The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (30 page)

He never thought of himself as a soldier, not until after the war. No, Jeb was just an escaped slave fighting for his people. Soldiers were men who bled for their unit, knew their unit, memorized the unit's history,
were
the unit. When he was finally discharged and regaled stories with other Freedmen on the way home—that's when he realized he was a soldier. As valuable as any white one.
 

A large double buggy pulled by a Shire horse rolled up in front of Jeb. A roofless Concord, the two seats behind the coachman were elevated to give riders an overhead view of the street. A man a few years Fallon's senior sat in the coachman's seat.

“Climb on!” Fallon waved at Jeb from one of the raised seats. “Isn't this top rail quality?” He held the small door open. Jeb climbed in and plopped down in the seat next to Fallon.

“How are you today, sir? The name's Christopher Johnson, sir,” said the coachman, tipping his John Bull hat. “Where's about can I take you, sirs?” Before he finished his question, the coachman snapped the reins and the Shire horse took off down the street.

With a tight grip, Jeb managed to stay in his sit as the buggy pitched over loose flagstones, scattering nearby townsfolk. “The boyo said Café Lakay over on East New York in Brooklyn, but seeing he's white, didn't make alotta sense him wanting to go to the Lakay. Makes a lot more sense now. You from Haiti?

"I always like meeting people from all over. It's a good way to pick up information, if you get my drift. Why I've taken an African, a Jew, some Chinese, and some bigwig politicians, too. Don't get me wrong. I've taken some seedy characters, too, like Nathan Bedford Forrest or even Obadiah McNamara. You might've heard of him. He's one of the Klansmen on trial down in Mississippi for killing one hundred fifty people of color. I don't say
colored
cause it's racist and all. The new terms are black and people of color, right?” The coachman didn't wait for an answer. “They say McNamara helped hang a black fellow he grew up with. Even shook the man's hand before they hung him.” Christopher rambled on, conversing with himself more than anyone else.
 

Jeb stared off into the streets ahead, watching as people lunged out of the coachman's path. Christopher Johnson's rambling even put Fallon to sleep.

Time dragged on. The hour it took to reach East New York Avenue in Brooklyn was plagued by his incessant chattering. When Christopher wasn't prattling on about the interesting characters he'd met, he poorly navigated the buggy around ever increasing protests of someone called Tammany Hall. Jeb ignored the coachman's explanation of Boss Tweed and his corrupted administration. Too busy watching federal troops trying desperately to control the mobs.

The buggy rolled up to East New York Avenue, nothing more than a wide alleyway between three small buildings. Each dressed in shrouds of Haitian Creole words drawn in red paint.

“This is the place, boyos.” Christopher Johnson glanced back at Jeb. “Best hurry up and give me my fare. Five-cents.” He flung the coach door open with a clatter.

Jeb cocked his head. Withdrew the coinage and handed it over. Fear or anger or disgust or maybe all three twisted the coachman's expression. He nudged Fallon, who jumped out of the carriage like a hound pouncing on its prey.
Little shit was faking.
His eyes were still on Christopher Johnson as he slammed the door shut. The coachman took another look down the alleyway, screwed his face up, and whipped the Shire horse into a canter. Jeb watched the coach jump
and thunder down the street as if it'd seen the devil himself. He let out a confused grunt.
 

“What do those words mean?” came Fallon's voice from behind him.

Definitely a
voodoo
worker somewhere in the alley. Jeb recognized two of the words on the buildings. And mimicked Christopher Johnson's scowl. “A
bokò
...”
 

The blood drained from Fallon's face, leaving him pale and trembling. “A b—
bokor
?” Jeb shook his head.
 

“No. A
bokò
is a
voodoo
worker that practices spells to heal and to hurt. They ain't bad or good. They both.” Jeb's hand went to his saber. From the coachman's reaction, he could only assume they had a bad worker on their hands. Worse yet, the word
mefye
was scrawled along the opposite wall.
A warning. Beware.
If he remembered right. Jeb let out a sigh. “You'll be fine.” A strong pat on Fallon's back, and Jeb moved into the darkened alley.
 

Fallon gave a whimper then followed after him.

“Wait.” Jeb stopped, foot midair, when he noticed a line of brick dust laid across the alley entryway. He glanced back toward the direction Christopher Johnson had gone.
That's
why he'd been so riled up. He shouldn't be surprised, but still...
they're everywhere.
 

Confusion crossed Fallon, his hands twisting together. “What? We can't cross? They won't let us?”

“No. Nothing,” said Jeb, crossing over the hex. Fallon took a deep breath. Stepped over the line. And exhaled.

“Stay with me.” Pulling the boy close, Jeb scanned the alleyway. Lined with garbage, animal bones, knives of both metal and wood, their blades snapped in half, dented and tarnished silver chalices, shards of broken mirrors, and several broken rattles etched with African motifs. Jeb stepped around a cracked wooden frog mask in the middle of the path. Its empty eyes seemed to follow him, the inanimate thing studying him as he studied it.
 

Several times Fallon tugged on Jeb just before putting his foot down on rusted nails point-up. Neither of them said anything about the refuse. Jeb could tell Fallon understood they were the remains of
voodoo
rituals. But he wondered what the results were. How many people had this
bokò
cursed? How many had he healed? A
bokor
, a
houngan
, at least they made a choice. Good magic or bad. But a
bokò
...like the mercenary scum during the war. They
fought for the Union, then when their regiments suffered too many losses they go turncoat and fight for the Confederates.
 
