The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (20 page)

By the time the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, darkness taking over New York, Jeb stopped paying attention to whatever demon possessed whatever girl. He found himself stargazing like he often did back home.
No stars.
A familiar sea of celestial fireflies vanished overnight. He'd seen them in Virginia.
Where'd they go?
Verdiss did this! Or maybe it's just the city lights?
 

“Brittany Hotel! There's a demon in there!” Fallon nudged Jeb, leaning over the railing. He didn't bother to look.

“Look, Fallon, look. That's the St. Michael's Cathedral. There was just an exorcism performed there.” Crispus motioned to a church looming in the distance amidst New York City's fiery glow. The two gasped and awed at each haunted sight. Jeb leaned against the railing, impatiently waiting to land. He watched the strange starless sky.
This is gonna be a long night.
 

***

When they landed, Jeb set off on a confused, roundabout search for the museum. Manhattan's streets were as congested as anywhere else in the city, but Crispus and Fallon managed to keep in step with him. The more people Jeb asked for directions to the Metropolitan Museum of Art the more it seemed to not exist.

“No worries. Not in this city.”

“There's no museum by that name.”

“What the fuck would I know about a museum!”

Not until Jeb came across a pair of nuns did they find out that the New York Legislature granted the Metropolitan Incorporation Act the year before, in 1870. The actual building wasn't set for construction until 1874, shy of three years away. Of course, the nuns didn't know anything other than that.

“You can't just have all this museum stuff and nowhere to put it," Jeb grumbled after each person he stopped offered the same answer. No one knew where, or if the museum existed yet. After having bothered “too many good Christian folk” a constable insisted Fallon pay a five-dollar fine for Jeb and his “uppity” behavior.

Once the constable departed, giving Jeb strict warnings to be a “well-behaved boy”, Jeb took a seat on a bench to rest his eyes.

“I don't want no more trouble here.” He inhaled then exhaled. “You look more
houseboy
than me.” Jeb eyed Crispus's fine suit and trousers.
That makes a difference? Wearing a suit makes a man better? Horse shit.
“Take Fallon with you and leave this buck alone.” Jeb scowled—
like I'm some fucking animal.
Crispus and Fallon exchanged some mutterings before disappearing into the crowd.
 

The North proved odd whenever Jeb made his way up there. Folks were ruder, but less cruel than in the South.
Things be getting better, but the plantation thinking isn't gone yet. We dark-skinned folk still get treated like fieldhands, the light-skinned and educated are still houseboys. Even up here in the North. But like Douglass says, ‘if there's no struggle, there's no progress.' This here's our struggle. Things are changing. Just be open to it. They can't be all bad. Rayford. Major Jones. Wardell. Fallon.
 

“Found it!” Crispus came dashing through the crowd. “It's on the outskirts of Central Park. Fifth Avenue, south of the Museum's foundation.”

Jeb sighed, pushing his thoughts away. “Lit's hurry up and get this done with.” He hustled off to find a coachman who'd actually pick them up.

Keturah and Bettina waited for him.

Reaching the Metropolitan's warehouse took as long and as anything else had in the city. Coach drivers wouldn't take paper money, claiming after the war the Government no longer backed it with gold. Nor would anyone accept large coinage, fearing it'd be stolen, or because they couldn't make change. Jeb made his way to a market to make change with one of the street vendors.

A golden-haired paper boy shook his head, recoiling from Jeb's gold coin. “No, sir. We can't make change without a purchase. ‘Sides I don't want to be walking around with that much ‘less there suttin' in it for me.”  

Jeb clenched his jaw. “Wily New Yorkers. Fallon—” he motioned him over, “buy something from this here boy.” He glared at the golden-haired paperboy smiling as Fallon shuffled through his bag.

“Oh, I'll take this!” Fallon unrolled a crumpled parchment and poured into it. He gasped. “It's a map of all the haunted sites in the city.”  

“It'll be a nickel.”

Jeb caressed his ten-dollar eagle coin, feeling the cold gold on his skin. First one he earned. Using it to buy a piece of rubbish stung. Never mind the fact that most folk, white or black, made ten dollars in three weeks of work.

