Poe must die

FORTY-SIX

As Poe tied the horses to the trees, Figg pulled Larney down from the saddle.

“You goin’ in first, mate. And remember: You get the idea to shake a loose leg and I will put a ball in you before you have run very far.”

Larney closed his eyes. His hands were tied in front of him and he’d ridden through the night on the same horse as Figg. There had been the hell of Figg literally breathing down his neck for the three-mile ride and the worse hell of knowing they were speeding to meet Jonathan. Jonathan who would soon be completing the nine-day ritual. Jonathan, who tonight would unleash dark forces that no man on earth could contend with. Larney had wanted to see Jonathan conjure the Throne of Solomon, but he had not wanted to come upon the magician in this fashion. Not as a prisoner, not with Poe and Figg at his back.

The three men stood in the small grove of trees, eyes on the barn that lay across an open expanse of moonlit snow. Poe shivered. His fears for Rachel were stronger than his fears for himself. Thanks to the drugged wine, the experience of being buried alive had emerged as almost unreal.

Figg looked at his pocket watch, squinting to see the hands in the moonlight.

“Gone half eleven, it has. We best be gettin’-”

From the barn, a woman screamed.

Poe clutched Figg’s arm. “It is her! It is Rachel!” He ran, loping through the snow, lifting his knees high, his dark brown hair wild around his head and face, his mouth open, a man obsessed with saving the woman he loved.

He screamed her name.

A frozen wind suddenly blew swirling snow around him and he was temporarily blinded. Then he saw the barn again, saw the candle glow within it.

“Rachel!” He fell forward in the snow, rose, his front covered by the soft, cold white powder and he ran towards her, towards Jonathan.

Figg jammed his flintlock in Larney’s back. “You too, mate. Let’s go.”

“I, I-”

“You will die ‘ere or you will run towards that barn. Which is it gonna be?”

Larney, weeping and moaning, stumbled forward, following the gouges in the snow left by Poe.

A frightened Figg followed him. But first he looked up at the moon.

* * * *

Inside the barn, Rachel scratched Laertes’ face, frantically struggling with him as he tried to keep her down on the ground. Jonathan stood holding the ritual knife point up towards the ceiling. Both men were gaunt, haggard, dusty with human ashes and foul smelling from the grave clothes they had worn for nine days and nights. The men and Rachel were within the protective circle.

The wind howled around the barn.

Asmodeus. He has come, thought Jonathan. Let him receive the sacrifice, thus freeing me from him forever. Let him receive-

“Stop!”

Poe stood in the doorway of the barn. The wind grew stronger. Two candles around the protective circle toppled over.

The wind tossed Poe’s hair around his face. “I command you to stop!”

Jonathan turned quickly to face him. “Fool! She has to die! Only she stands between me and the Throne of Solomon. Asmodeus has claimed her and-”

The wind was stronger, rattling the rotting wood of the barn. Poe clung to the inside of the barn door. “You cannot kill her! You cannot!”

Figg, pushing Hugh Larney ahead of him, reached Poe. Figg and Jonathan stared at each other. For a few seconds, neither man moved.

And then Jonathan knew. “No! Nooooo!”

The wind blew louder, filling the inside of the barn with dust and dirt, whipping the dirt into the eyes of Poe and Figg, stinging their faces.

Within the wind, Asmodeus spoke only to Jonathan, who alone heard him. The demon king’s laughter was cruel. “You fool! I have tricked you and now I shall have you! I have won, and you have lost. Your pride has been your downfall, for you have attempted to be as God and no man, not even Solomon himself can long hold dominion over us.”

Jonathan turned frantically, listening, listening.

Asmodeus spoke within the wind. “Your pride made you accept the challenge, magician, and in drawing the woman to you, you drew the one mortal man you fear, the one mortal who can and will destroy you. He followed the woman as I knew he would and now you will be sacrificed to me.”

“Noooooo!” Jonathan screamed at the top of his voice. The incredibly strong wind pushed Poe, Figg and Larney into the barn. Laertes straddled Rachel Coltman’s body, a knife in his hand, the blade raised high.

