The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (33 page)

“Let's get this all to Verdiss,” said Davis. A few more seconds of rustling, then the two men's footfalls faded away.

Narce started rocking in the chair again, still caressing Darkness. “Them boys gonna run off.” He gave the dog a worried look. “This all's turnin' to shit.”

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-Eight

 

The ritual sword cost Jeb twenty-five dollars, and a bizarre trade. Marckens Romèo, the
bokò
, claimed to own a
zombi
. Stranger, the creature supposedly revolted against him and freed itself from his control. How? He didn't seem to know, or at least, wasn't telling. But, he managed to trap the creature in his cellar.
 

Of course, it was all bullshit. The tenement style shop, which housed five or so Haitian families, seemed normal enough. The same sort of oddities as La'Rita or Madame Poupon's shops filled the parlor room. Nothing to suggest there was some dead man causing a ruckus anywhere. Until Marckens Romèo ambled over to the basement door and gave a loud knock.

Thud! Crash! Bang! Clonk!
Came a symphony of violent noises over the
whishing
of water as if there
was
someone down there throwing a tantrum. Then came scratching and pounding on the walls.
 

“What...” Jeb gave the wild-haired
bokò
a confused look, his ear against the door.
 

Marckens Romèo nodded. “Me told
ou
.
Ale sou
and see fu you self.” Pulling the door open like tearing off an adhesive bandage, Marckens Romèo stayed behind the door.
 

When the door opened, as if on cue, whatever was down in the basement fell silent. Jeb waited. Nothing. He glared at Marckens Romèo, then glanced back at Fallon sitting frightened at the table.

With a sigh, he descended into the dark cellar. It reeked of sewage and rotten meat. Halfway down the flimsy wood steps, he realized the entire basement was flooded. Looking like an indoor bayou, save the foliage, a film drifted along the watery surface. Hesitating, scanning the cellar, he found nothing...or
no one
, yet. He walked on farther. At the end of the stairs, still nothing. Jeb made his way into the sewage, up to his waist in it.
 

He paused. Another scan. And still nothing.

“He's name Fabian,” came Marckens Romèo's voice. Then the door shut and there was the click of metal.

Locked in here.
Instincts kept him from glancing back and snarling at the
bokò
. Whatever was down here couldn't be some drunken indentured servant.
It's been underwater too long to still be alive.
If it were alive, it'd have drowned and float to the surface.
 

“Where are you?” Keeping his voice soft, Jeb drew his saber.

Swish!
A dark figure broke the surface, sending waves of sludge at Jeb. Man-like, but twisted, it bounded through the muck, swinging limp arms as if it were a wounded bird.
 

Dropping into a fighting stance, Jeb raised his sword, ready to parry. “Fabian.” He called out as the thing rushed by him. “Fabian.”
Whoosh!
It passed him again, lashing out with claws on broken hands for a clumsy slash. Jeb batted it away.
 

 “Fabian!”

The thing stopped at the rear wall. Turned to face Jeb. It seemed to study him. Jeb did the same, watching the way it stood.
No control over its body. Uneven stance. Blundering.
Let it come to you.
 

It crouched down in the muck, preparing for a charge. Then gurgled something. Jeb braced himself. The thing scrambled through the sewage and pounced. It was on him, flailing limp arms and clawing at his face with grimy nails. Worse, some fetid drool dripped into Jeb's mouth. It tasted like curdled milk. He gagged for a few seconds, losing his guard. The thing bit deep into his shoulder. Blood flowed.

Jeb let out a scream, heaved the thing up with one hand. Then slammed his sword hilt into its face. He heard bone crack. The thing shuddered, then went limp in his hand. With a heave, the thing landed on the stairs with a
thud
. After spending a few minutes hacking up whatever it was he swallowed, Jeb dragged the thing up from the cellar.
 

In the parlor's candlelight, the thing, or Fabian's, pallid skin, pulled taut over disjointed bones, seemed to glisten like gold.

“My Fabian!” Marckens Romèo gasped as Jeb dropped the corpse on the floor. He rushed over to tend to the dead man.

