Poe must die

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 Athame, the ritual knife of the witch. Three feet away was another circle, this one around the plain, wooden coffin containing Justin Coltman’s body, the severed head resting on the chest. Both circles were protection against those evil spirits who might be drawn to the ritual.

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.

“Powers of the Kingdom, be ye under my left foot and in my right hand! Glory and Eternity, take me by the two shoulders and direct me in the paths of victory! Intelligence and wisdom crown me! Spirits of Mal-chuth, lead me betwixt the two pillars upon which rests the whole edifice of the temple! Angels of Netsah and Hod, strengthen me upon the cubic stone of Jesod! O Gedulael! O Geburael! O Tiphereth! Binael, be thou my love! Ruach Hochmael, be thou my light! Be that which thou art and thou shalt be, O Ketheriel!”

“Tschim, assist me in the name of Saddai! Cherubin, be my strength in the name of Adonai! Beni-Elohim, be my brethren in the name of the Son, and by the power of Zebaoth! Eloim, do battle for me in the name of Tetragrammaton!”

“Malachim, protect me in the name of…”

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. “Hajoth a Kadosh, cry, speak, roar, bellow! Our name is legion, for we are many.”

Our name is legion, for we are many. So say demons and devils and their believers.

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.”

“Ever with thee I wish to roam-

Dearest my life is thine.

Give me a cottage for my home

And a rich old cypress vine,

Removed from the world with its sin and care

And the tattling of many tongues.

Love alone shall guide us when we are there-

Love shall heal my weakened lungs;

And Oh, the tranquil hours we’ll spend,

Never wishing that others may see!

Perfect ease we’ll enjoy, without thinking to lend

Ourselves to the world and its glee-

Ever peaceful and blissful we’ll be.”

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 carriage neared it, Figg heard the scream of an animal being killed. Jonathan. Did people scream when he killed them? Jonathan. One day gone.

“One day,” muttered Figg, eyes on the slaughterhouse. He continued to look back at it as the cab headed toward Scotch Ann’s. The animal had stopped screaming. Its days were over.

* * * *

Poe was an aristocrat in manners and morals, a romantic, a man fanatically chivalrous to women. His tolerance for people whose personal conduct fell below his standards of virtue was as low as his tolerance for lesser literary talents. Which is why he stared with utter disgust at the homosexual orgy he and Figg had interrupted on the third floor of Scotch Ann’s brothel. A coin or two in the right hand had gotten them the location of this very private party. They’d entered the room to find six men-three nude, three in women’s clothing-preparing to enjoy a lavish feast of erotic food and drink.

Volney Gunning quickly sat up, watery eyes rapidly blinking at Poe. Gunning had been reclining on huge lavender satin cushions, his long, balding head in the lap of a thin man who wore a shoulder length blonde wig and a blue gown revealing bare shoulders.

“Poe, how dare you! This, this is a private affair. I shall have you and your friend thrown out immediately!”

Poe heard the cock of a gun hammer behind him. That would be Mr. Figg removing his flintlock from his pocket and undoubtedly depositing his rotund body in front of the only door in the room. Even with this assistance, Poe had no intention of remaining long in such decadence. From Gunning, he wanted only Jonathan’s whereabouts. After that, it was retreat in haste from this temple of unnatural lust.

“Mr. Gunning, you would be advised to tell us what we want to know. Where is Jonathan?”

Volney Gunning’s jaw dropped. He flopped backwards as though wanting the beautifully gowned prostitute to embrace and protect him from a harsh world.

“J-Jonathan? I know of no such person. Who are you to come here and question me-”

Figg’s soft rasp moved closer as the boxer stepped from the door. “’Oo are we, ‘e says. We are the gents whats goin’ to put a ball through yer stinkin’ brain if you do not tell us what we come to ‘ear. That is ’oo we are, mate.”

A corner of Poe’s small mouth went up in a bitter smile. “Steady on, Mr. Figg. I am certain that Mr. Gunning believes us to be in earnest. Well sir?”

Gunning’s deep voice trembled with fear. “I know of no such per-person. I know of no such-”

“You lie, sir.” There was steel in Poe’s gentle, southern voice.

“You offend me, sir!” Gunning pointed a long, bony forefinger at Poe.

Figg stepped forward, an arm extended, the flintlock aimed at Gunning’s head. “You offend me, you bloody poof! You sends nigger minstrels to carve me and I owe you fer that, mate.”

