The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (6 page)

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

“Look at the boy twitch!” Narce laughed, pointing to a man's convulsing body. The noose had broke his neck, but left him alive.
Even better
. Four nooses hung from the market's towering tree in preparation. Narce could get another three hangings in before his duties pull him away. Gasps croaked from the dying man's throat, his skin reddened by the nearby fires devouring a heap of bodies.
 

Narce turned, his white robe fluttering in the wind. It never felt quite right over his hulking frame. Standing six-feet tall and muscled, the cloth felt like it'd burst any moment. Not to mention, the hood never fit his egg-shaped head right. If he'd been promoted, didn't he at least deserve some proper clothes?
What was I thinking?
Narce scratched his thick muttonchops, and watched his men work. Lower-ranking Klansmen organized the dead in loads along the market's edge. They tore down booths suspected of being owned by black businessmen. Shitty wood, Narce decided, but it'd burn all the same. Besides, he'd had a laugh watching them boys burn by their own wood.
 

Narce breathed out, satisfied, letting his promotion build up in his chest. Now he had
real
power over the other Klansmen—they'd run like a houseboy the moment he called. Nighthawk—the name had a certain sound to it. Maybe, because hawks were hunters and he'd hunted runaways during the war? But what the title gave him was leadership of the Klan's militia. Now, he was second-in-command to the Grand Dragon himself. Narce listened to the thrill of his men playing music of carnage.
 

“Get dis one here, he still breathin'!” a Goblin shouted.

“That's it! Burn his ass. He still got a row in ‘em!” Another Klansman lit a body on fire.

“Bet this boy's a jailbird!” A boy dressed in the robe of a Ghoul, stabbed a flame-engulfed body with his pitchfork. Narce scoffed.
Little shit's talkin' like him a real Goblin.
After all, Ghouls were stable boys of the Empire—most were a Goblin's son. Narce didn't remember where the boy came from—
probably the gutter.
 

“Looky at all this money this girl's got.” A fat Klansman busied himself with rifling through a woman's dress. He snatched bills and coins from her with stubby hands.

Narce sighed.
Jackass.
He whistled and Darkness came running. “Good boy.” He bent down and rubbed the pit bull's sable fur. Darkness brushed his head against Narce's leg. “Wait till ya get a taste of that voodoo witch.” He eyed the body swinging from a tree branch. Its neck stretched out like dough. The host of bonfires Narce had commanded lit filled the square with wavering shadows. “Bring me a chair!” Narce barked at no one in particular.
 

“Yes, sir.” A hawk-nosed boy rushed off into a ransacked house. A moment later, he returned with a chair and set it down. Narce took a seat. Darkness paced around, sniffing the blood-soaked ground. Finding the right spot, he laid down at Narce's feet.

“Much obliged...Fallon, is it?” The boy nodded. “Now go and get me a-somethin' to drink!” Narce shoved him away. He'd forgotten, or decided to forget his charge, to find the thief who stole Verdiss's map.

“Sir Nighthawk! Sir!” The boy came running. “Narce, Grand Dragon . . . Grand Dragon Verdiss wants to speak with you,” said Fallon, struggling to breathe. He pointed toward the shadows beyond the market's edge.

Narce jolted in his chair, his foot knocking against Darkness, who looked up for a moment. Narce gazed into the shadows and there, atop his black mare, sat Verdiss. The bonfire's dancing light avoided him as if it were terrified of his presence.

“Go and get me my damn drink, boy!” Narce shoved Fallon aside as he stood to his feet. He straightened his white robe, pulled his hood up to make sure the point stood straight, though it was impossible with his oddly shaped head. Verdiss motioned his gloved hand for Narce to approach.

“Greetings . . . Grand Dragon . . . I . . . I have been . . . hard at work looking for the thief like you wanted.” He couldn't help stammering as he hurried his way across the market. Verdiss's mare neighed and retreated into the shadows to allow its master's servant into the blackness.
 

