The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (34 page)

“Cow's Head Farm.” Jeb grabbed his heavy frock coat, and threw it over his ripped shirt. “It's only morning. We can get over there by noon—where's the blessed sword?”

Fallon held up the cloth-wrapped sword. “I have it right here.”

“Bully.” Jeb snatched the sword from Fallon, tucking it under his arm. In a few bounds, Jeb was out the door.

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-Nine

 

Fallon rushed after Jeb. Jumped down the short stairway, and spied him running across the street. In the time they'd been in the warehouse, Fifth Avenue grew into a congested throng of residents flowing like the Mississippi River. His scream for Jeb to wait went unheard amidst the currents.

“Dang.” Fallon went bolting after him. Pushing his slender frame through the horde. It took him five minutes to make it across the street. By the time he crossed, Jeb was gone.

He sighed. “Crap.” And reached into his pocket, pulled out his Starr revolver, opened the loading gate and flipped open the cylinder.
Loaded
. Dagger still concealed in his boot. Next he needed to find a buggy to take him to Yonkers. Easy enough, but paying for it wasn't. With any luck, Jeb wouldn't find a ride, and he'd be able to catch up with him.
 

From questioning a number of paperboys, Fallon gathered directions to Yonkers. Which he hoped were right. Head north, cross over the Harlem River into the Bronx. Continue north and he'd hit Yonkers sooner or later. He yelled for a buggy and for Jeb as he shoved his way north. No one would pull over for him, and Jeb was no where to be found.

Fallon cut through garbage-filled alleyways to avoid the crowds of havoc. He'd never seen homeless people, most using crates as makeshift shelters, and feasted on scraps. He'd never admit it, but once or twice he ran from the alleys under the glares of some ruffians. Scarred men brandishing more pistols and knives than all the Klan.

Curiosity tricked Fallon.
You don't have time to stop and sight see!
But having reached West 155
th
Street by noon, he was close enough to Yonkers that he could afford a ride and lunch, and of course time to wander. He managed to procure several slices of peppered corned beef, two slabs of rye bread for a sandwich, and a large sugar cookie. While noshing on his sandwich, Fallon toured the Trinity Church Cemetery on Broadway and 155
th
Street.
 

The cemetery resembled Central Park, a peaceful natural world amongst the wilds of New York City. The cast iron gates stood two feet above him, and surrounded the meticulously arranged headstones. A number of famed politicians and military men were said to be interred there. He wandered the rows of aged, eroded headstones surrounded by overgrown forests of grass.

Tombstones belonged to Alexander Hamilton, aide to General Washington, William "Lord Sterling" Alexander, a general during the Revolutionary War, and John Jacob Astor. Over two dozen U.S. senators and representatives. When Fallon finished his sandwich, he wolfed down his sugar cookie and ran out of the cemetery, heading north along Amsterdam Avenue.

The clouds grew darker as Fallon ran through the shadowed alleyways of West 169
th
Street. One by one they fell prey to sackcloth hunters. Day turned into starless night. Each alley twisted into a tomb, reaching out to strangle him. Fallon did his best to ignore the cold nails biting at his skin. He turned into an alley devoid of life, as if this dead place had been waiting for him.
 

Then
it
came. A voice, which echoed through him, whispering on the chilled afternoon wind. Something sinister permeated from the walls.
It's those eerie rain clouds. Drat! Why'd I say that?
It was more than that, and he knew it. It was that cruel voice on the breeze.
 

His legs burning like hell-fire forced Fallon to stop. Pain shot through him, flaring up from his feet in their cushioned boots and piercing his chest. It was as if a bullet struck him and scattered shrapnel
inside
him. Fallon fell to his knees, grabbing his chest. His heart ripped itself apart, chamber by chamber, valve by valve.
 

I'm dying!
God's will laid upon him. Justice for the hatred he spread, punishment for serving the Klan. Did Percy feel this same twisting agony when he died, or pride dying for the Klan's cause? Fallon didn't know and the latter terrified him.
 

