Marc Olden - Poe must die

Figg looked at Rachel Coltman who stood beside Poe. The woman’s eyes were glazed, her hair all over her face and she looked as though she was miles away. Shock, Poe called it. Figg had seen that look in the faces of boxers who had taken a bad beating, especially around the head.

Damn it all to bloody hell! Figg kicked dirt back into the hole.

“I suppose you are goin’ to tell me that Jonathan is out in the bleedin’ woods somewhere tryin’ to get Mr. Coltman to talk to him.”

“He shall try Mr. Figg. As soon as possible. And I fear the consequences.” Poe looked at the pockmarked dwarf who stood behind the boxer.

Figg, eyes on the hole in the ground, mumbled without turning around to look at Poe or the dwarf. “Little fella what’s with me is called Merlin. Works for Mr. Barnum who gave me the loan of ‘im. Mr. Barnum claims Merlin has ‘is own way of gettin’ things done. Has ‘is own kind of magic.”

Poe found the dwarf hideous. Big head, tiny eyes. Skin pitted by smallpox. And he kept staring at Rachel like some lascivious, deformed elf.

Figg turned to look at Poe. “Merlin he brought us through a passage he played in when ‘e was a lad. ‘E’s from around ‘ere, born and bred. Nobody would give ‘im a job, save Mr. Barnum.”

Save Barnum, who collects the bizarre, thought Poe.

Merlin waddled out of the room on bowlegs and into the hall. Then he stuck his head back into the room. “Smoke is growing out here. Best we leave. Sproul might have a friend or two we have not met.” His voice was a high rasp, a sound that made Poe want to cringe.

“Nine days,” mumbled Figg, again staring at the empty hole. “The bugger has got hisself nine days to do his little business.”

Poe moved near him, also to stare at the hole. “If we are to stop him, Mr. Figg, we have less.”

And then they were in the passageway, following the waddling Merlin. Figg was silent, brooding on how close he came to Jonathan. When the bleedin’ hell was he going to get his hands on him? Riddle me ree. Some bloody riddle, mate.

Poe, an arm around Rachel to guide her, said, ‘“Mr. Figg?”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t we walk slower. Rachel has no shoes, her feet are bleeding.”

“Don’t hear ‘er complainin’.”

“Her mind is temporarily damaged. She is in shock.”

“Merlin says we keep on. Got a ways to go, yet. Few blocks, then we come up in a tavern what ain’t fit for a dog to piss in. No stoppin’ now, Mr. Poe. Got our lives to think about.”

Got Jonathan to think about, mate.

They continued walking in silence until Figg, his back to Poe and Rachel, said, “Mr. Poe?”

“Yes, Mr. Figg.”

“Sorry ‘bout me manners back there in the matter of Mr. Standish. This is a pressin’ business with me and I wants to end it quickly.”

“I understand, Mr. Figg. I am again in your debt, as is Mrs. Coltman.”

They continued walking in a darkness lit only by Merlin’s lamp.

“Wants to ask you somethin’, Mr. Poe. You think Jonathan will get the thing ’e’s after, you know what I’m speakin’ of?”

“Mr. Figg I tell you this: I feel the worst will happen. My mind rejects the belief in these matters, but Jonathan is a creature out of the realm of possibility. He is improbable and therefore capable of anything. I fear for us all.”

“Why?”

“Jonathan is not through with us. I feel it to be so and that feeling grows stronger with each step. We are now in more danger than before.”

Figg limped, ignoring the ache in his bad leg. Chasing Jonathan was the same as toddling along in this blasted, stinking tunnel. A man could not go back; all you could do was go forward into something that might kill you-if you were lucky. And do a whole lot worse to you if you weren’t.

Figg kept going forward. He was more frightened than he’d been at any time in his life.

Hugh Larney felt light-headed with fear and exhilaration as he stood in his cold, dark stable listening to Jonathan speak with a strange new authority. The magician exuded power; the Throne of Solomon was within his reach.

Sarah Clannon was also within reach, but forgotten for the moment. She lay on the ground between them, eyes closed, her small, pretty face unnaturally white. Her breathing was shallow. Under her right side, the straw on the stable floor was red with her blood.

Jonathan said, “Nonne Solomon dominatus daemonum est? Had not Solomon dominion over demons? And so shall I. Solomon’s wealth, wisdom, his rule over all spirits-this shall be mine.”

Hugh Larney, nervous and perspiring, nodded yes.

The magician’s voice was a frozen hiss. “I, not Solomon, shall ride the wind. Solomon’s ring will be mine and like him I will call all demons unto me and impress my seal upon their necks to mark them as my slaves. I have the body of Justin Coltman; I shall bring him back from the dead to tell me how the Throne of Solomon is to become mine.”

Jonathan stood in shadows, visible to Larney only from the waist down. The magician’s dark purple cloak was mud splattered to the knees. In a stall behind him, a horse whinnied and shied as though disturbed by something evil and unseen.

Hugh Larney pointed down to Sarah Clannon. His finger shook. “How long is she to stay here?”

“Until she recovers. I charge you with her care, Hugh Larney. Do not abandon her.” The words were a command and a threat. Larney understood this.

He quickly changed the subject. “Poe. And the boxer. What about them?”

“Nothing to me. I have what I want. Poe is now more your problem than mine.”

“I–I do not understand.”

“Mr. Poe and the persistent Mr. Figg were seen at the office of Miles Standish earlier today, just before Mr. Standish died. Having arrived there directly from the train, where they survived an attempt on their lives, it is logical to say they connected Standish to this failed assassination. From Standish to you and Volney Gunning is not far. You would be wise to assume they are on to you both.”

“What, what shall I do?”

“Survive.”

“Yes, but how?”

“More efficiently than you have up until now. Poe is weak in body but his mind is agile. Figg is primitive, a danger physically and an underestimated danger in terms of thought. The forces of darkness lie within him, too. He does not acknowledge them, he does not need them, for he survives extremely well in this world with those abilities he chooses to recognize. But beware Figg. I tell you to beware this man.”

Larney chewed his bottom lip with tiny teeth.” Shall I kill them?”

“If you must. If you can. I leave you now. Is the farm abandoned as I requested?”

“Yes, yes. It is yours for as long as you need it.”

“Nine days. And I am to be undisturbed. No duels in coaches, while your friends sip champagne and eat pates.”

“All in my employ are under strict orders to avoid the farm until further notice.”

Jonathan’s voice was ice. “Anyone approaching the ceremony will die. Those forces I seek to raise cannot always be controlled.”

“I understand, Yes, I, I understand.” As frightened as he was, Larney would have given all he owned to witness the ceremony, to actually see the Throne of Solomon appear. To see it!

But to disobey Jonathan-

No.

Larney found it easy to bow and scrape to those he feared. Since he feared Jonathan the most, he bowed to him deeper than to others.

“Soon the world will know and acknowledge your genius. You will-”

“You fool!”

Hugh Larney flinched.

Jonathan stepped forward into the light of a lantern hanging from a post. A gloved hand held his hood closed, hiding his face.