg’s odd behavior the Bootham household, servants and family, was afraid to approach him.

  A thought nagged at Poe. Figg’s choice of diet. His living and training down here in the cellar. And those candles. Could it be—”

  Poe said, “There is a crowd of Englishmen gathered in the street at the front of Bootham’s home, Mr. Figg. All are enthused over the forthcoming combat. Word of the duel has spread and you are the man of the hour.”

  “They want blood. I know what they want.”

  “It is true, Mr. Figg, that this duel has assumed the proportions of a holiday and a circus in the eyes of many and for that, I am deeply sorry. Mr. Barnum has twice been to this house and twice Mr. Bootham has turned him away—”

  “On my orders.” Figg was still invisible in the darkness.

  “I understand and my sympathies are with you, dear friend. Mr. Barnum has offered any assistance you may need and he wishes you to know that he is among your most fervent backers. I understand that Mr. Barnum has offered the use of one of his warehouses for the duel.”

  “Talk to Bootham about that. Will you leave me in peace?”

  Poe took one more step down into the cellar. “Mr. Figg, I know what you are doing. And I understand, sir.”

  “Understand what?”

  “The ritual. Your preparation.”

  There was a noise in the darkness directly in front of Poe; he cocked an ear.

  “What is it that you know, Mr. Poe?”

  “Jonathan fears you. Let me say with good reason, for he sees in you those forces which are deeper and darker within himself, those forces you continually deny. All of us see in others only those things which are in ourselves and Jonathan knows and can recognize the occult. You are fasting, dear friend. Not an ordinary fast but the black fast.”

  Poe could feel the silence in the dark cellar. Meaning he was right in what he’d just said.

  “The black fast, Mr. Figg. To aid the concentration, to strengthen the powers of thought. Abstain from meat, avoid all milk and milk foods. If I recall correctly, an Englishwoman was executed in the sixteenth century after having been accused of using this particular fast in a witchcraft plot to kill King Henry the Eighth.”

  Figg’s voice was softer. Nearer. “I ‘ear tell that witchcraft is called ‘the old religion,’ the one the English useta ‘ave long before Christianity come to our island.”

  “That is true. It is also known as ‘the cult of the wise’ and history shows how important it was to the ancient tribes of Britain, the Angles, Saxons, the Celts. Your ancestors, Mr. Figg.”

  “I do not fast in order to kill anyone, Mr. Poe. It’s stayin’ alive, I am after. The fast you speak of is also used to bring misfortune to an enemy, not that I am admittin’ to what yer sayin’.”

  “I understand, Mr. Figg.” Poe sat down on the stairs. “Forgive me, but I am tired and not too well. Much time has been spent in tracing the land transactions of Hugh Larney, no easy matter in these days of speculation and questionable business dealings. Everyone is anxious to become a millionaire, a new word coined by the envious to describe the avaricious.”

  “What is so interestin’ concernin’ Mr. Larney’s dealing’s in land?”

  “Note, Mr. Figg, that Miles Standish and Volney Gunning are both dead. Which eliminates either man being of much use to Jonathan. Note that the recently assassinated physician who attended Rachel, was contacted by a servant of Hugh Larney, one Jacob Cribb, who as I have mentioned, beats his horse too severely in public and shouts aloud the urgency for needing a physician. Now if as I surmise, and I believe myself to be correct, the physician died because he had come directly from Rachel and myself to treat the wounded woman used by Jonathan to deceive me, this means that Hugh Larney has the woman. But where?

  “We know, Mr. Figg, that Hugh Larney is in hiding, most likely on property he owns. He needs space enough to properly prepare his man for the duel. Larney is wealthy, far wealthier than most people know. By long and arduous effort in reading tax ledgers and records of land sales, I have learned that Hugh Larney owns three well-appointed homes here in Manhattan. He also is in possession of numerous tracts of undeveloped land, which he expects to be worth a fortune to him as Manhattan expands northward. To be exact, he owns nine parcels of land, parcels of various sizes. And he has not made his holdings public. Most are abandoned, which is to say they show no record of development and only carry the minimum of tax liabilities. Larney, his man Thor and the wounded woman are on one of these tracts of land. It has taken me until today to learn this. To investigate all of this land, which lies in most rugged areas, would take days if not weeks.”

  Figg said, “We don’t ‘ave days and weeks.”

  “I am aware of this, dear friend. I suggest that on the day of the duel, we somehow force Larney to tell us—not where he has hidden the woman. I suggest we force him to tell us where on his land Jonathan is performing the dark ritual.”

  Figg’s voice was nearer, but still he remained hidden in darkness.

  “You tellin’ me for certain that Hugh Larney is hidin’ Jonathan?”

  “It cannot be otherwise. The dead physician, the wounded woman both indicate a contact made between Larney and Jonathan. At this most important time, who else could Jonathan turn to for a place that would allow him privacy? Volney Gunning owned real estate but most of it is here in Manhattan, acres and acres of abominable housing given over to immigrants. He had some land outside of New York but it is settled on; it is only a modest amount of productive farm land. Miles St
andish had stock investments, no real estate at all. That leaves Larney.”

  Figg said, “Perhaps Jonathan had land of his own.”

  “I doubt it. He was in Europe until recently, was he not? He roamed the world, and he was always in need of funds, funds which he secured from such as Larney and Gunning, from others he humbugged as Dr. Paracelsus. I have been to Jonathan’s home.”

  “’Ave you now.”

  “A Mrs. Sontag, pointed out as a patroness of Dr. Paracelsus, escorted me. She fancies herself a poet and was flattered at being asked by me if she would consent to show me some of her poetry. In exchange she took me to the site of her spiritualist experiences, costly ones I might add. The house no longer stands. It was burned to the ground a week ago.”

  “When ‘e left to begin his dark deed.”

  “Exactly. He is elsewhere, Mr. Figg, and that elsewhere is known to Larney. I stake my life on it.”

  “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.