The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (14 page)

No one?
It must've been Crispus invisible under the cloak that stabbed Narce.
That mean I believe if I ain't see him?
Jeb wheeled on Verdiss, ready to lunge at him—he couldn't.
 

The Gatling gun's constant booming drowned out everything. His rage. His thirst for blood.  There was nothing but the peal of swords meeting and death cries as a barrage of bullets struck flesh and bone. He caught sight of Major Jones, the heavy red-skinned man, riding through the battlefield on horseback. He barked orders at his men, while cutting down any Klansman who came his way.

Jones?
Moses. Rufus. Rayford. They all flashed before
Jeb—was he awake or asleep, or joined Company Q as they say? In that moment the Grand Dragon struck, lashing out with a handful of crimson powder.
 

Jeb's eyes burned. He hacked on the cloud which tasted like blood. “My eyes!” Jeb dropped to the ground, rubbing them raw. Verdiss landed a kick to Jeb's chest. He collapsed on the blood-soaked ground. Jeb fumbled for his saber.
Remember where he stepped. Remember!
He couldn't think through the inferno raging in his eyes.
 

“You should have given up. Look at all the deaths you've brought. Your wife. Your child. They will be next. You have waked my wrath." Verdiss circled Jeb.

Listen to his feet, the dirt they're kicking up. Ignore the pain
. Jeb groped the ground for his sword, feeling death and blood.
 

“But, alas, I must dispatch you, rare and brave varlet."

A shot cut through the air. Verdiss grunted, his sword thudded to the ground. Then another thud.
The staff!
Jeb crawled to where he heard it fall, grabbing clumps of dirt.
 

“Oh, foolish Ghoul. What hope I had for you. What . . . what did you do!” Verdiss shouted. His hand seized Jeb's and pushed him away. Fallon must've took the shot.
But where's the staff? Who took it?
Crispus?
 

“Trying to live you down,” said Fallon.

Jeb climbed to his knees, reaching for his dagger when footfalls came thundering at him. Heavy enough that they could only be Narce.

“I'll take you both on."

Jeb felt Fallon against him. He imagined the boy standing between the Grand Dragon and Narce, Starr six-shooter in hand.

The Gatling gun's relentless booming ceased. Hoofbeats trumpeted over dying gunfire.
The battle's over?
 

“Narce, my good Nighthawk. We must be off now,” said Verdiss.

“Yer lucky, boy!” The brute shoved past he and Fallon. Then a stampede rumbled through the battlefield.
They're running!
 

Fallon let out a sigh. “Crispus has it, Jeb.” He helped Jeb up from the ground.

“Crispus? Where are you?” he asked.

“Here. I have it." Jeb felt Crispus at his side, then grimy earthenware on his calloused hand. Brittle and cool. Still intact despite its fragile material. “They are all fleeing,” said Crispus. Dissipated gunfire left an eerie silence over the babbling Mississippi River.

Major Jones reared his mount up, coming to a stop where the three stood. “Jebidiah Johnson! It been too damn long." He climbed off his horse and strode toward Jeb.

Jeb held his hand out, feeling Jones's rough hand grab his.
Wonder how he looks. It's been...seven years?
“Yes, sir. It's been too long,” answered Jeb.
 

“There's no time for this; we got to light out!” said Fallon. “Verdiss is going to try to kill General Sheridan.”

Jeb nodded his head in agreement, toward where he thought Jones was.

 “All right, then. You all best come with me back to Louisiana Castle. Hope y'all don't mind going shanks mare.” Major Jones mounted his horse with a grunt.

“Let me help.” Fallon shepherded Jeb along.

“Thanks. This must be what it's like to be old.” Jeb only hoped whatever
voodoo
powder Verdiss had hexed him with would wear off. Crispus must have been smiling behind him. He touted anything a white man did for a black man as progress as if that single act righted all the wrongs.
 

“What's the Louisiana Castle? I didn't know there's a castle here,” said Fallon.