Black clouds loomed over Fallon as his guilt murdered him on his knees. Waves of rain crashed down from the heavens, pounding city streets. A kick sent him forward, facedown into a puddle. His back throbbed and his heart...caved in...
 

“Filthy
boy
!” came a man's guttural voice. A foot
pressed down on Fallon's back. He struggled, but couldn't move. That voice. The guttural accent had been in the whispers on the wind, but the voice was different. “Where's the staff?” The man growled as he hauled Fallon onto his back. “
Mein
Führer
demands it!”
 

Fallon strained to see through the dark sheets of rain. A man with a distinct, jagged face, short black hair and a toothbrush mustache, sneered at him. His gray military uniform looked unlike any Confederate outfit. Eagle pins with its wings spread attached on each collar, along with two double silver stripes on a collar patch. His coat sleeves boasted two red chevrons among a myriad of cruel looking military patches.

“Crispus—” Fallon gasped through the hole in his chest where his heart once was. “—took it to Cow's...Head Farm.” All that pain kept him from trying to squirm.

The soldier stomped on Fallon. His ribs cracked. Fallon let out a horrible sound that made even him shudder. He grabbed the soldier's ankle, trying to shove it off his belly in a panic. “Do not lie to me!” He leaned down, his cloudy eyes filled with hate. “No doubt you know I have your
Freundin
.” He pulled a picture from his chest pocket and threw it at Fallon.
 

Tempest?!
Through the hammering rain, Fallon could see Tempest bound to a chair. Her face a blotch of bruises. “I swear he has it there, just don't hurt her!” His cracked ribs were about to burst at the sound of his own voice.
 

The man scratched his chin in thought. “
Alle rechten dann
," he muttered. “Where is this cow farm?” He pulled a strange pistol with a slender barrel from his belt. “
Sprechen
the truth,
Jude
, or the whore dies.”
 

“Yonkers!” Vertigo overcame Fallon. The world spun and the ground started to rain. Now they stood on the ceiling. He struggled to keep himself from slipping away into whatever came next. The pain of his heart ripping apart...too much... “Don't . . . Don't hurt . . . Tempest." Fallon dribbled his last words, then surrendered to the boot's crushing force.
 

“The girl for the staff.” He stepped off Fallon. For a moment, he thought he'd fall from the ceiling and disappear into the clouds. Fallon's senses weren't working. “I will bring your woman to the cow farm and you bring the staff,
ja?
”
 

Fallon managed to give a feeble nod. The soldier stormed off, still on the ceiling. Shrouded by rain and darkness, he disappeared into the thundering day. Fallon couldn't die here, not when Tempest needed him. As he slipped into death or unconsciousness, whichever one it was, thoughts of redemption crept through Fallon's mind.
I can go to hell, but let me right what I did...
 

 

 

 

Chapter Fifty

 

Verdiss hadn't forgot about the little boy who found his heart. Betrayal tasted bitter to his sweet tooth. Something he never let slip without fixing. The destructive ritual he chose proved too unnerving to conduct on the Cow's Head property. He didn't want to incite anymore fear in his retainers about tonight. So he left that morning and went out into the surrounding woods.

Verdiss enjoyed his romp through the woods. Particularly since the weather had that crisp chill he savored. It came like his beloved rattlesnake, Sousson-Pannan. Winter slithering upon the fall. Alone, Verdiss felt secure enough to keep his hood down.

An hour past noon, he found a clearing in a sea of swaying dead trees. Suitable for the minor rite. Verdiss removed the two satchels from his back. Tossed one on the cold, wet ground while he removed a comatose orange house cat from the other one. He found it roaming about the barn, and subdued it with a few drops of ether.

He placed the cat on the ground, caressing it. It hurt, knowing what he was about to do. He pulled his ritual knife from the second satchel. The fine steel blade needed a good sharpening after carving the large
veve
onto the barn floor. He retrieved a small cloth doll from the second satchel. Verdiss had sewn the six-inch doll together himself, filling it with straw and a piece of cloth torn from the little boy who found his heart's coat. The doll didn't need one of the boy's possessions to work, but it made the
majik
that much stronger.
 