Poe’s small hand was on Figg’s pistol, gently pressing it down towards the floor. “As you can see, Mr. Gunning, my friend is upset at your twice having tried to murder him. I refer to the train yesterday noon, and also to the matter of gas leakage a few days ago at the Hotel Astor. My friend is vindictive and you could well be the worse for it.”

“I cannot speak of him. You, you must know that.” Volney Gunning, tall and extremely thin, cringed closer to his partner.

Poe looked around the room, gray eyes swiftly absorbing details. The room reeked of plush decay. Hanging from the walls were obscene tapestries explicit in their portrayal of the pleasures of Greek love between man and man, man and boy. Explicit foulness. There was the sweet smell of opium and amidst the esoteric eatables and beverages on the long, low wooden table, Poe saw the opium pipes. Faint wisps of smoke trailed from two of them.

There were red velvet drapes in front of the windows, gaslight on the walls, along with more obscene paintings. Spotted around the room were cheap copies of statues of slim, beautiful young men. On the floor were huge satin pillows of varying colors on which the naked men and their prostitutes reclined. All three of the prostitutes carried fans. Two wore thin, black lace gloves and one, Poe noticed, wore mittens. A few years ago, wearing mittens while dining had been something of a fad among upper-class New York women.

Poe said, “Mr. Figg, I cannot tell you the names of the so-called ladies among us-”

“Sarah,” said the one with his arms around Volney Gunning. Flicking his fan closed, Sarah pointed it at the other two prostitutes. “Amelia and Messalina.”

Sarah batting long lashes, smiled up at Poe. The male whore was stunningly beautiful and his lascivious gaze made the writer ill at ease. Poe continued speaking as though he had not been interrupted. The uneasiness he felt because of Sarah’s glance, Poe would push aside by increasing his scorn. The tongue of Tomahawk had a sharp sting.

“Well now, Mr. Figg, the ladies have introduced themselves, a fact which can either cause you to bow from the waist or retch until your stomach aches.”

The smile fled Sarah’s face. He snapped his fan open with a delicate hand, hiding all of his face behind it, except for his pale green eyes and long lashes. The eyes gleamed with hatred.

Poe sneered. “Let us now introduce the men, Mr. Figg. Volney Gunning. You have made his acquaintance and are none the better for it, I warrant. Then there is Prosper Benjamin, the portly, bearded gentleman who has been holding hands with Amelia of the ivory-handled fan. Mr. Benjamin, married and a pillar of respectability, owns ships of shoddy quality, ships used to bring cheap immigrant labor to the shores of this republic. How many of your ships are at the bottom of the ocean, Mr. Benjamin? Obviously you cannot build quality vessels if you are to spend money in such a temple of Venus as this.”

“And there is Abe Pietch. Mr. Pietch is a landlord, an approved bloodsucker. Notice, Mr. Figg, how he blushes and inches away from Messalina. Could it be shame that causes such a breech? Who can say? Mr. Pietch constructs slum housing and allows immigrants to live there in squalor unknown in the northern hemisphere. Surrounded by awesome filth and deadly living conditions, the immigrants are subject to such vagaries of fate as cholera, yellow fever, smallpox, tuberculosis and a monstrous death rate that kills them in consistently large numbers. This state of affairs allows Mr. Pietch to amass money which he lends or invests at usurious rates. Do not borrow money from Mr. Pietch, Mr. Figg. In return he would expect at least your first born and three vital organs.”

Figg spat on the table of food. “Lovely lot, they are. Maggots crawlin’ over garbage ‘ave a sweeter smell.”

Poe looked down at the table. “Honey mixed with peppercorns. Considered an aphrodisiac in the Orient. And this meat here, what is-”

“Partridge.” Sarah snapped the word at Poe.

Poe smiled at Figg. “Throughout the ages, Mr. Figg, impotent men have believed that the flesh of the partridge will return their sexual powers. Among fowls, there is none more lecherous than the partridge. It is said to be so sexually adept that it has the ability to make pregnant its mate merely by using its voice.”

Figg snorted, pistol still pointing at Volney Gunning’s head. “Only the bloomin’ voice? Saves a patch of ‘ard work, don’t it?”

Sarah, sardonically playing the hostess, fixed a cold smile on his lovely face, flicking a closed fan at the table. “Goat’s milk with the leaf of the Satyricon plant. Sip it, Mr. Poe and you will be able to achieve sexual congress no less than seventy times in rapid succession. Assuming you have that objective. These are love apples, commonly called tomatoes and this, this dish is bull’s testicles. Resembles an ordinary meat pie-”

Poe aimed his cold gray eyes at Sarah, “Yesterday when you killed Miles Standish, did he beg for his life?”