“Fine.” He shoved the paperboy his coin and collected the change.

After finding a coachman reeking of cigarettes, Jeb paid their way and the coach rolled on through the street. The Irish coachman seemed to only know the words "Where to?” in English. When Crispus gave him the address, he nodded, then continued to ramble on in Irish.

“What is he saying?” Fallon glanced at Crispus.

He shrugged. “No idea, but it's a beautiful language.”

Jeb leaned back on the bench, resting his head on his arms. He gave a grunt. “Makes for a fine lullaby, like Momma Shug's—wake me when we get there.”

The brougham stopped, jerking Jeb from his dreams. He couldn't remember any, no more nightmares or memories of death and agony. That alone cast a calmness over him. Until the coachman shouted, “
Maith tráthnóna!
” and flung the coach doors open.
 

Fallon took the hint, handed him a five-dollar gold coin, and hopped out of the carriage. Jeb followed him out into the bright street which resonated with vendors barking. Horse drawn carriages clamored by. Since landing at the Staten Island Station, Jeb's mood soured. A living creature with its own personality, the city flared with lights, noises, and smells that made Baton Rouge feel subdued.

He took a moment to scan the street.
No Klansmen. At least not yet.
Jeb turned to the castle-like structure ahead of him. Heavy black iron bars veiled two ground windows, each shrouded by a heavy stone archway that blocked any light from within. He narrowed his eyes on the arches. This place seemed different than the Louisiana Castle. A dark aura hung about the windows like thick fog. A shiver went through Jeb, and he didn't know whether it was from that horrible aura, or the fact he
saw
it.
 

Jeb glowered and tightened his saber against his thigh. He ascended the stairway up to the front door, keeping his sword away from the railing.
Less contact with this place the better
.
This voodoo could rub off on you. Couldn't it?
 

Jeb banged on the door. A moment later, it creaked open and an aged man poked his head out. His eyes moved like drunken flies.

“You're them? You must be them. Sheridan said it'd be two people of color and a boy, so you must be them. Right?” The dwarf pulled open the door. “Well, hurry up. Hurry up. I don't got all night, you know.” He tugged on his long beard, a look of surprise each time he discovered it was there.

Jeb exchanged a dubious glance with Crispus. They agreed with their eyes: he's either on too much coffee, or paranoid. “Yea, we're them,” he said. Then remembered the dwarf had good reason to be.

An expansive room, the linseed oiled floor suffered from scratches, dents, and layers of black marks from heavy objects dragging across its surface. Rays of light scattered across the room. Mountains of artwork: paintings, masks, instruments, knights' armor, weapons, Roman statues, figurines, and stacks of papers loomed over Jeb. It was as if every piece of art created in the past five thousand years had been crammed into the warehouse. He couldn't tell where the walls began or ended.

“You can see I have a lot of work ahead of me.” The dwarf gazed at the daunting array of treasures. “Now, come with me. Oh, by the way, I'm Cornelius Cuthbert." Attacking the air with his hand, he set off into the maze of history.

I suppose that's a motion
. Jeb shrugged at Crispus's nervous look, then followed the dwarf. He made certain not to touch any of the antiquities. With everything that had happened, it wouldn't surprise Jeb if they released some cursed beetle. It made as much sense as any of the nonsense he'd seen recently. Besides the fact one of the stack of papers could crush a man.
 

Cornelius didn't look up once to see where he was going as he sauntered through obscured paths overshadowed by eerie thickets. He kept his head lowered and found his way as if he'd been raised there. To the back wall was an eight-minute walk through the labyrinth of oddities. A round table sat underneath a mountain of papers. Cornelius plopped down into the leather chair and settled in. He shoved parchments around and moved several bronze oil lamps out of his way. Shadows from the lamps danced around the cavern as if performing their own cakewalk.

What mouse-sized patience Jeb had left scurried away as the dwarf continued rearranging his garbage covered desk. “You fixin' to be done cleaning your pigpen?” He crossed his arms. Every moment that passed was another moment the Klan could find Keturah and Bettina. Cornelius didn't answer.

