Marc Olden - Poe must die

“Cor blimey!” Figg’s mouth dropped open. Little Mr. Poe had done it again, he had. Smart as a pen full of foxes.

“Something else, Mr. Figg. Volney Gunning is a part of this business and it is shameful for me to say this in front of Rachel but I must. Volney Gunning is a lover of young men. He is a homosexual, a man who pleasures himself in the flesh of his own sex.”

Figg snorted. “’E’s a bloody poof, yer sayin’. Light as a feather.”

“Yes. And he is known to prefer the company of the Metropolitan Cleopatras to be found at the house of Venus called Scotch Ann’s. No ordinary streetwalkers to be found here, Mr. Figg. Here you find some of the loveliest looking of women and all are available, sir. Except that these women are not women. They are young men in women’s gowns and wigs and each young man has a most lovely feminine name. They sell themselves as street women do. Men such as Volney Gunning buy.”

Figg said, “Mr. Gunning and Mr. Larney are friends. Them two and Miles Standish sends the minstrels after us. Now Mr. Gunning sends some she-he’s to pay a call on Mr. Standish. Seems to fit. Yes sir, it seems to fit neatly.”

Poe sat on the edge of Rachel’s bed. Figg saw her reach for his hand. Poe coughed into his fist, his body jerking. He quickly rose and continued coughing. You ain’t healthy, mate, thought Figg. You had hard times but now you got a lady what cares for you and I am thinkin’ perhaps that might be enough. For your sake, squire, I hope so.

Poe turned to face them again. “Forgive me, dear friends. Despite being junior to you in years, Mr. Figg, I am afraid I am no where near as fit.”

“Squire, I ain’t fit. Jes’ lucky, I am.”

“Your pluck creates your luck, Mr. Figg.”

“Will take more than luck or pluck to get us to Jonathan, says I.”

“Let us begin with a carriage ride tonight. Let us visit Scotch Ann’s establishment and see if we can find Volney Gunning. He, I believe, is the weakest link in their chain. After him, Hugh Larney. Assume that Jonathan is no longer in the city. Assume, but above all, hope, that he has told one of these two men where he hopes to commit this awesome ritual.”

Figg’s bulldog face was firm. “In this place of Scotch Ann, beggin’ yer pardon miss for havin’ to mention it once more, you say all the pretty ladies is really pretty men?”

“Yes, Mr. Figg.”

“This is a peculiar business, Mr. Poe. I ain’t never been in a place like this before.”

“Yes, Mr. Figg. I note your rigid jaw when you speak of Scotch Ann’s. You will not have to dance or embrace anyone there, you have my word.”

“I hold you to it, Mr. Poe.”

Figg lifted his jaw in the air and sat firm, the picture of an Englishman who knew where the line had to be drawn.

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;