“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.”
“Tell you the truth, Mr. Poe, I have me own thoughts. I don’t want to believe in such things but Jonathan ain’t normal. ‘E’s got somethin’ beyond, well all I can say is so long as I keep on hatin’ ’im I have the backbone to seek ‘im out. I jes’ want to complete me business with ‘im before I gets to fearin’ ’im more than I do and between you and me, I fears ’im a little.”
“Mr. Figg, whether or not I believe in a thing has little to do with its existence, for truth is that which is true under all circumstances. Truth is that which does not take into consideration the opinions of anyone. In performing necromancy, Jonathan must deal with the dead and he must control them, bringing them from beyond in spite of their wish to remain there. He has offended Asmodeus, King of Demons, or he feels he has and so he kills to stay alive. He sacrifices his own flesh, his little fingers, to stay alive. Jonathan will call on powerful spirits to aid him, any and all of which could destroy him if the ritual is performed incorrectly. I say this to you, Mr. Figg: Should you come upon Jonathan during this ritual, it is possible that you, sir, will suffer grievous injury of some kind. Kill him, yes, but before he begins the ceremony. Before.”
Figg said, “You claim it takes nine days to perform, once he gets the body.”
“‘The dead rise and come to me,’ begins the ceremony which is performed at night, always at night and in such places as a graveyard, a forest, a crossroads, a crypt. There are circles of power drawn on the ground and he must remain in them, for this is a terribly dangerous ceremony. And there is the danger, real or imagined of Asmodeus. Jonathan will cut himself off from the world for nine days. He will dress in a shroud, sleep by day and move by night. He will eat only at midnight and then it will be the flesh of dogs, unfermented wine and unleavened bread, these last two foods lacking life. The dog serves Hecate, goddess of death.”
Figg sighed. “So we must find Jonathan before the ceremony.”
Poe nodded. “Before the ceremony, certainly before the ninth day, for by then he will charge and command the spirit of the dead to come forth. He will offer worship to all four points of the compass, ending with the north. Only one group of people in the world venerate the north as a holy point: the dreaded Yezidi of south Asia, who worship the devil in all his evil. Most of humanity regards the north as black, the home of Satan, the abode of freezing wind and death.”
Poe rubbed the back of his neck, then scratched his high, wide forehead. “Christians have long feared the north, reserving the north side of a churchyard for suicides, those unfortunates who cannot be buried in consecrated ground. Though I do not directly concern myself with these matters, save on the printed page, I tell you, Mr. Figg, that Jonathan has such faith in what he pursues that he is capable of unleashing a horror which could bring down a hell upon us all. Kill him swiftly, for all our sakes.”
Figg said, “If I do not claim his life, Mr. Poe, it will be because he has first succeeded in claiming mine. Is there more you can detect about Jonathan and his business?”
“Yes. He is European. The cult worship of Asmodeus has existed in that section of the world for years, even among members of royal houses. He is obviously a scholar, for merely to familiarize himself with occult writings requires intelligence, possibly linguistic abilities since many of the books and scrolls are written in Latin, Hebrew, Greek, old French and old German. And, as we have learned by his use of Althea and her father, he is careful to seek help if something is obscure. He is young, physically strong, trained in medicine, for he is able to remove body organs under primitive conditions and apparently fairly quickly.”
Poe looked up at the ceiling. “He is travelled; his association with the Renaissance Players indicates the need for a passport to get him easily from one country to another. Since I claim he is also Paracelsus, I submit Jonathan is an actor, skilled in stage technique and makeup. He is meticulous, thorough. This can be seen in how much he knows about the lives of those who seek him out as spiritualist. To deceive them, he must know everything about them so our Jonathan is a planner, a schemer, a man who looks ahead, who is able to convince one man to betray another by fair means or foul. He must be capable of inspiring some degree of loyalty, for it is not possible to purchase the hearts and minds of everyone in the universe.