“Wow..” Fallon inspected a blue hippopotamus figurine engraved with hieroglyphics on a nearby stand. Jeb spotted a symbol that looked like the Pharaoh's Staff.
Must be Egyptian. Wait, that's got to mean the staff is real if it's on some museum piece. Right?
 

“Good sir—” Crispus began.

“Just a minute. Just a minute.” Cornelius grabbed a scroll, unrolled it, perused it, then grunted. “Wait, I forgot why you came. My apologies. See, I just agreed to help finance the museum. So I've been busy cataloging and sorting through all these goodies." He motioned around the massive hall. “I forget why General Sheridan sent you. So...
e
why are you here?”
 

With a glare from Jeb, Crispus answered, “The Pharaoh's Staff. It's safer if you don't know anything more. All we need to know is how to use it."

“Or break it.” Jeb watched Crispus furrow his bushy brow at him.
He'll see. I'll make him see. It needs to be destroyed. Moses knew it too.
 

“Oh yes. The Staff of Narmer, that's why.” Cornelius muttered something. He dropped the scroll on the desk and wheeled on Jeb. “Can I see it? Is it here?” A wide smile crossed his dried lips. He smoothed out the thin hair covering his pate.

What is he readying to meet Lincoln?
Jeb stifled a chuckle.
 

As Crispus withdrew the ancient ceramic staff from his satchel Cornelius's eyes widened to take in the whole of it. “Amazing. Five thousand years old and not a crack.” He leaned closer to Crispus, caressing the staff with his eyes. “I would
love
to hear how you came about it, but you won't tell me, will you?"
 

Crispus shook his head. “For your safety.”

“And my conscience,” Jeb added.

“Can you tell us how to
use
it?" Crispus clutched the staff to his chest.
 

Cornelius tugged his beard. “Of course—wait, never mind, I can't. See, a friend of mine, well, he used to be a friend, stole
the book with the Narmer legend
. Without the
Magus Liber
, that's the book,
and the legend to translate, I can't tell you anything.”
 

“You talk to the police?” asked Jeb.
You're white and all
.
 

Cornelius nodded, his eyes still enraptured with the staff. “I spoke with the authorities. The police won't do anything, because my friend's father is a federal magistrate.” He sighed, sounding like a mother yearning for her absent son.

Jeb's jaw clenched. Another damn thing keeping him from holding Keturah and Bettina in his arms. “What's his name? Where's he live at?”

“Nathaniel Calderon,” said Cornelius, bitterness in his voice. “Except I feel he is no longer the Nathaniel I knew."

“What do you mean? Like he's possessed?” Fallon abandoned the hippopotamus figurine and sprinted over to Cornelius. “Like the St. Michael Cathedral possession?”

Cornelius paused tugging his heard. “Huh? I don't know anything about that. He returned from viewing a gallery in New Orleans last week. However, he wasn't himself. Nathaniel had always been respectful, modest, a great friend. When he came back, he was greedy, arrogant, and obsessed with his appearance like a bigwig dandy. More than before.” Cornelius chuckled and went back to pulling on his beard. “I suspected he was stealing priceless artifacts—oh! Nathaniel started speaking French too. I believe French, but a peculiar dialect.” Cornelius glowered, his brow furrowed. His eyes drifted off into the maze. There was some horror he'd seen, Jeb decided, but what? “It may sound odd, but I find myself unable to go near his desk." He pointed a stubby finger to the left wall. “Take a look.”

“Aw shit.” Jeb, mouth agape, turned toward where Cornelius had pointed. The realization hit him as square and painful as the bullet that tore through his abdomen. “This fucker's a
voodoo
worker.” Crispus and Fallon's discussion faded into obscure mutterings as did whatever Cornelius asked him. Jeb let his eyes wander down the cramped paths. If they seemed eerie before, now they felt like they were stalked by a lugaru howling from the bowels of the bayou. Pushing past the rambling duo, Jeb worked his way through the maze of artwork. Several minutes later, he found where the dwarf had pointed.