“Kill her!” shouted Jonathan. “Let her die! The sacrifice will save us!”

Figg had been looking behind him. There was a blizzard in the open field, a vicious swirl of blinding, stinging snow and there was nowhere to run but inside the barn. It was as though he, Poe and Larney were being pushed inside the barn, forced to enter it. Figg was convinced of it.

Jonathan shouted again. “Laertes! Kill her!”

Figg turned and fired quickly. The ball went into Laertes’ side. He jerked, remaining on top of Rachel Coltman. Figg squinted, trying to focus in the dust storm. He fired his second pistol and Laertes’ face turned bloody and he fell backwards.

Figg pushed Poe ahead of him. “Into the circle! Quick, run!”

Poe ran. The strength of the wind increased and both men leaned into it, feeling the frozen air gnaw at their faces, pull at their eyes, lips, jam their throats with dirt.

Jonathan was pained and angered at having been tricked; he knew the power was also within Figg. He recognized a kinship but one opposed to all that Jonathan believed in. The spirits rested within Figg though he had little awareness of it. Figg sought no power, sought no gain and the spirits in touch with him were benign, restrained and would never appear unless summoned for no less than survival. But they were spirits and Jonathan feared them, for he could not dominate them.

And now Figg was here, Figg with the unknown forces that had helped him all his life. Jonathan, half crazed with fear, faced the boxer.

Somewhere in the dust storm filling the barn, Hugh Larney cried out. “Jonathan help me! Help meeee!”

Figg and Poe reached the protective circle. Figg crouched, his swollen face hideous in the dust storm. “Me and you, magician! It has come down to that, it has! Me and you!”

Poe crawled to Rachel, taking her in his arms, holding her tight, burying her face in his shoulder. The eerie storm around them was filled with howling winds, shrieking sounds as though men and animals in pain were calling out for help.

The ritual! Jonathan had raised forces that were out of his control! Or was this just a sudden, vicious storm. Was it just a storm? On the ground, Poe clung tightly to Rachel. Through the dust, Figg and Jonathan were only vague shadows.

He heard Figg’s voice over the shrieking winds. “Do not leave the circle, Mr. Poe! Whatever you do! Do not leave! Your life depends on it!”

“Jonathannnnnnn!” Again Hugh Larney. “Jonathan, they have me! They have me! Oh, God, no! Dear God, I beg you do not … Aieeeeee!” And his voice was swallowed up in the howling winds.

Jonathan, his grave clothes flapping in the wind, gripped the Athame, the ritual knife, in both hands. He crouched, squinting in the swirling, stinging dust, trying to see Figg, trying to …

Figg was on him, a hand pressing the knife down, the other hand punching him in the face, punching, punching, knocking him to the ground.

Then the Athame was in Figg’s hands and the boxer gazed down at the man he had come so far to kill. Suddenly Figg stopped and listened to the wind.

He listened, and Jonathan screamed “Nooo! Noooo!” The magician had heard what Figg heard. They had both heard the order for Jonathan’s death.

Figg heard the voices of the old men. “We are you, we are one. All is one, all is one … ”

Figg, his top hat long blown away, straddled Jonathan, quickly slashing his throat. The magician’s feet jerked; his blood spurted up on Figg’s hands and coat.

As the wind continued to howl in an ear-piercing, murderous fury, Figg tore at Jonathan’s filthy, grave clothes.

Instantly, a shocked Poe knew what Figg intended. “Good Lord, man! Are you mad? What are you going to do?”

Poe knew.

Figg snapped his head towards Poe. “Lie down flat and cover the woman’s face! She must not see me do this, this thing! The wind, it will destroy us all if I do not act! There is no choice, Mr. Poe, and I think you know what I am sayin’.”

“But we cannot act as he would have done!”

