Marc Olden - Poe must die

“’E’s a man on fire, that one,” said Figg. “Seems to whirl about like a spinnin’ top.”

Poe started slowly walking up the stairs. “He makes money because people want to know if what he sells is real or humbug. First he tricks them and then they pay to hear him tell how he did it. Barnum could swindle a man out of twenty dollars and the man would give a quarter to hear Barnum tell of it. I have an intense desire to avoid all eagles in the future, living or dead. Tomorrow the Renaissance Players, I assume.”

“You assume correct.”

“Forgive me if I do not join the slaughter.”

Poe would always remember Figg’s soft, husky voice. “There will be no forgiveness for me until I do what has to be done.”

Poe, hearing the determination to destroy in the boxer’s voice, continued climbing the stairs, keeping his thoughts to himself.

That had been hours ago.

Now Poe, staring up at the ceiling, felt Figg nudge him.

“Ain’t sleepin’, is you?”

“With my eyes open? Hardly.”

“You was so quiet, like you was driftin’ off or somethin’.”

“Thinking about Barnum, our meeting with him earlier tonight. I know you have those travelling players on your mind, but tomorrow I intend to visit the newspaper where I am employed to see if Rachel Coltman has left a message for me. She has no idea where I am.”

Figg nodded. “Anything to keep you happy, squire. We do that first thing, then we go to see the play actors. It’s them two what I seen in front of the museum talkin’ with Mrs. Coltman and one other gent. They are gonna tell me how to find Jonathan. After that, they won’t be needin’ to travel anywhere. I saw you tryin’ to write a bit before we went to sleep, but you hid your papers like you was afraid I was goin’ to eat them for me supper.”

“It is my habit when writing. I desire no audience until a completed work is achieved.”

“How long it take you to write a poem?”

“As long as it takes. Which is usually not long. I prefer short works of art, since I am in constant need of money and the quicker I finish, the quicker I can begin the obscene practice of begging people to buy my work.”

Figg nodded, his head cocked far to the right. He looked down at Poe, studying him carefully. Poe ignored the boxer, his mind on other matters. Rachel. My dearest Rachel.

Figg said, “She know you love her?”

Poe eyed him and said nothing. He didn’t want any intimacy with Figg, but at times Poe had the feeling that he had grossly underestimated the boxer’s mind. Still, he continued to push him away. “My private life is none of your business.”

“Tell her, squire. Tell her before it is too late.”

“My very own cupid. Did you not promise me you would keep her alive if I aided you in your search for vengeance?”

“I did promise. But I am only a man, squire, and there is the chance I might fail, might even lose me own life. This Jonathan, he is a man but more than a man. Don’t know if I am makin’ meself clear. I could die in this cold country of yours, so you best make yer peace with Mrs. Coltman and tell her you love her and see what she says.”

“How do I tell her that she is my last hope, my last chance to be a man, to live and love, and yes, to obtain money enough to start my own magazine.” poe sat up quickly in his bed. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Did you want me to bare my soul to you? Well I have and now please cease to torment me with your questions. If it is no bother to you, and since I cannot sleep, I would like to continue using hotel pen and paper and make some attempt at putting down a few lines in this story which will not leave my head any more than you will leave my side.”

Figg brightened, “You are really goin’ to work on a story while I watch? Never seen a real writer write before. Always wondered how it was done. What is the story about, squire?”

“It is a story of revenge and I shall call it Hop-Frog.’ It is a tale of a man abused who strikes back at his enemies, destroying all of them.”

“Sounds like somethin’ you would like to do, eh squire?”

Which is why I am writing it, thought Poe. And this brute quickly perceives the truth, that I apply to paper and with bitter precision, all of my darkest fantasies and daydreams, that I write of the life I ofttimes wish were mine. He perceives this.

Poe swung off the bed, turned up the gaslight and walked away from Figg. Seated at the desk, he began to write as though he were alone in the room. Once he was able to write fifteen hours a day almost without stopping. Now he no longer had heart nor energy to do that. So he wrote when he could and now he wanted to.

Hop-Frog.

Yes, Hop-Frog is a dwarf, a jester, a man laughed at and scorned, one whose very life is in the world only so that others may exploit him. But the jester will have his pound of flesh. Hop-Frog will have his revenge. On paper.

And Foe will become Hop-Frog, getting back at a world which has given him nothing but pain and failure. Poe will have his revenge. On paper.

He wrote.

And Figg lay silently on the bed and watched him, awed and mystified at actually seeing a man write.

Jonathan chanted in latin.

Noscere, audere, velle, tacere.

Naked and face down, he lay inside the magic circle on the wooden floor, his slim body beaded with perspiration and rigid with concentration. Both legs were wide apart, his arms straight out from his sides; head, hands and feet formed the five points of a star. Neither gaslight from the street below nor moonlight penetrated the humid darkness of the room in which the only light came from four black candles just outside of the magic circle. The circle was composed of powdered human and animal bone sprinkled on the floor.

Noscere, audere, velle, tacere.

To know, to dare, to will, to be silent.

Four powers of the magician. Qualities needed for the successful practice of any magic. All four must be present, each balancing the other.

Knowledge without daring was useless, as useless as daring without knowledge. And while the will engendered persistence, persistence was useless unless the magician possessed the daring to begin.

The fourth power-silence-was the most important of all. To tell others your thoughts and plans was to weaken the force behind all you wished to attain. To violate the power of silence was to betray yourself; your lack of discretion was a warning to your enemies.

Noscere, audere, velle, tacere.

Jonathan chanted. He concentrated.

The ritual was for the demon Asmodeus, to let him know that tonight would bring three more blood sacrifices in appeasement, three more deaths to buy Jonathan time in his search for the Throne of Solomon. Tonight, Jonathan was going to kill Hamlet Sproul’s woman and two children. Like Lucifer, Jonathan had courage and cunning, wisdom and insight, along with an implacable and incurable hatred towards the human race. Hamlet Sproul’s betrayal in keeping Justin Coltman’s body must be met with an all consuming vengeance.

The ritual murders of the grave robber’s woman and children was part of that revenge; it would bring pain to Hamlet Sproul for the rest of his days, weakening his mind and soul, turning him into a shaken adversary. Most important of all, these murders would satisfy Asmodeus for a time. Not for long, just for a time.

Incense floated from four corners of the dark room. The four black candles, placed north, east, south and west at points on the compass, sent small black shadows dancing across Jonathan’s sweating, naked body like so many tiny bats. Written in dog’s blood on the floor near each candle was the name of four other demons.