Verdiss pulled out one of the needles from the doll and secured it in a pocket. A misconception about doll magic that annoyed Verdiss through the years was that the doll itself was sufficient. Foolish
voodoo
workers thought the same thing and wondered why their spells failed. But he learned better from Tillemont. To make the destructive magic work, a
bokor
needed to put himself into a destructive emotional state. Once the worker reached it, he then drove that vicious energy into the doll. The reason Verdiss hated doll magic. To create that rage the rite
required, was violent. Bordering on barbaric.
 

Some users of black magic, those who were raised with a less intellectual focus than Verdiss, would bite off an animal's head to incite the frenzy. Ewenso Simon, one of his less-educated caretakers, would bite a chicken's head off, gnashing the skull to powder and then drink the blood. It made Verdiss sick watching Simon. Since then he refused to eat meat. The images of drinking blood were all too present.

He settled on a different method. Similar to Ewenso's process, but less cruel. He picked up the subdued cat in one shaking hand. Grabbed Tillemont's dagger with his other hand. He could incite his rage simply by cutting the feline. It brought back those horrible images of Simon gnashing on a living thing. Enough to sicken him, and power his
fenwa majik
.
 

With a twist of his wrist, Verdiss dragged the ritual dagger across the cat's side. Blood seeped out over the fur and onto his bare hand. Verdiss threw the dagger away, and dropped the cat on the cold ground.

Falling onto his knees, tears burst from Verdiss's malformed eyes. He held his mouth shut to keep the power from escaping. He grabbed the doll, opening the seam where he removed the needle and placed his mouth over it. In an eruption of anger and hate, Verdiss let out a horrible, resounding scream. The power from all those toxic emotions flowed like glittering mist into the doll. Those who believed in the magic would have seen the translucent power. Feel it make the cold air throb and simmer with energy.

Holding the doll's open seam closed with two fingers, Verdiss retrieved the needle from his pocket and sewed the doll close. Verdiss stood, brushed off his robe and wiped away tears of disgust. Now, he could begin to exact his revenge on the little boy who found his heart.

“
Damballah o sèpan mighty. Mwen te envoke ak fil sa a, ban m' pouvwa sa a m' mete suite sa a tankou yon ofrann pou fè mal/ditò li ki te mal m
." Verdiss shouted the Creole rite, invoking the power of the mighty serpent god. He lifted the doll and pulled another bodkin from his pocket. Then pushed the needle into the doll's chest, right where the human heart sat.
 

Verdiss tossed the
voodoo
doll into one of the satchels
and tied it shut. Plunging both the doll and the little boy who found his heart into darkness forever. He buried it beneath some shrubs. If someone found it and removed the needles the hex would be ruined.
We can't have that can we.
Verdiss cracked a smile. It widened when the nearby cat lumbered to its feet, shivered, then scampered off into the woods.
Good kitty.
 

Verdiss tromped off into the woods, swinging the remaining satchel over his shoulder. Power urged him quickly through the woods back to the Cow's Head Farm.

“Now that I have taken the heart from the little boy who found it—" Verdiss ruminated aloud, hearing his voice tainted with maniacal joy. “—I shall, too,
Geist Führer
,
find the serpent's egg, which, hatched, would as his kind grow mischievous, and kill him in the shell." He let out a chuckle, glad no one was near to hear it. Then slipped his leather gloves on over his bulbous hands. Pulled his hood up, and set about to prepare his revenge against his betrayer. And for his moment of triumph.
 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Fifty-One

 

Fallon's eyelids stung as he tried to tear through the twine that stitched them shut. His heart had caved in, his body weak, drained of energy. Was he still in the alley? Something jostled him as if he were corn popping in a pan. Wooden wheels squeaked, rolling along an uneven street. A familiar voice called him over the pitter-patter of drizzle on a wooden roof. He couldn't see anything yet. His eyes still knitted closed.