 
 

A few hours past noon, looming shadows cloaked the street in darkness. As they moved farther down the alleyway, the forlorn feel of bad magic wafted over them. Then came the fall wind, howling. It carried with it words of Haitian Creole. At first, Jeb couldn't make them out. Though he recognized the rhythmic chanting. “Bad magic for sure." He glanced down at the scrawny, blond-haired boy, fumbling for his hand. Unsure how to react, he reminded himself Fallon was only a few years older than Bettina. He took the boy's hand.

“It's—it's—it's longer than it looks,” said Fallon through clattering teeth.

As the two continued, they passed several worm-eaten doors etched with
veves
. Symbols consisting of triangles within spiral designs and pentagrams within circles. Fallon shrank back from the mystical symbols. “Y-you don't think that red paint is b-blood, do you?” he asked, pointing at the smeared ideograms.
 

Jeb squinted at the
veves
hard enough to make his eyes hurt. He couldn't tell. That's when the metallic smell of blood hit his nostrils. A painful reminder of his war days. He tried to hide the look of disgust from his face. “No, no, boy, that ain't blood." Jeb gripped Fallon's hand and hurried him to the other end of the alley.
 

The plain brick wall contained a heavy iron door painted over with a
veve
depicting a ship sailing across the ocean, surrounded by bleeding hearts. Although this
veve
, too, was brushed in blood, the stench wasn't human...and it sent a shiver through Jeb, realizing he could tell the difference.
 

Jeb knocked on the door, feeling Fallon's grip tighten on his. The sound echoed through the narrow street almost like a metallic cackle. Fallon flinched at the noise.

“Calm down." Jeb squeezed the boy's hand to let him know he was still there.

“Who is that here?” a voice with a heavy Haitian accent came through the door. “What is
ou
want?”
 

“I got a talisman of
Ay-I-zan
. A
loa.
" He pulled the rope talisman out from underneath his shirt, hoping
loa
meant spirit and not some cuss word.
 

A metal panel in the door slid open, metal scraping against metal. A pair of hazel eyes gazed through the panel from underneath wild dark hair. Man or woman, Jeb couldn't tell. The voice, too, sounded ambiguous. He held up the palm tree-shaped charm for whoever it was to see.

“Where from
ou
get it?” the voice asked.
 

Fallon's hand trembled in Jeb's.
Remember he's only a boy.
 

“What is wrong with
ti gason
?” the voice was suspicious. Definitely a man.
 

“He just a little scared, is all," Jeb answered, looking over his shoulder. A tin can rolled across the ground. His instincts told him to investigate. Perhaps the Klan found him and hoped he'd lead them to the staff.
No. They wouldn't be able to pass the hex.
His lips pulled into a slight smile. “I got this here charm from a
houngan
in Louisiana." He turned back to the eyes peering through the door.
 

“
Oke
then.” The door screeched open on unoiled hinges. Light poured out from the doorway, followed by clouds of smoke and the stench of burning herbs. A short Haitian man with unkempt hair motioned Jeb and Fallon inside. He fought his way in through the haze, hacking as if under some
voodoo
spell. The door slammed shut behind them.
 

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-Four

 

Zelig cursed himself for knocking the can, but the stupid
dieb
didn't notice. It'd taken his considerable skill to stalk his quarry through the city and remain unnoticed. No other man could have done it. The hard part was keeping his lunch down once he entered the rotten neighborhood. Filled with more refuse than any other part of this Godforsaken city, there were even bones with rotten meat still clinging to them.
 

Strange, though, that other bones, picked clean, hung on ropes tied to the gutters of buildings. Doors painted with blood in an age-old
Jude
practice.
Odd. Why would the
dieb
do it?
A line of dirt spanned the entranceway, but for what purpose Zelig had no idea.
 

He'd heard the coachman grumble about the street as though he were angry or afraid of it.
Maybe it's the
black
magic the
Führer mentioned.
It could only harm those who believed in it. If that was the case, it didn't matter to him. Magic employed by the Thule society was
real
. Whatever magic these people used wasn't magic at all. Just superstitious witchcraft.
 

The wind tore through the city on a rampage, blowing garbage, bones, and broken pottery around like haphazardly thrown grenades. Zelig shrank back into the shadows, wincing at the commotion—memories of Stalingrad burning through his blood.

I should've followed the other dieb. No, no. That sneaky
Jude would stay with the staff.
 

He waited, watching, even when daylight waned into night. He couldn't fail the
Führer
again. He'd never think the
Führer
a liar, but what he said...those words. “
Victory is at hand! I have retreated to my bunker. Find the scepter. Hurry! Hurry!
” They didn't fit the panicked tone in his voice. Could the
Allies be assaulting the Wolf's Lair?
No, no that couldn't be possible.
 

The
Führer
was strong, intelligent, stronger and more intelligent than any other man. Though the war's tide began to shift, the reason he was here was so the Axis would succeed. No amount of armies could match the
powers of the Dark Forces guiding his
Führer
.
 

Still, Zelig had been commanded to retrieve the staff. And so he would.

The heavy metal door screeched open. Voices in that odd dialect poured out from inside, above the gusting. Zelig looked up from the shadows. Impatience growing inside him. He needed to return to the
Führer
and his own time. He pulled his Luger pistol from its holster. Excitement tingled through him as he prepared for the kill. He relished in it. The thief and
Jude
stepped out into the darkness, flanked by the door's billowing light. Zelig watched them. The big one held a sword concealed in some cloth. It took an instant for Zelig to recognize it.
 

The two dregs strode down the alleyway. Zelig readied to leap out and slaughter them both. But the big one's words stopped him. Zelig hesitated and listened.