The totality of the equation said so: E + N-E-R-G-A-L =
G-E-N-E-R-A-L
But N-E-R-G-A-L needed E(dmund) to become the G-E-N-E-R-A-L, too. But Nergal was already a general—the supreme general; the most fearful of them all, in fact. So what was Nergal getting at? Perhaps the formula meant Ner-gal needed Edmund to become a real, living breathing gen- eral again. Yes, perhaps Nergal needed Edmund to help him return to the land of the living. But how?
The images on the seal! It was all there! How else could one balance the equation? Nergal wished to return, to become flesh again, and he had chosen Edmund as his vehicle—had actually given him instructions on how to do it! That was why he sent the lion to take back the seal. The lion was Nergal’s emissary, and by returning the seal—that very thing that in ancient times was used in secret correspondence—Edmund had accepted the god’s offer. Worship and sacrifice were the keys to bringing him back!
He had not been hallucinating. The lion was real, and everything happened there in the alleyway just as Edmund remembered it. Edmund was sure of that. The proof was there in the formula.
E + N-E-R-G-A-L = G-E-N-E-R-A-L
And what was it that Rally had said on the telephone? Something again about getting the “formula” right? Well, that had to be another message from Nergal, too; and now that Edmund had finally gotten his formula right, he would never be so stupid as to ignore or misinterpret his messages ever again.
The messages were everywhere and in everything. Edmund understood this now. He just had to look more closely to be able to read them.
And Edmund knew he needed to look more closely at Rally, too. There was a message there, an answer that needed to be extracted from all his doublespeak about formulas and whatnot; an answer that had been there all along, but again Edmund had simply been too stupid to see it.
Edmund understood this in his gut, although he could not articulate it in his mind; could not reach out and touch that flash of silver stitching against that dark blue background no matter how hard he tried.
G-E-N-E-R-A-L
To see the word written that way—A memory? A dream? Something real or imagined? Something he was projecting now that he knew the formula?
But along with the silver stitching of G-E-N-E-R-A-L came other flashes—distant shadows and voices that brought with them a thick gooiness that reminded Edmund of the medicine. He could not see to whom the voices belonged, but understood there were only two of them—understood this in the same way he had understood the General’s name all those years ago as a child. But the voices were speaking in French; whispers and mumblings and back-and-forth echoes that Edmund didn’t understand.
Edmund knew his ancestors had moved from New Orleans to North Carolina after the Civil War. Was it his family he was hearing? Was it Nergal speaking through his ancestors of his destiny?
C’est mieux d’oublier….
Rally. He needed to talk to Rally. Perhaps Nergal would speak again through him as he had on the phone with the word “formula.” All in good time, Edmund thought. Nergal would reveal everything eventually, but it would be up to Edmund to make sure he read the messages correctly.
Chapter 53
After his honorable discharge was finalized, Edmund made it back to Wilson in time for his grandfather’s fu-neral—a small ceremony, complete with a rent-a-preacher at the family plot in Clayton. Edmund, Rally, Rally’s nephew, and about a half-a-dozen others were the only ones in attendance—no extended family to offer their condolences, no close friends to tell Edmund what a wonderful man his grandfather had been.
But Edmund was thankful for that. He would be able to cut things clean from his former life now that Claude Lambert was dead; would be able to begin preparing for the Raging Prince’s return in private, in secret, without having to worry about family members and friends sticking their noses where they didn’t belong.
However, there were still two loose ends that needed tying up before Edmund could begin: Rally, and that pesky little problem about what the police had found in the cellar. The latter resolved itself gradually, but neatly, and began with a brief meeting in the sheriff’s office to answer some questions about how much Edmund knew. Edmund played dumb, just shook his head and kept saying, “I had no idea,” and “I haven’t lived there since I was eighteen.”
No crime had been committed, the sheriff explained, other than illegal possession of a couple of controlled substances: opium and something called concentrated thujone.
“We had to bring all that over to the state lab in Raleigh,” the sheriff said. He was a tall, portly man with a moustache that Edmund thought made him look like a fat Adolf Hitler. “Looks like your grandfather was cooking up some kind of homemade absinthe. You ever heard of that stuff?”
“No, I haven’t,” Edmund replied.
“I didn’t either until this whole mess got dumped in my lap. Shit is illegal here in the States, but you can still get it in Europe, they tell me. Something you drink by dissolving sugar cubes in it until it looks all cloudy and shit. Christ, Eddie, I’m no expert on any of this—just going by what the lab is telling me. Shit is highly alcoholic—like over a hundred and twenty proof, they’re saying—and made primarily from this stuff called wormwood. Was popular among the French artsy-fartsies in the late 1800s and early 1900s, and was thought to have some kind of hallucinogenic effects. But a lot of that’s been proven now to be bullshit. Anyway, I guess there’s a movement going on to legalize absinthe here in this country. Tastes like licorice, they say.”
“That would make sense,” Edmund said. “I remember the smell of licorice in the house when I was a kid. But my grandfather just called it moonshine. I guess the recipe had been in his family for years. The Lamberts originally hailed from New Orleans, and I remember him saying that his great-grandfather or somebody used to own some kind of saloon there.”
“The lab tells me your grandfather’s stuff was different, though. Had opium and that concentrated thujone and some other ingredients that could make it really dangerous if consumed too often.”
Never too much, never too often—be a good boy and carry that rope for me—
“You’re sure you don’t know where he got all that shit?” the sheriff asked.
“I’m sure,” Edmund said. “But I remember him saying a couple of times that he wanted to patent his moonshine and market it someday. This movement you’re telling me about here to legalize—what’s it called again?”
“Absinthe.”
“Absinthe,” Edmund repeated. “Well, maybe the old man had the same thing in mind. Maybe he was ahead of his time.”
“It all looks pretty innocent to me,” the sheriff said, chuckling. “He was making it in such small quantities. Clearly no intent to distribute. Christ, if I went around chasing every redneck cooking up moonshine for private consumption, I ’d be one hell of a lot skinnier, that’s for sure.” Edmund pretended to laugh. “And shit, last thing I need right now are the fucking Staties and the DEA breathing down my neck. Can’t prosecute a dead man last I checked. I only knew your grandfather superficially through Rally’s nephew. Other than this bullshit, he seemed to be an upstanding citizen as far as I can tell. Don’t know about you, but I ’d be happy if all this just went away.”
“Me, too,” Edmund said, smiling.
Edmund signed some papers that allowed the sheriff to retain Claude Lambert’s books indefinitely. He couldn’t tie them directly to the illicit absinthe production, he explained, as the books were mainly about botany and general chemistry. But still, he thought it best that Edmund sign a release in case everything came back to bite him in the ass. He made no mention of Claude Lambert’s notebooks.