“You're bleeding,” said Fallon.

All Jeb could offer was a grunt, though the blood
pooling over him was cool and soaking his shirt.
Again!
He grabbed Marckens Romèo by the shirt, then heaved the cloth clean off him. “This is my bandage.” Slinging it over his shoulder, he sheathed his sabre. Then strode to the table where the blessed sword lay. “And this is mine.” He shoved it under his arm and stormed out into the alleyway. Fallon bounded after him.
 

As they left Jeb could hear Marckens Romèo scolding the corpse-thing.

“
Ou
make fool of a me...” the rest in Haitian, Jeb didn't bother trying to figure out.
 

Exhausted and needing to bandage his wound, Jeb paid the extra dollar to hire a
brougham. A horse-drawn carriage that boasted the luxury of a roof and doors to provide warmth and some privacy. Fallon took a seat and fell asleep as the buggy trotted off into the night.
 

Jeb inspected his wound. Deep, gory, and shredded.
Does it need stitches?
Hell, he didn't have the time or luxury to find a surgeon. So he bandaged his wound the best he could. It burned like hell. He could use Lafayette's charm, but he probably couldn't make it work.
Shit, I might break it.
 

Instead, he spent the ride inspecting the blessed sword. Its steel looked of high quality, a fine edge, and etched with various
voodoo
symbols. Ranging from spirals to snakes to scorpions to hearts.
Not a fighting weapon.
The hilt felt like a soft copper. As if any pressure could misshape it.
Must just be for rituals.
 

Sharp pain shot through Jeb, burning its way from his shoulder down to his chest and scarred abdomen. He found himself on the floor, Fallon on top of him. The buggy wasn't moving. “Where we at?” he groaned.  

“The storage house.” Fallon pushed himself up. “I don't think any coachmen in this city can drive.” Fallon pushed the door and plopped out.

Jeb followed behind him. The sun already began its slow ascent into the sky, shattering the pseudo-twilight in the carriage. He squinted at the warehouse and positioned the ritual sword, still wrapped in a brown linen, under his arm. Before he could shove the brougham door close, the driver was driving off.

Must be around six a.m.
The color of the sky, and slender rays of light from a lantern bleeding through the
warehouse windows cloaked in stone archways confirmed it. He headed up the staircase. Jeb stood a moment at the door, staring at the wood.
Crispus better be in there.
His grip tightened on the doorknob.
 

The fall morning was chilly and the occasional gust of wind stung Jeb's weathered but tender skin. He could feel Fallon shiver next to him. He couldn't bring himself to open the door. Not yet. Fallon peered up at him with a confused expression. As soon as Jeb entered, he'd have to face whether Crispus ran off with the staff or not. He needed another few minutes to enjoy the crisp fall morning. Somehow, the sounds of city residents heading to work and paperboys yelling yesterday's news, now soothed him.

“He's here,” Fallon said, sounding hopeful.

Jeb sighed and pushed the door open, revealing the dwarf Cornelius.

“Oh, you! I—”

No time for his rambling. Jeb shoved his way through the door, pushing past Cornelius. He scanned the massive hall, though he could barely see through the towers of boxes and other artwork.

Cornelius cleared his throat. “Um...Crispus...he just stepped out.” He came racing to get in front of Jeb. Heaving and puffing, the short dwarf cut him off by pushing a crate onto the floor with a crash.

Jeb narrowed his eyes on Cornelius, the rage blistering in the pit of his stomach. “Where. Is. He?” The dwarf squeaked some excuse Jeb couldn't understand. Jeb stepped closer. Looming over Cornelius, he screwed up his face. Then dropped the blessed sword to the ground. Hand on his saber. “Where...”

“He...um...took the staff,” said Cornelius, taking a few steps back.

 Jeb closed the gap between them. “Where! Where'd he take it?” Jeb snatched Cornelius up by his shirt collar.

“I don't know,” he cried out, his legs flailing in the air.