“Damn it, man, I tell you we will not leave this place alive unless we do, unless I do what has to be done! I have jes’ been told that it must be this way! My, my spirits tell me! I do this on their orders, not because of Jonathan’s devil god! Jonathan has begun a thing and a promise must be kept! He, the thing, he cannot have the woman but he must ‘ave somebody, do you understand what I am sayin’?”

The wind tore at them and Poe knew they could not stay much longer in this brutal, unearthly storm, this sudden storm that screamed around them and pulled at their flesh like the claws and teeth of a thousand rats. The storm that Poe also knew could kill them, unless-

It must be done and Poe was sick to his stomach. Almost completely blinded by the stinging dust that filled the barn, he fell to the ground and held Rachel to him, a hand behind her head, keeping her face in his chest. Figg the primitive was sensitive to forces that Poe could only imagine.

And that’s why Jonathan had feared the boxer.

Poe screamed over the wind, “Do as you must! Do as you must!”

Still straddling the dead magician, Figg rubbed dirt from his own eyes.

And with a trembling hand, began to cut out Jonathan’s heart.

New York, March 10, 1848

My Dear Mr. Figg,

In this letter, I am forced to acknowledge some things which should not be acknowledged at all. I am certain that you do not wish my gratitude in the matter of the two gold sovereigns you left behind in my cottage. One could say you forgot them, mislaid them, but Mr. Figg, I am not of a mind to underestimate your intelligence, which regrettably, once was the attitude I carried with me in viewing your existence. I do not accept charity, sir, but my dear Muddy, Mrs. Maria Clemm, assures me that your intentions were honorable and that in no way did you seek to demean me. Therefore, let me say that the receipt of the money is appreciated and Muddy and I will make the wisest use of it possible, though money does not long remain in my company.

The recent events which involved the both of us in this city are still strong within my mind. There can be no logical explanation for much of what occurred and I find that I am unable, unwilling as well, to discuss this matter with others. I cannot explain the sudden, brutal winds that surrounded us that night on Hugh Larney’s property, anymore than I can explain their quick cessation upon your completion of a business best left unsaid. I am forced to repeat what I said to you that night, that you saved our lives even though it was done in a fashion which I personally find abominable. Do not take this as criticism upon yourself, since neither Rachel nor I would be alive had it not been for your swift action. I acknowledge that there are forces beyond my ken and as yet, I am not sure if it is good or bad for me to admit this.

To sum up recent happenings, the death of Volney Gunning was proclaimed to have occurred in a traffic accident, thereby explaining the broken bones he incurred. The demise of Miles Standish is still a matter for police inquiry, though I have learned that Prosper Benjamin is active in keeping that inquiry at a standstill. I surmise that Mr. Benjamin is reluctant to have the homosexual killers of Scotch Ann’s temple of lust traced to him, so I must tell you that it appears as if the matter of Miles Standish will remain a mystery for some time to come.

Hugh Larney was ruled to have been killed by wolves made ravenous and daring by the winter, a conclusion drawn from the condition of his corpse which appeared to have been shredded by wild beasts. I leave a closer examination of this matter to you, dear friend, who I am sure can give a more detailed explanation should you be so inclined.

When the burned ruins of Hugh Larney’s barn were examined, no human remains were found. The fire which immediately ravaged the building after we fled it must have contained flames capable of destroying human bone and tissue in a fashion not yet encountered on this planet, but as I have stated, there are things I prefer not to acknowledge.

Barnum and others with wagers to collect from Hugh Larney are not ecstatic with his having gone on ahead, as the religiosos are apt to proclaim of the dead, but it was agreed by one and all that the fight between you and Larney’s colored was worth any price. The colored is a broken man and at loose ends since Larney’s transportation to other planes and I fear he will end up in Five Points, a soul lost to vice and numerous human weaknesses. Dearborn Lapham, sad to inform you, has run away with a group of travelling players. I wish her bon chance.

Of Rachel, I can say little since her recovery is slow, if not non-existent. Doctors have told me it is her mind and not her body that is the source of her ailing. The shocking experiences she encountered have proven too much for her and I fear for her sanity, dear friend. Again I say there is much I would prefer not to acknowledge but life, as always, is harsh, relentlessly so and I am forced to consider the intelligence that she may not ever again regain her correct faculties.

