Poe crawled to Rachel, taking her in his arms, holding her tight, burying her face in his shoulder. The eerie storm around them was filled with howling winds, shrieking sounds as though men and animals in pain were calling out for help.
The ritual! Jonathan had raised forces that were out of his control! Or was this just a sudden, vicious storm. Was it just a storm? On the ground, Poe clung tightly to Rachel. Through the dust, Figg and Jonathan were only vague shadows.
He heard Figg’s voice over the shrieking winds. “Do not leave the circle, Mr. Poe! Whatever you do! Do not leave! Your life depends on it!”
“Jonathannnnnnn!” Again Hugh Larney. “Jonathan, they have me! They have me! Oh, God, no! Dear God, I beg you do not … Aieeeeee!” And his voice was swallowed up in the howling winds.
Jonathan, his grave clothes flapping in the wind, gripped the Athame, the ritual knife, in both hands. He crouched, squinting in the swirling, stinging dust, trying to see Figg, trying to …
Figg was on him, a hand pressing the knife down, the other hand punching him in the face, punching, punching, knocking him to the ground.
Then the Athame was in Figg’s hands and the boxer gazed down at the man he had come so far to kill. Suddenly Figg stopped and listened to the wind.
He listened, and Jonathan screamed “Nooo! Noooo!” The magician had heard what Figg heard. They had both heard the order for Jonathan’s death.
Figg heard the voices of the old men. “We are you, we are one. All is one, all is one … ”
Figg, his top hat long blown away, straddled Jonathan, quickly slashing his throat. The magician’s feet jerked; his blood spurted up on Figg’s hands and coat.
As the wind continued to howl in an ear-piercing, murderous fury, Figg tore at Jonathan’s filthy, grave clothes.
Instantly, a shocked Poe knew what Figg intended. “Good Lord, man! Are you mad? What are you going to do?”
Poe knew.
Figg snapped his head towards Poe. “Lie down flat and cover the woman’s face! She must not see me do this, this thing! The wind, it will destroy us all if I do not act! There is no choice, Mr. Poe, and I think you know what I am sayin’.”
“But we cannot act as he would have done!”
“Damn it, man, I tell you we will not leave this place alive unless we do, unless I do what has to be done! I have jes’ been told that it must be this way! My, my spirits tell me! I do this on their orders, not because of Jonathan’s devil god! Jonathan has begun a thing and a promise must be kept! He, the thing, he cannot have the woman but he must ‘ave somebody, do you understand what I am sayin’?”
The wind tore at them and Poe knew they could not stay much longer in this brutal, unearthly storm, this sudden storm that screamed around them and pulled at their flesh like the claws and teeth of a thousand rats. The storm that Poe also knew could kill them, unless-
It must be done and Poe was sick to his stomach. Almost completely blinded by the stinging dust that filled the barn, he fell to the ground and held Rachel to him, a hand behind her head, keeping her face in his chest. Figg the primitive was sensitive to forces that Poe could only imagine.
And that’s why Jonathan had feared the boxer.
Poe screamed over the wind, “Do as you must! Do as you must!”
Still straddling the dead magician, Figg rubbed dirt from his own eyes.
And with a trembling hand, began to cut out Jonathan’s heart.
New York, March 10, 1848
My Dear Mr. Figg,
In this letter, I am forced to acknowledge some things which should not be acknowledged at all. I am certain that you do not wish my gratitude in the matter of the two gold sovereigns you left behind in my cottage. One could say you forgot them, mislaid them, but Mr. Figg, I am not of a mind to underestimate your intelligence, which regrettably, once was the attitude I carried with me in viewing your existence. I do not accept charity, sir, but my dear Muddy, Mrs. Maria Clemm, assures me that your intentions were honorable and that in no way did you seek to demean me. Therefore, let me say that the receipt of the money is appreciated and Muddy and I will make the wisest use of it possible, though money does not long remain in my company.
The recent events which involved the both of us in this city are still strong within my mind. There can be no logical explanation for much of what occurred and I find that I am unable, unwilling as well, to discuss this matter with others. I cannot explain the sudden, brutal winds that surrounded us that night on Hugh Larney’s property, anymore than I can explain their quick cessation upon your completion of a business best left unsaid. I am forced to repeat what I said to you that night, that you saved our lives even though it was done in a fashion which I personally find abominable. Do not take this as criticism upon yourself, since neither Rachel nor I would be alive had it not been for your swift action. I acknowledge that there are forces beyond my ken and as yet, I am not sure if it is good or bad for me to admit this.
To sum up recent happenings, the death of Volney Gunning was proclaimed to have occurred in a traffic accident, thereby explaining the broken bones he incurred. The demise of Miles Standish is still a matter for police inquiry, though I have learned that Prosper Benjamin is active in keeping that inquiry at a standstill. I surmise that Mr. Benjamin is reluctant to have the homosexual killers of Scotch Ann’s temple of lust traced to him, so I must tell you that it appears as if the matter of Miles Standish will remain a mystery for some time to come.
Hugh Larney was ruled to have been killed by wolves made ravenous and daring by the winter, a conclusion drawn from the condition of his corpse which appeared to have been shredded by wild beasts. I leave a closer examination of this matter to you, dear friend, who I am sure can give a more detailed explanation should you be so inclined.
When the burned ruins of Hugh Larney’s barn were examined, no human remains were found. The fire which immediately ravaged the building after we fled it must have contained flames capable of destroying human bone and tissue in a fashion not yet encountered on this planet, but as I have stated, there are things I prefer not to acknowledge.
Barnum and others with wagers to collect from Hugh Larney are not ecstatic with his having gone on ahead, as the religiosos are apt to proclaim of the dead, but it was agreed by one and all that the fight between you and Larney’s colored was worth any price. The colored is a broken man and at loose ends since Larney’s transportation to other planes and I fear he will end up in Five Points, a soul lost to vice and numerous human weaknesses. Dearborn Lapham, sad to inform you, has run away with a group of travelling players. I wish her bon chance.
Of Rachel, I can say little since her recovery is slow, if not non-existent. Doctors have told me it is her mind and not her body that is the source of her ailing. The shocking experiences she encountered have proven too much for her and I fear for her sanity, dear friend. Again I say there is much I would prefer not to acknowledge but life, as always, is harsh, relentlessly so and I am forced to consider the intelligence that she may not ever again regain her correct faculties.
I do so love her and cannot avoid dreaming of a time when she will be well and I have my magazine and she and I will be as one. All of my life I have yearned for love, for the comfort of a warm and tender heart and I would rather die than renounce this ideal. I spend as much time as possible by her bedside and on those days that she recognizes me, I can truthfully say that I feel no greater joy, no greater euphoria.