The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (4 page)

“No! Wa is yah talkin' bout? Tek dis where?” said Keturah, but Jeb ignored her.

He went back to rushing around the room, “Y'all need to leave. Take Bettina out of Louisiana.” Jeb continued gathering every coin and paper money he'd saved and hidden throughout the house—between floorboards, in cracks in the wall, in sacks behind furniture. It took Jeb minutes to turn the well-maintained house into a slum. Keturah stood, disbelief hanging on her face. Every piece of furniture, wood, and item that'd make a house a home lay destroyed.

Jeb looked at the destruction he wrought and fell to the floor grasping for breath like he'd been kicked in the stomach. It hurt knowing he'd destroyed everything he
worked hard to get.
In a war, sacrifices are made.
 

“W—why?” Keturah stammered.

Jeb looked up, lost. What could he say? Rationalizing the irrational was left to the higher-ups, not infantrymen like him. His wife's horrified face finished the kill. Keturah said her dreams came true when they jumped the broom and bought a house for their family. That look of agony on Keturah's face . . . a part of him seized and died. It lay out on the street, blood running deep crimson.

At what cost?
He gazed into his wife's dark hazel eyes. The two stared at each other for a moment, seeing the heartbreak in each other.
 

“Tell mi nuh!” Anger filled Keturah's voice. She kneeled down beside Jeb. “Say it! Someting! Anyting!”

Jeb sighed. “I got Crispus out of jail.”

“Wa is bad about that?”

“I
broke
him out of jail.” He didn't want to say the words. Keturah knowing what happened put her in harm's way, but she deserved the truth.
 

Keturah fell backward, staring dumbfounded at Jeb. “What!” She twisted into the seething wife he knew too well. “Tell mi wh'appened right nuh! Everyting!” She stabbed a delicate finger in Jeb's face.

“You knowing this much is dangerous. That's why y'all gonna leave. All I know is your deadbeat brother stole some map from the Klan, and they're gonna come here looking for him.” Jeb stepped back from that lethal finger. Tears flowed from Keturah's eyes.
She understands
. She gathered her gray dress and stood. Jeb climbed to his feet, pushing the wads of money into her arms. “Leave Louisiana. Get as far north as y'all can. Go to New York and stay with great Uncle Jupiter. You hear?” He rubbed his wife's back.
 

“Uh-huh.” Keturah nodded through the tears. They both smiled. Jeb could see she trusted him. Now only if he trusted himself. “Y'all going to be fine.” Jeb kissed her forehead. “Go on and get Bettina ready. There's a train coming through here soon. I want y'all on it.” He ushered his wife up to the attic. Keturah nodded, wiping her eyes, and climbed through the hatchway.

Jeb paced amidst the trashed home, blood boiling as he listened to his wife and Bettina talking. Jeb couldn't make out what they were saying, and wanted it that way. He couldn't bear to think about what Bettina would say. It was foolish, thinking his daughter could be spared the evils of the world. Jeb ground his teeth. Anger swept him away like the terrible currents of the Mississippi River.

Damn crackers!
Jeb wanted revenge, to hurt those who hurt him, who would taint his daughter's happiness. His mind raced. Shame he feared what was coming, afraid he'd have to kill again. The Klan would come looking for Crispus—and they'd come for him, too. The whippings at Ole Massa Johnson's plantation. He'd almost been whipped to death for reading
A Narrative of The Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave
, but he broke Massa Johnson's jaw. The cracker never laid a hand on him again. One line, a single line from Douglass kept Jeb from hanging himself: “Without a struggle, there can be no progress.”
 

The quote danced in Jeb's mind as he poked his head out the front door.

Is this struggle for progress or for nothing? How is some African trinket important to the black race?
Jeb scanned the cornfield rustling in the wind. As though Nature didn't know the hell that was coming Allenville's way, the sun glistened over Louisiana's landscape like a dream-world. Jeb couldn't see anyone in the field. He turned his studious eyes toward Allenville—
nothing
.
 

