“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;
And Oh, the tranquil hours we’ll spend,
Never wishing that others may see!
Perfect ease we’ll enjoy, without thinking to lend
Ourselves to the world and its glee-
Ever peaceful and blissful we’ll be.”
Figg sighed, reaching over to pat Poe on the knee. “Right sweet, it is. Yes, I did enjoy that.”
Poe touched his heart. “It is written here and shall remain here forever. The document is too precious to me, so I do not carry it for fear of losing it.”
Figg said, “You’re smart to do that, squire. Where we are goin’, a man can lose more than a scrap of paper.”
Poe chuckled. “Scotch Ann’s seems to have put you on the defensive, Mr. Figg. You have my word that you do not have to partake of anything-”
Figg snapped. “Aint’ right fer a man to feel that way about another man. That sort of thing does not meet with acceptance in England, I’ll have you know.”
“It is disgraceful here as well, Mr. Figg. There can be nothing more loathsome than a man who engages in such unnatural practices.”
“The Queen herself has said that such things are an abomination. She says women don’t do it, not ever.”
“I am afraid, Mr. Figg, that the inhabitants of Scotch Ann’s are not of a mind to be told they are in error in their proclivities. Pray that we encounter Volney Gunning there. One day has passed.”
Figg looked out at the dark Manhattan streets. The stench of a slaughterhouse reached his nose and as the carriage neared it, Figg heard the scream of an animal being killed. Jonathan. Did people scream when he killed them? Jonathan. One day gone.
“One day,” muttered Figg, eyes on the slaughterhouse. He continued to look back at it as the cab headed toward Scotch Ann’s. The animal had stopped screaming. Its days were over.
* * * *
Poe was an aristocrat in manners and morals, a romantic, a man fanatically chivalrous to women. His tolerance for people whose personal conduct fell below his standards of virtue was as low as his tolerance for lesser literary talents. Which is why he stared with utter disgust at the homosexual orgy he and Figg had interrupted on the third floor of Scotch Ann’s brothel. A coin or two in the right hand had gotten them the location of this very private party. They’d entered the room to find six men-three nude, three in women’s clothing-preparing to enjoy a lavish feast of erotic food and drink.
Volney Gunning quickly sat up, watery eyes rapidly blinking at Poe. Gunning had been reclining on huge lavender satin cushions, his long, balding head in the lap of a thin man who wore a shoulder length blonde wig and a blue gown revealing bare shoulders.
“Poe, how dare you! This, this is a private affair. I shall have you and your friend thrown out immediately!”
Poe heard the cock of a gun hammer behind him. That would be Mr. Figg removing his flintlock from his pocket and undoubtedly depositing his rotund body in front of the only door in the room. Even with this assistance, Poe had no intention of remaining long in such decadence. From Gunning, he wanted only Jonathan’s whereabouts. After that, it was retreat in haste from this temple of unnatural lust.
“Mr. Gunning, you would be advised to tell us what we want to know. Where is Jonathan?”
Volney Gunning’s jaw dropped. He flopped backwards as though wanting the beautifully gowned prostitute to embrace and protect him from a harsh world.
“J-Jonathan? I know of no such person. Who are you to come here and question me-”
Figg’s soft rasp moved closer as the boxer stepped from the door. “’Oo are we, ‘e says. We are the gents whats goin’ to put a ball through yer stinkin’ brain if you do not tell us what we come to ‘ear. That is ’oo we are, mate.”
A corner of Poe’s small mouth went up in a bitter smile. “Steady on, Mr. Figg. I am certain that Mr. Gunning believes us to be in earnest. Well sir?”
Gunning’s deep voice trembled with fear. “I know of no such per-person. I know of no such-”
“You lie, sir.” There was steel in Poe’s gentle, southern voice.
“You offend me, sir!” Gunning pointed a long, bony forefinger at Poe.
Figg stepped forward, an arm extended, the flintlock aimed at Gunning’s head. “You offend me, you bloody poof! You sends nigger minstrels to carve me and I owe you fer that, mate.”
Poe’s small hand was on Figg’s pistol, gently pressing it down towards the floor. “As you can see, Mr. Gunning, my friend is upset at your twice having tried to murder him. I refer to the train yesterday noon, and also to the matter of gas leakage a few days ago at the Hotel Astor. My friend is vindictive and you could well be the worse for it.”
“I cannot speak of him. You, you must know that.” Volney Gunning, tall and extremely thin, cringed closer to his partner.
Poe looked around the room, gray eyes swiftly absorbing details. The room reeked of plush decay. Hanging from the walls were obscene tapestries explicit in their portrayal of the pleasures of Greek love between man and man, man and boy. Explicit foulness. There was the sweet smell of opium and amidst the esoteric eatables and beverages on the long, low wooden table, Poe saw the opium pipes. Faint wisps of smoke trailed from two of them.
There were red velvet drapes in front of the windows, gaslight on the walls, along with more obscene paintings. Spotted around the room were cheap copies of statues of slim, beautiful young men. On the floor were huge satin pillows of varying colors on which the naked men and their prostitutes reclined. All three of the prostitutes carried fans. Two wore thin, black lace gloves and one, Poe noticed, wore mittens. A few years ago, wearing mittens while dining had been something of a fad among upper-class New York women.