Marc Olden - Poe must die

“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.”