Sarah snapped his fan closed, eyes still on the table. Amelia and Messalina quickly exchanged glances, looked at Poe then looked away.

Sarah stood up, forced a smile and slowly walked towards Poe. He moved with the grace of a woman flirting. Hips swayed, the fan fluttered, Poe smelled perfume, saw the flash of gaslight on jewelry. Sarah was close enough to touch him. Poe leaned back, uncertain as to how he should deal with this he-she, this lovely and evil thing.

Sarah closed her fan, placing the hand that held it on Poe’s shoulder. Figg watched Poe stand rigid as a bird hypnotized by a slow crawling snake.

“Dear, dear, dear Mr. Poe.” Sarah’s voice was soft, low, seductive. “Can we not comfort you as well?”

Lord help us, thought Figg. This one really thinks she’s a woman and if I didn’t know the bloody difference, I’d think so too. And Poe, he can only stand there like his feet are nailed to the carpet. Nothing he ever learned about women has prepared the little man for this day, I’ll wager.

Poe’s jaw trembled. He gripped his stick with two hands. This was no woman, this was-

Figg heard the tiny click, saw the blade.

The knife was just behind Poe’s shoulder.

Sarah’s fan. Sarah had pressed a button, sending six inches of slim, bright steel out of the fan’s handle.

Figg was in motion.

He did it all at once. Shift the pistol to his left hand, shove Poe forward and out of the way and with his right hand, grab Sarah’s fan hand.

Figg swung the arm behind Sarah’s back, jerking it up hard, fast and high, jerking it up between Sarah’s shoulder blades and driving the prostitute up on his toes. And with a sickening pop, breaking the arm at the right shoulder blade.

Sarah collapsed on the floor, blonde wig falling off. His face was white, his mouth open in terrible shock. He inhaled loudly through his opened mouth.

Figg leveled the pistol at the other two male prostitutes who were on their feet, fists tightly around their fans. The blades in each fan glittered brightly.

Figg pulled his other flintlock from his pocket. “I don’t miss too often from this close up.”

Poe slowly got off the table. He’d fallen on it, smearing the front of his coat with erotic food and drink. His nostrils flared at the smell and he winced. “My gratitude, Mr. Figg.”

“Accepted, Mr. Poe.”

Poe looked at Volney Gunning. “Where is Jonathan, sir and be quick about it.”

Gunning, vunerable in his pathetic nudity, began to weep. “I cannot say.”

“You cannot or will not?”

“Cannot. I, I do not know.”

Returning a pistol to his pocket, Figg then bent over, picking up Sarah’s fan knife. “I could use this ’ere thing on yer tender parts, Mr. Gunning. Bet you would converse with us then.”

Gunning shook his head, continuing to weep. “I do not know, I swear Ido not know.”

Figg sneered. Bloody poof. No spine, no spunk. Figg moved towards him.

Gunning was on his feet. He ran towards the drapes, disappearing behind them. Everyone in the room was caught by surprise. As the two other naked men were getting to their feet and the two male prostitutes were looking in the direction Gunning had gone, they all heard the sound of window glass breaking and they heard Volney Gunning’s fading scream.

Sarah moaned, but in the race to the window, Sarah was forgotten.

Through the broken window, they looked down at the bleeding body of Volney Gunning barely visible in the snow and darkness behind the building. Gunning’s head was at an ugly angle, an angle possible only in death.

Poe said, “Jonathan terrified him, Mr. Figg. More than you or I ever could, Jonathan terrified him.”

A shivering Prosper Benjamin moved quickly away from the window, rubbing his arms, muttering to himself. “This is tragic. This is tragic. What shall we do?”

In the center of the room, he turned to point a finger at Poe and Figg. “You two! Your fault. You killed him and I shall see you hang for it. Yes hanged!”

Poe said, “And reveal to the world the degenerate you are? Unlikely, Mr. Benjamin. Our modern times have not accepted homosexuality and that, sir, is an understatement. There is nothing lower than a homosexual and I, for one, would make sure that the press and public learned of your proclivities even if I have to write the article myself. No sir, you will not do anything to indicate that Mr. Figg and I are criminally involved with the death of Mr. Gunning. For your sake and that of Mr. Pietch, I suggest you evolve a tale explaining Mr. Gunning’s sudden demise. I hear footsteps on the stairs. Think fast, Mr. Benjamin. Your time is at hand, sir.”

Poe opened the door and Figg gladly followed him through it.