I do so love her and cannot avoid dreaming of a time when she will be well and I have my magazine and she and I will be as one. All of my life I have yearned for love, for the comfort of a warm and tender heart and I would rather die than renounce this ideal. I spend as much time as possible by her bedside and on those days that she recognizes me, I can truthfully say that I feel no greater joy, no greater euphoria.

She has made no inquiries about her husband, whose body also perished in that peculiar barn fire. I have not spoken of him, for I fear the mention of his name would only increase the darkness which now seems to have gripped her mind. At this stage, he can only remind her of the horrible events of recent days.

Like all writers, I place my life in my work and the aforementioned, recent events are no exception in terms of being grist for my literary mill. I cannot use the events as they transpired, again for fear of offending Rachel or of reminding her of things I am certain she would rather not be reminded of. However, in the tale ‘Hopfrog,’ which is still much on my mind, I shall deal with revenge and the destruction of those men who have offended a lovely woman.

I do hope you read some of my tales. The book I presented you before you sailed for London is one of many copies clogging a portion of the attic in Poe cottage. Some publishers do not pay in cash. The literary life is rewarded by them in terms of free copies of whatever books they deign to publish. The literary life, while exciting and spiritually fulfilling for me, is far from lucrative, as you have heard me say before. Publishers lack morals and vision and until the copyright laws are changed throughout the world, as our mutual friend Dickens has urged, the literary life will lack protection for its much needed essence, namely the author.

I am still in an emotional and mental turmoil over the events that you and I shared, but I am sure that they will have their influence on me, opening my imagination more to things unheard, unseen but still in existence on planes of their own choosing. I struggle with the matter of intemperance and I fear that should something happen to Rachel and she and I fail to achieve a union, I may well fall into a serious breech of this issue. It would be better for me to be done with drink forever, but it is not so easy to renounce as it once was.

Let me hear from you. Please send your reply to my home in Fordham. With the most sincere friendship and ardent gratitude.

Believe me your true friend,

Edgar A. Poe

London, April 23, 1848

My Dear Mr. Poe, Esquire,

Please excuse my way with words since I am not at ease around them as are you, but I am proud to say I learnt my letters from my dad when I was young and I can letter after a fashion. You wrote to me of gold sovereigns and I write to you that a man pays his way if he is a man and I am a man. I ate your bread and I slept under your roof, so if I choose to pay, that is my concern not yours.

Like you, there are some things I much prefer not to say. I acted as I thought correct, havin’ to save three lives and all, so I did to Jonathan what I was told to do. I will not say more except to write you that a man has things in him he does not always know of and they come out of him when they want to come out. I have told no one of what I did, not even Mr. Dickens, except to tell him that I met up with Jonathan and the matter was settled.

I am getting on well, thank you, and the hurt from the duel is going away better than any hurt I ever had in any fight I ever had. Still I do not want to step again into the ring and if I never have to come up to scratch agin in my life, I would like that just fine, thankin’ you muchly. I teach young lads and their fathers are proud to watch them become good men, which is what learnen to box can do for you. I am sorry about Mr. Barnum not collecten his gold from Mr. Larney, but we could not help Mr. Barnum in this matter.

May God carry the little Dearborn in His hand. I do not think the life of travellen players is correct for a child but she must learn this on her own stead. Before I close I say hello to Miss Rachel and wish her well and tell her Mr. Figg tips his hat to her, a fine and pretty lady. Pray that the doctors can aid her in recovering her true mind and that she put behind her these sad events. It is a hard thing to do for I know and I must put them behind me as well. Yes I am readen your book of deduction and I tell you that no one has a quick and clever mind as do you. Mr. Dickens thinks the same and he says you will one day be a grand gentulman of letters and Mr. Dickens is a smart fellow himself.

I take my leave of you.

Your obedient servant,

Pierce James Figg