“We ready,” said Keturah as she climbed down from the attic with Bettina behind her. They both carried two heavy satchels stuffed to the brim. Wife and daughter stood side by side, wearing matching gray dresses, weighed down by the bags over their shoulders. Keturah's face seemed calm but her eyes disagreed. Bettina, eleven years old, screwed up her face to fight back tears.

“Papa, why do we need to go away?” She sniffled. “Please don't make us go. The white people won't hurt us. I'm friends with Mr. Wardell's daughter, Lucinda. They won't let any harm come our way,” she pleaded.

She doesn't understand—they call her Pinky cause of her fair skin, not out of love.
“I just wanna make sure, okay?” Jeb kneeled before his daughter. So innocent, he'd known they raised her right—she hadn't been tainted by bigotry yet. But Jeb hoped Bettina was right.
He pulled both Keturah and Bettina into a tight embrace. The family spent a minute kissing and crying together before Jeb stepped back, wiping his eyes.
 

“Go on now. It ain't safe here for y'all. Catch the train and go on up to New Orleans, then to my great uncle's in New York. I'm coming to get y'all soon, all right?” Jeb kissed his wife one more time, hugged Bettina once more, and sent them off—perhaps forever.

He could be lying and not even know it. After all, he was sending them to Allenville, the same town where those damn Goblins rallied for blood.

 

 

 

Chapter Five

Lafayette had put Crispus in a cabinet under some shelves. He'd been hiding there since morning. The heat roasted his already foul smelling suit, turning the cabinet into a cramped oven. His own stench mingled in a grotesque fashion with the various liquids, herbs, and other components that filled Lafayette's
badji
. Crispus entertained himself by listening to the conversations of folks who came to the
houngan
seeking help. A few farmers sought Lafayette's guidance on where and when to plant crops. Others came for rituals to heal physical or emotional ailments.
 

Not knowing the exact time was maddening. Crispus tried to pull out his pocket watch, but he couldn't manage to move even a finger. Time dragged on. Each minute rolled into a day. His body tingled with numbness from lack of use. Nothing could make him release the map from his hands, though. The map to this Pharaoh's Staff was too intricate for Crispus to understand. He couldn't make sense of it without La'Rita's help.

The door opened, and someone stepped inside. The door closed. Footsteps echoed in the room for a few minutes, then jars moving, opening, and closing. There was a knock on the shelf above Crispus's head. He didn't want to reveal himself, not knowing whom it was, but he found himself struggling not to burst through the cabinet door to freedom!

“
Mon ami,
dee time to move has come,
bien?”
Lafayette opened the cabinet and helped Crispus out. “Come wit me now.”
 

Grunting, Crispus stretched out his body. “What is going on outside? I was in there for a
decade
.” He glared at the
houngan,
dripping in sweat, though all he wore was a pair of pants.
 

“
Mon ami
, things do not look good outside fo us.” Lafayette shook his head. “Them
bakas
out there tryin' to kill every black in dis town cause they lookin' fo you. I try goin' and talk to dee constable, but
okenn,
he do nothin'." He glowered and pointed at Crispus. “I hid ya for ya
brother's sake.”
 

“I thank you, good sir—even though we've had our qualms, as black people, and all those who face oppression, we need unity and it
is
coming. With Reconstruction, we have the right to vote. We already have eighty-seven black legislators and are under military control by Union generals. With a map to the Pharaoh's Staff, our prosperous future is at hand.” Crispus held up the scroll. “And only your mother can tell me where it leads.”
 

“Dis I know, no?” Lafayette scratched his tattoo-covered head. He went over to a shelf against the back wall and rummaged through jars of murky liquids, herbs, and talismans.

“I risked my life many times to rescue this from the Ku Klux Klan.” Crispus pocketed the map inside his ruined black suit. “A former slave of the Nighthawk's told me his master was looking for this since the beginning of the war.” He followed Lafayette with his eyes as he started looking through a pile of papers on a different shelf. “This man showed me the Nighthawk's plantation, where the Klan met, so I crept out to observe all their gatherings, waiting for the map to appear.” Crispus continued his story to an oblivious audience, but he didn't mind. “A few weeks ago, they revealed it, then locked it away somewhere on the plantation. I spent every night sneaking in and out of that place.

