Poe felt he’d be strong enough to return to the city tomorrow and once again a surprise; Figg had nodded, saying tomorrow was time enough for his own return as well and with Poe’s permission he’d be pleased to spend the night in the tiny, heatless cottage. And as Muddy prepared food on a little stove, the two men had quietly talked of their lives, with Figg slowly, carefully, cleaning and re-loading his two pistols.
Now over their meager supper, there was more conversation, with Poe doing most of the talking. Figg and Mrs. Clemm listened intently.
“To understand the tradition of the occult is to understand the mind of Jonathan and those sources upon which he draws his knowledge and strength. Ancient Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks, Romans, Semite civilizations and those societies of early Europe all had systems of magic as part of their religion and priestcraft. Thus magic was endowed with an official, state approved status. It is with the advent of Christianity that the attitude towards magic undergoes a change, for the church condemned it, denied it, branded it as being against the spirit of Jesus Christ.
“It is not surprising that this pronouncement in effect created two camps: Christianity on one side, black arts on the other. Magic and sorcery were driven underground where they elevated demons and devils to positions of adoration. If magic was to be in opposition to Mother Church, then it would exist with opposite effects to call its own. So it is here that we get the black mass, the anti-Christ, the bowing down to evil and to forces of destruction.”
Poe closed his eyes, breathing deeply to rid himself of the smell of gas suddenly returning to his nostrils. “The church’s opposition was in vain, for people had been too long involved with what was now branded pagan rituals or the occult. I submit that with these influences still very much in the world today, it is easy to understand how a man like Jonathan can so deeply submerge himself in such a philosophy. It is all around him.”
Poe smiled at Figg. “I see skepticism written upon your face, sir. You doubt my thesis?”
Figg put his soup bowl down on the table. “Now I knows you to be a right bright gent, I do, so I say maybe you knows what yer goin’ on about. But I wonder how much you can really tell me about Jonathan, what with yer never havin’ met ‘im and all. I sees him once or twice, real quick like and then ‘e’s gone like smoke blown before the wind. Understand I am a guest in yer home and I listens politely, but-”
“Oh Mr. Figg,” Mrs. Clemm reached over to touch his arm. “Eddy is most astute and possessed of deductive powers unequalled by anyone.”
“Yes, mum.” Figg wasn’t going to argue with the old lady. Not in her house, such as it was. Not much of a cottage, with three little rooms on the first floor and upstairs an attic divided into two rooms not much bigger than closets. Wasn’t much furniture about but the place was as neat as a pin, with floors scrubbed white as new flour. Not a bit of heat, though.
Figg was staying tonight because he wanted to make sure little Mr. Poe was alive and kicking. He was owed that much. Couldn’t stop Poe from talking, though to be fair he did talk pretty good, almost as good as Mr. Dickens.
Convinced of his superiority, Poe rarely ignored an opportunity to convince others. Now he swelled with pride, gray eyes boring into Figg.
“It was in Philadelphia some eight years ago. I edited a magazine for William Burton, though I was given neither credit nor responsibility as editor, and in the end Burton and I quarrelled, but no matter. It was here that I issued a challenge to the reading public: Send me cryptograms-coded epigrams-in French, Italian, Spanish, German, Latin, Greek and I will solve them. I received one hundred replies in these languages and I solved ninety-nine of them. Ninety-nine, Mr. Figg. The hundredth was inaccurate to begin with, thus a false challenge and so I discarded it.
“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.”