Marc Olden - Poe must die

* * * *

Larney watched Thor punch the sandbag suspended from a beam in the barn. The Negro was barechested, sweating, hitting the bag with powerful blows.

Larney, several feet away, turned to the man who had ridden out from New York to report to him.

“Poe is askin’ all over town,” said the man. “He’s inquisitive about the dead doctor, your whereabouts, everything.”

Larney frowned. “I would say kill him but there exists a peculiar truce between our camps and this fight is attracting much interest. A dead Poe would cancel the occasion and what would I tell my guests, who expect some diversion after a long and tedious sea voyage.”

He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “Let him live. And on the day of the fight, on that very day, I think, I think I shall re-enter Mr. Poe’s dreadful life, to his undying displeasure. Undying, dear friend.”

Larney threw back his head and roared.

* * * *

Martin said, “Hammer blows he uses. Brings his right hand high and down on your head, relyin’ on his strength. Will crowd you if he can. Likes to grapple, hug you close, squeeze your back ‘til it hurts.”

Figg nodded.

“Watch yer eyes,” said Tabby, pointing to his eye patch. “Took out mine, he did. Thumbs. Presses down. Nigger’s a tall one. He jes’ presses down.”

Figg said, “’Ow’s ‘is moves left and right?”

Martin shook his head. “Ain’t got none. Straight ahead, right Tabby?”

The one-eyed man nodded. “Black bastard is like a damn train. Straight ahead and nothin’ else. Both of his hands are like the wrath of God. Long arms and he can keep you at a distance, if he wants. Punches down. He’s almost seven feet.”

“Nahhhh,” said Martin scowling. “Over six to be sure, but under seven by five inches or more.”

They argued over Thor’s height until Figg gently stopped them. There was agreement over the Negro’s boxing skills; the two men drinking Figg’s whiskey in Bootham’s parlor estimated that Thor had defeated more than thirty men in the ring.

There was no way to estimate what the Negro had done outside of the ring. Only Larney and Thor himself knew those deadly figures.

Thirty fights, resulting in cripplings, blindings and at least two deaths. Figg was facing the challenge of his life.

When he’d given the men a few shillings and the remainder of the whiskey and sent them on their way, he returned to Bootham’s cellar where he trained alone and in secret, despite the pleas from Bootham’s English friends to watch him prepare. Figg was taking no chances that Jonathan or Larney had planted a spy anywhere near him.

Tomorrow Figg would talk to another survivor of Thor’s boxing ability, this one a man who Bootham said was half blind and addled, but who could talk. Several men who had fought Thor refused to talk to Bootham. Larney would not like it, they said.

And as Figg reminded himself, two boxers wouldn’t talk because they were dead, as dead as Rachel Coltman’s doctor.

In the cellar, in candlelight and musty heat, Figg trained.

And worried.

Jonathan. The sixth night.

Asmodeus had given him the name of the victim selected for the final blood rite.

Rachel Coltman.

The rite was to be performed in the barn, without leaving the circle; Jonathan was to lure the woman here, then carve out her heart and liver, burning them. If the husband is to be removed from the world of death, let the wife take his place; she was the price Jonathan must pay before reaching the end of the rite.

Kill Rachel Coltman here on the final day, on the ninth day.

* * * *

Poe closed his eyes, rubbing the corners with his fingers.

Figures, names, dates all swam in front of him and he saw nothing. But he had to see, he had to!

He wanted liquor, he wanted its warmth and protection, but he would have to deny himself that salvation. Does a man gain salvation by denying himself salvation?

Poe opened his eyes wide, drawing the lamp closer. He had much reading to do. He was checking land records to learn what Hugh Larney owned and where. The musty smell of the property building’s cellar was abominable and Poe was too sick to stand it for much longer, but he owed Figg.

He owed him a great deal.

Poe continued to turn the pages of the large book that recorded those dealings by which a handful of men were profiting on land that was becoming more and more valuable with each passing day.

Later the clerk found Poe asleep, head down on one of the books.

Jonathan. The seventh night

Jonathan, the evoker; Justin Coltman, the evoked. Magician and a dead man’s spirit drawn closer by a thought transmission unknown to human reason, a transmission that had been growing stronger for seven days, seven nights.

Jonathan’s obsession with the Throne of Solomon gave him the physical and mental strength needed to proceed with this dangerous ritual, one which few magicians ever attempted. He was now in a world inhabited by the rarest of sorcerers, a world he’d conjured up with all of the magic at his command. He sensed th increasing presence of Justin Coltman and with it, that knowledge which could yield the Throne of Solomon

The dead man knew the secret of the grimoires, those books of black magic stolen by the child thieves in London. That Justin Coltman lacked the knowledge to use them was a sign to Jonathan that he , and not any on else, was meant to triumph.

In performing the ritual for the past seven days Jonathan was no longer functioning on mere reason; hi mind had now achieved a level of comprehension known only to those with faith in powers denied morta men. Be it as your faith. So said Jesus Christ and so say all beliefs. Be it as your faith and Jonathan’s faith in hi power as a sorcerer was never stronger than now.

Behind him in the protective circle, Laertes sat chewing the raw, rancid dog meat. He chewed slowly, eye glazed, a face dusty with human ashes, a man with only the remnants of a mind and will of his own. The ordeal of the ritual had drained him and all he could do was mechanically obey Jonathan; his existence was in the magician’s hands. The restoration of his sanity was a matter that could wait until Jonathan had obtained the throne.

Jonathan’s chanting was almost finished. “Has malim, enlighten me with the splendors of Eloi and Shechinah! Aralim, act! Ophanim, revolve and shine Hajoth a Kadosh, cry, speak, roar, bellow! Hallelu-jah Hallelu-jah. Hallelu-jah.”

Two more days. And then he would have the greatest prize man had ever dreamed of.

Suddenly the barn was filled with bright orange flames and the strong, foul smell of demons. Animals shrieked, threatened, and the cries of dead men were everywhere.

Asmodeus!

Again he had returned to demand his sacrifice.

Magician, he cried, the woman offends me.

Torment me not, thought Jonathan. I renounce her.

Give her to me, magician. Bring her here and give her to me in sacrifice.

I will. Before the ninth day ends.

The fire disappeared. Asmodeus, the fire, animals, the dead men’s cries all vanished.

Jonathan sat rigid. When his fears had eased and his hands had stopped trembling, he looked over his shoulder at Laertes who sat unseeing, showing no reaction to what had just occurred. I will save him on the final day, thought Jonathan, for then all power will be mine.

Since demanding Rachel Coltman’s death in exchange for the soul of her dead husband, Asmodeus had not ceased to torment Jonathan. The demon king, in all his hideous fury, had appeared daily; the sight and smell of him would have defeated all men, except Jonathan. But Jonathan, tiring and fighting hard against collapse would need all of his concentration for the final day. Let Asmodeus have Rachel and leave Jonathan alone.