“It ain't a castle. It's the state capitol building. We're gonna meet General Sheridan,” answered Jeb.
Crispus's smile's got to be as wide as the horizon.
 

Chapter Twenty-Four

Zelig lay in a rock hard bed with a filthy blanket.
Don't these arschlöcher have any washing machines!
He'd spent hours looking for a German inn, to find
Der Freundliche Ausländer
or "The Friendly Foreigner,”
was maintained like a poor man's house. Its bare, empty rooms smelled like moldy feet. Parts of the wooden walls were rotten to the core.
 

How had the Grand Dragon survived? Zelig hit him. He
never
missed. The
Führer
warned him of Verdiss's strength, but how could he be immune to bullets? He wasn't a
Super Soldat
.
They didn't exist yet. Worse, Zelig failed the
Führer
. He'd served the Chancellor with honor and distinction. His respect was all that mattered.
 

Zelig's gaze shifted from the decaying ceiling to his
Mosin-Nagant
sniper rifle leaning against the wall in a corner. A Russian rifle, equipped with a black spotter scope, well respected for its ruggedness, reliability, and accuracy. His commanding officer gave it to him after the Battle of Stalingrad. Good thing, too, since his
Gewehr
41 carbine was in bad shape.
 

He turned on his side to face the prostitute next to him.
What's her name again?
Marta? Magdelin?
Something that started with an M, but didn't fit the flame-haired beauty. She stirred. Her flashing blue eyes opened, focusing on Zelig.
 

“Good evening, dear.” She stretched, arms raised above her head.

Zelig frowned. He studied the woman's nude body. Each curve was as intoxicating as the one before it. “Not likely. I have
ausfallen
my duties.”
 

The flame-haired, pale-skinned beauty looked confused. “Duties? What duties?” she asked, climbing out of the stone-like bed. She pulled on her white full slip. Zelig watched her, smiling as she slipped into her dark blue bodice. “I don't like the way you're looking at me. It makes me feel all overish.” She gave him an uneasy glance.

“Forgive my stare,
fräulein
.” Zelig smiled. “And
mein
duties weren't difficult." He patted the bed for her to sit
down. “Travel through
zeit
—time.” He scowled at the ignorant expression on her face. “And dispose of
Herr
Verdiss. But I
ausfallen
!” He rolled his eyes. “Failed. He's alive.” He stared at the wall across from him, ashamed.
 

“Funny. Traveling through time. Real funny!” She gave a laugh, sitting down on the mattress. Leaning her arching back against him, she asked, “Now, truthfully, tell me. You must be in the army or something, right? Talking about
duties
and such.” The ashen woman accentuated the word, laughing at herself.
 

“
Das ist nicht lustig
, bitch!” Zelig wrapped his arm around her neck. He flexed his arms. The prostitute struggled, clawing at him. Her body seized as she fought to breathe. He responded to her whimpering by squeezing tighter.
 

She went limp. He released her, shoving her onto the rotten floor. “Oh, excuse me, you don't speak German. It means, ‘that's not funny, bitch!'”

He didn't care if anyone heard the whore's body drop. He was a ghost. Nothing could touch him. He could, nonetheless, die in this godforsaken time, but he didn't exist yet. Zelig endured extensive training to complete his mission before being sent through the
Führer
's
occult machine. He mastered marksmanship, strength training, running, and the proposed paradoxes of time travel. Though he never grasped the enigma of his journey. Still, Zelig was invincible. Anything he did here would have no price to pay later. At least, that's what he decided. He was a
soldier
, not a
scientist
.
 

The
Führer
sought dark powers to help him bring about his
New World Order. Those unknown, strange, and nefarious beings long guided
him. They guarded him through some forty-five assassination attempts. Gods demanded he take the world. His followers in the Thule Society fleshed out most of the
Führer's
high-ranking officers, politicians, and philosophers. Like him they'd dedicated themselves to bringing about the pure race's unending reign. Though Zelig believed in the Thule Society, he'd seen no reason to believe in the magic. Only the
Führer
.
 

