Widdershins.
“Be it as your faith,” said the old men.
Me faith, muttered Figg.
He looked at the moon. As he did so, the pain in his body seemed to ease. Suddenly there was some sight in his left eye and the right eye was fine. Perfect. He blinked. He could lift his right arm.
“Time!”
Figg looked into the moon once more, then limped forward to meet a supremely confident Thor.
Widdershins.
Figg limped to his left. Counterclockwise.
Thor stalked him.
* * * *
Rachel felt secure, safe. She sat in the carriage beside Eddy, dear Eddy and soon she would see Justin once more. Eddy had done this for her, he had made it possible for her to see Justin again. Both men were so dear to her; how fortunate she was to have them in her life. She felt peaceful now, rested. There was nothing to worry about.
The carriage rolled slowly, steadily through the moonlit night, along snow-covered roads, through woods, over low hills and across flatlands.
Towards Hugh Larney’s abandoned farm.
Towards Jonathan.
And a mesmerized Rachel, not knowing she was in a trance, sat contented beside an apparition.
* * * *
Poe awoke. He was still in darkness. And there was the dampness around him, the stale air. The coffin lid. He kicked it, punched it, cursed it.
He screamed and screamed and the sound of his voice remained as trapped in the small, hellish prison, as did Poe himself.
* * * *
Thor was confused. He frowned, licked the blood from his lips and charged once more. Waiting until the last second, Figg sidestepped to his left, hooking his left fist into the Negro’s rib cage, then driving his right, arm fully extended, into the same spot. Thor’s eyes became all whites. He staggered backward.
For the past few minutes the Englishman had been hitting him in the same spot, the right rib cage and the pain was growing. All of the white man’s blows had been concentrated there, nowhere else and Thor was feeling it. What Thor hated most of all was that the white man had knocked him down three times and the last time, Thor had found himself getting up slowly.
The Negro, more cautious now, flicked his bloodied left fist at Figg’s face. The Englishman stayed out of reach, continuing to circle to his left. Two more swings by Thor and again, they missed and when the Negro was leaning forward, slightly off-balance, Figg flicked a small jab at his face. The blow stung.
Widdershins.
Every man in the cellar was on his feet, shouting, cursing, encouraging. Some who had been against Figg were now for the squat, bulldog-faced Englishman. His courage had impressed them, his ability to absorb punishment and not quit had won their fickle allegiance. A worried Hugh Larney chewed his tiny lower lip as Figg faked right with his head, drawing a reaction from an anxious Thor, then stepped left, punching on the move, hooking his left fist under the Negro’s heart.
Thor staggered backward, surprised, but he didn’t go down. He’d never seen a man punch and move at the same time. Most boxers planted both feet, then swung from a firm stance. Suddenly the old man in front of him was running all over the ring, hitting while he ran and the blows were hurting Thor.
Thor was angry. He wasn’t going to lose a fight to this old white man, this man who could not walk without dragging a foot behind him, this man with scars on his face and body. Thor was going to kill him and not just for the $100 in gold. He was going to kill him because he now hated him more than he’d hated anyone in his life.
Figg felt strong, confident. He gave no thought as to how that had come about. That it had come about was all that mattered. If he was a part of a tradition that had lived long before Christ and was still alive in the hills and dark woods of England, then so be it. All he was certain of was that now it was a different fight between him and the blackamoor. A very different fight.
He noticed something. The Negro kept his right side farther back than before. It must be painin’ him. Didn’t want any more taps on it. But keeping his right side far back had thrown Thor’s stride off. His stance was too narrow; both feet were one behind the other instead of being wide apart for a firmer grip on the earth. A weak stance meant a weaker punch even from a man as big as him.
Thor jabbed with his left, shuffling forward cautiously, keeping his right side away from Figg, who moved quickly to his right, forcing Thor to lean after him.
Then Figg changed directions. Counterclockwise. As Martin and Tully, two of Thor’s opponents, had said: He cannot move sideways too well. Figg took a chance. He lunged, leaping forward and swinging his left in a wild roundhouse at Thor’s right side. He connected. The blow was one of Figg’s strongest of the fight and drove the big man across the ring. The crowd roared.
Thor was against the ropes and Figg was on him. The Englishman’s hands reached for the Negro’s throat, squeezing, digging in, weakening him. Backing off, Figg hooked to the body with both hands. Again, again, digging his fists into the Negro’s flesh. Thor leaned off the ropes, hands reaching for Figg, who backed off and stepped left, hooking a left into Thor’s temple. Then a right cross and the crowd shrieked, stomped its boots on the damp, black earth. Thor fell forward on his face and Figg staggered backward.
Thor’s seconds dragged him back to his corner. Barnum’s squeaky voice cut above the shouting crowd. “Start counting, timekeeper! Count, I say!” Barnum had $10,000 in gold bet on Figg.
Figg sat on Barnum’s knee, his head flopped back against the ring post, eyes on the moon. Widdershins. They were all congratulating him. Barnum, Bootham. Merlin. The Englishmen sitting at ringside. The cheers, the screams, the yells. It was something from an old tribal rite, it was. Nothing’s changed, thought Figg. Nothing at all. We are them and them is we. The old ones, the new ones. We are all the same.
He looked across the ring. Thor was leaning backward, trying hard to breathe. One of his seconds gently touched the Negro’s right side and he cried out, shaking his head from side to side.
“Time!”
Figg was on his feet, limping forward, reaching the line before Thor.
Thor came up to it slowly, doubled over, left side facing Figg, left hand pawing the air. In adopting the cautious, defensive posture, the Negro had reduced his height. His chin was where Figg wanted it to be. Jes’ keep it there for a while longer, mate. Jes’ a while longer.
They circled each other, Thor with his right side back to protect it. Figg was moving to his left, looking for that opening, that opportunity to end the fight. He knew he could end it, he knew he could win. Be it as your faith. The old and the new are as one, for nothing has ever changed in this world save the eyes of those who view it.
Figg charged, stopped. Thor backed up, then stood confused. Someone booed and shouted. “Hey Larney, yer nigger wants to go home!” Laughter.
Again Figg charged, stopped. Again Thor backed up. More boos, all aimed at the Negro. He looked around, his bloodied face confused, with only the remnants of pride left in it.
Alright, white man. You come again and Thor will not run. Not this time. This time Thor will run to meet you.
Figg faked a charge, two steps, then stopped. Thor lowered his head and charged him and Figg swung a right uppercut that began almost at the ground. The blow caught the Negro on the move, half in the throat, half under the jaw and lifted him in the air and into the ropes.
As Thor bounced off the ropes, Figg stepped to his own left and hooked his left fist into the Negro’s temple. Thor fell forward into the dirt and didn’t move.
The cellar erupted with cheering, roaring, yelling men. There were no boos, no jeers. They had seen what they had come to see.