“Liar!” Jeb swung Cornelius around and slammed him against the wall. Like a worm, the dwarf squirmed to free himself. It only pissed Jeb off more.
Little fuck. Sneak. Liar. Murderer!
He slammed him against the wall again, the stone underneath thudding back. “Tell me where my brother at! Or, you want me to hack you up like one of
them sawbones? Huh, motherfucker!” He flung the dwarf on the ground, and drew his saber.
This Confederate trash thinks he's better than me?!
 

Jeb straightened his back, towering over the soldier, twisting his face, ripping open the floodgates and letting those horrible memories surge out over himself.
That's it!
Fear pulled the Confederate's eyes wide, his skin burned crimson and horror danced in his pupils. “Huh, you damn grayback!” With one hand he ripped off his frock coat and tossed it aside.  Then tore through his white shirt, revealing a patchwork of field surgery. The scars resembled mounds of ruined flesh stitched together by some mad scientist.
“You want this?” A step closer to the soldier, and Jeb poised his sword to strike.
 

One fell swoop, that's all it'd take.

“Stop, Jeb! Stop!”

Something stepped between Jeb and his quarry. Justice. Revenge. Slaughter. All beckoned him to cut through whatever it was and kill the Confederate. If he killed this one, maybe the rest would follow. Muscles taut, Jeb went to swing, and cleave the grayback in half. Fallon appeared in his line of attack.
Fallon?!
The boy sent him fumbling back into a shelf. His sword hit the ground with a clang.
Fallon!
He'd been a few inches from having his head split.
 

“Stop! He's not a grayback. Why would you say that?” Fallon's hands pushed through whatever memories clouded Jeb's mind.

His head reeled. How the hell did he think the dwarf was one of them rednecks? Jeb couldn't pull his eyes away from the little man cowering on the floor. Nor could he when Fallon spoke again.

“I'm sure Crispus is fine and the staff's here...”

The war never ended.
In deep exhales, Jeb tried to expel the frenzy. His chest felt like it was on fire, his ribs ached like they were rotting, and tremors went through his body.
The war never left me.
Not able to put thoughts into coherent words, Jeb stared, at Cornelius, at Fallon, at anything, to calm himself.
 

Fallon gave Cornelius a nod. “Right? The staff's here?”

The moment between the question and Cornelius's wide-eyed response felt like hours, Jeb under attack by thoughts.
It's my damn fault. I should've known that fool
would run off. You could a killed them.
Shame and embarrassment took hold in his chest.
 

“I shouldn't have let him go,” Cornelius breathed, eyes still wide and dull with fright. He climbed to his feet and dusted off his sack suit. “For that, Jebidiah, I'm sorry. I wish I could tell you where he went, but he didn't say. All I know is he inspected his pistol before he left.” Cornelius waved Fallon away as he went to help him stay on his feet.

Still trembling, Jeb nodded. “I'm sorry...” What else could he say? Except hope his eyes reflected his regret. “But that's my wife's brother. I ain't gonna lit nothing happen to him. He's my responsibility. And that staff. I don't know nuttin' about it, but that boy. Him usually a bump on a log, but if he and Verdiss and him boys think something then that's enough for me to do something about it.” He grabbed his saber and returned it to its sheath.
Thank God there ain't blood on it.
 

A thought seemed to run across Cornelius. Tugging on his beard, bits of dust wandered into the air. “Crispus is right, though. You can't destroy the Pharaoh's Staff. Not because it's magical.” He rolled his eyes. “It's a wondrous anthropological piece. The symbol of power for one of the first known pharaohs of Egypt.” Cornelius's eyes lit up like Crispus's. A glint of hope. “If your brother-in-law chooses to believe the legend Horus gave it to Narmer to unite Egypt, then that's his prerogative. Imagine what kind of power just the idea may give him—” Before Jeb could retort, “—ideas have power. Believing
is
power. Isn't that how your
hoodoo voodoo
works?”
 

Jeb scowled.

“I know where he went!” Fallon wheeled on Jeb.

“Where?” asked Jeb.

“Think about it. It's so obvious! What does Crispus think he's going to do with the staff?”