A knock at the door startled him. He concealed the prostitute's body under the blanket. Then edged open the door, peering out. The rotund innkeeper stared back at him.

“Yes?”

“Everything okay,
Herr
Falkenstein?” Zelig hadn't heard the tone of his dialect in some time. From
Neustadt am Kulm
, a isolated hamlet in the far east of Germany.
 

“
Ja, alles ist gut
.”.
 

“
Gut
. Your buggy has arrived. I have let him know you want to got to the state capitol house.”
 

“
Danke
.” Zelig shut the door. He gathered his things, taking apart the sniper rifle piece by piece, and placing it in its gun case. He tucked the blanket in, folding each side, as he'd been trained to do in the army. Satisfied it covered the prostitute's body, he surveyed the room. Pristine order, his commanding officer would be proud. Zelig headed for the door.
 

“Farewell, pretty
Fräulein
,” he said with a sneer, then left.
 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

 

Verdiss sat at the desk in his pavilion tent, grumbling as he tried to study the crinkled map. His cauldron rested over a hurriedly-made fire pit. Several yards beyond it sat the brutish Nighthawk, Narce. Darkness lay at his feet. During the war he'd used the dogs like everyone else, to track slaves trying to escape to the North. Unlike everyone else after the war, he didn't use Darkness to track escaped criminals. Verdiss deduced he figured the dog did his time and deserved some rest. An odd contrast. The man was an ogre, but treated the dog like a child.
To each his own.
 

The irregular chair Narce occupied must've been uncomfortable. He kept shifting his weight like a nervous schoolboy. As stupid and annoying as he was, Verdiss still enjoyed his company. A simpleton who'd never break from him—like a dog.

“Hmm. There is writing underneath the words.” Verdiss looked up from the map. “Appears to be hieroglyphics and Greek...the witch must have missed it.” He sat back in his seat, lost in thought.

“Can you read it?” Narce scratched his muttonchops, no doubt, wondering what "hieroglyphics" meant.

“It will take time, good friend. Perhaps at this juncture you should go and gather your personal attire.” Verdiss knew the one way he could decipher the words was to divine them through a ritual. Though he trusted Narce, it was an undertaking he wished to keep from his cohort. “When we withdraw from Louisiana, we must make certain we are not discovered.” The Grand Dragon clenched his jaw.

Narce made a confused sound. He nodded, standing up from his seat, and seemed glad to leave. The map smelled musty and of rotten flesh. Narce could certainly smell it from his seat. He gathered his white robe and left the pavilion followed by the large pit bull.

Verdiss strode to the iron cauldron once his underling left. He retrieved a handful of jimson weed from a satchel near the pot. A poisonous plant, its pungent scent made it a favored component in many
voodoo
rituals. Verdiss
sniffed the trumpet-shaped, violet-colored leaves. He loved the smell. It brought back memories of when he first learned the
majik
. However, that pleasant memory was tainted by hatred of the very people who “cared” for him.
 

He crumbled the weed in his hands, dropping it into the bubbling water. Verdiss pulled a glass jar of honey and a wooden spoon from the satchel. Then poured several ounces of the sweet nectar into the cauldron. He stirred the concoction for a few minutes, until satisfied it was ready.

Verdiss scooped a spoonful of the drink and brought it to his lips. He slurped it up. It tasted sweet, but acidic. A mixture of poison and honey. Then came the potion's intoxicating effect. Visions and dream-like thoughts, but if too much were ingested, it'd drive a man insane, or worse.

Swirls of red, blue, purple, and other colors encircled Verdiss, white misty clouds descending on him. He ignored the hallucinatory effects. They made it difficult to distinguish reality from illusion. He'd have to fight his way back through, but while in this otherworld, the unknown could be seen.