"Until I finally found it—Lafayette, time is precious! What are you looking for?” Crispus scowled.

“
Mon ami,
ya speak of dee black man's unity, and unity of oppressed peoples, no? So, shut up and let me help ya!” Lafayette snorted as he grabbed a piece of paper from a shelf. “Dis is
très
powerful. Ya take it.” He handed the paper to Crispus, who looked it over for a moment.
 

“What is this?” He read several lines of the page. Written in Creole, it described the sensation of fear. “How is this going to help me?” Crispus scoffed. Thunder clapped out in the street and the door rained woodchips. “A gunshot!” Crispus threw himself to the ground where Lafayette covered his ears. Another pop. Then another. Then another, the door gave off showers of wood.
 

“Dee riot as begun. Take dis blessin' powder and throw it on whomever you want hexed. They be afraid,
mon ami.
”
Lafayette grabbed a nearby pouch and slid it across the floor to Crispus. He grabbed the pouch and tucked it in a suit pocket. Panicked screams erupted, reverberating through the
badji
. Crispus couldn't keep himself from trembling, his body jumping at each clap.
 

“Go on to
mwen
mother, quickly now!” Lafayette shouted over the pandemonium. The ping of a bullet rebounding pierced the air. It must have ricocheted off the
badji
.
 

With courage filling his heart, Crispus headed for the door. He flung it open. Bodies of black men, women, and children lay on the road, crimson blood pooling around them. Torn and ripped clothes revealed deep lacerations, skin pulled back from bones, and exposed organs. Bodies of fathers lay atop their wife and daughters.

Screams of the dying, and laughter from white-robed banshees filled the air, mingling with the rumble of gunshots. Vomit filled Crispus's mouth, and he was on his knees, spewing his breakfast on the street. He looked around for any Klansmen, but found none. They must've moved on to another part of town.
I was hiding when they were murdered!
 

The late afternoon sun set the seas of blood alight like fire. Crispus spotted the glint of a pistol on one of the torn bodies. Whether it'd been a man or woman, he couldn't guess. Hearing another gunshot, Crispus dashed for the pistol. He pulled it from the twisted, broken hand. More bile burst from his mouth when he realized it'd been a man—a
white
man. “Mr. Wardell!” Crispus fell on the body. “Why?” He shuffled through Wardell's pockets. Bullets, he needed all the bullets he could find. Pushing Wardell over, Crispus found why Wardell died—Elle Mae laid cut apart underneath him.
He defended us and they killed him!
 

“Father God, forgive me.” Crispus prayed, pulling out a box of slugs from Wardell's pants. He pocketed it. Then checked to make certain the pistol was loaded. It was. He let out a pained groan, terrified it'd go off in his hands.

Crispus rose to his feet, blood dripping from his hands. Plumes of smoke surged through the street and enveloped him. Bits of smoldering debris burned in his nostrils and throat. Where could he go? What could he do? Could he even aim a pistol?  He found himself surrounded by a field of butchered masses of flesh that were once people. His people.

“How did he survive this?” A shamed whimper escaped Crispus as he wiped the smoke from his eyes. “Jeb, where are you?”  

 

 

 

Chapter Six

 

Goblins, draped in ceremonial white robes, filled Soft Sound Street. Some carried nooses, some torches, while others held rifles. It'd been a wild hunt all day. Scores of Goblins ransacked houses—Crispus watched them pile into a house, storming over everything in their way. Soon the horde pulled a man, his wife, and their young daughter into the street. Nearby, a gang of them huddled together, making a game of stabbing a carcass with pitchforks. Their laughter wasn't human—not even bestial. More like the cackles of demented hyenas.

Crispus fought to keep his stomach down as he watched the horrid sight from around the corner of an alleyway. He couldn't find another way around Soft Sound Street—behind him was the mass grave of his people, and in the front stood an army of desolation. He'd been squatted in the alley for what felt like days, watching murderers shove, toss, and beat the husband to the ground.