“I chose you as my second for a reason, Narce.” Verdiss's words sounded more like serpentine hisses. He pulled back his hood, revealing a beaten face covered in welts. Verdiss's cruel eyes gleamed red in the absence of light. As he spoke, his tongue slipped in and out of his mouth like some physical tic. “You are the most cruel and hateful man amongst our Empire. I will need you in the future to meet our goal. Do not let the ecstasy of the kill entertain you while there is much to be done,” said Verdiss. His burning eyes went to the violent celebrations.

“I . . . I understand, Grand Dragon. Y-you will not regret . . . giving me this opportunity.” Narce tried to speak proper, but Verdiss's face kept him faltering.

“Do not mistake my forgiving nature for weakness. Next time, you will be burning with those vermin. Now go find the brigand who has my map! Remember to never speak of my appearance. I have heard whispers among the men.” The Grand Dragon's words sounded bitter. Verdiss turned his horse about and disappeared into the night. Its hooves seemed to clack to an old Confederate war drum, a beat Narce hadn't thought of in years.

Relief washed over him. But, he couldn't figure out what the hell was happening. . . the map . . . what black magic did it lead to? He needed to focus on the goal at hand and not worry about what ifs. He had to worry about his
own
neck.
 

“Listen up, y'all scum!” Narce stepped back into the light. “Leave them bodies and pick up yer traps!” As soon as Narce spoke the words, the Goblins extinguished their fires and gathered their equipment. “We got us two no-account
boys
runnin' around. One broke the other outta this here jailhouse
and
assaulted a white man.” He eyed the Goblins as they hustled to ready themselves. Some loaded rifles and revolvers. Others sharpened and sheathed swords.
 

“Sir Nighthawk, your drink.” Fallon ran over his flowing robe, trying not to spill the jar of moonshine he'd found. He held the glass up to Narce with a nervous smile.

“Why you liddle piece a shit Sunday soldier!” Narce wheeled on the boy, his hand across his face. Both boy and jar crashed to the ground. Shards of glass rained down on the street. “I told y'all to ready yourselves and you come with a drink!” Narce stood over him, his fist poised for another hit. “I ought to kill yer ass right now!” Darkness lowered himself, ready to pounce on Fallon.

“I'm sorry, sir. I thought you still wanted your drink.” Fallon kept his head down, eyebrows furrowed.

Narce relaxed when he noticed several Klansmen with their faces screwed up. He leaned down. “Be careful how you anger me, boy. One day it'll be yer last.” Narce helped him up and shoved him away. “Go get yer traps!”

Fallon rubbed the welt on his face and stormed off. He grabbed a sack and rifled through the bag for a minute before he pulled out a six-shooter. Narce recognized it, furrowing his brow—he ought to kill the shit right there. A Starr pistol was a rare gun in the Deep South—it was a Union firearm. A good one too. They used it until 1863, when the scum switched to a cheaper gun.

Narce watched him fawn over the pistol. If he remembered right, the boy claimed it was his no account Yankee father's weapon.
Why this little shit keep it? So what his daddy left it to him. Heh, he got his ass killed at the First Battle of Manassas
. He hated the copperhead, a Northerner masquerading as a Southerner.
Never trust them.
 

“Come along, lad.” Percy, a barrel-chested Goblin put his arm around Fallon. “Don't mind Narce, he's a hard case. I'll take care of ya.” He patted the boy on the back.

The crowd of Goblins watched Narce as he paced, deep in thought.
No one's gonna say anything. Bitches are all too scared. They should be, too!
Fuck, that means I got to come up with something.
 

Narce stopped pacing, and smiled. “I want at least two pickets around every part of town them thieves could get out of." His eyes drifted to the body swinging from the tree. Somehow, the sound and motion helped him think.

“Remember them boys got the map. This map'll lead them to some black magic and that ain't a-happenin'. Some make-believe hoodoo shit.” He turned to face his men. “Hell agonna look lovely compared to the whipping y'all get, even worse if them boys
get
that thing.” Narce looked over the crowd of Goblins. “Now get outta here!”
 

The Klansmen scattered like rats. Narce knew they'd been shaken hearing about some black magic. He felt the unease, too, but he tried to maintain rage in his eyes, not fear.
Hmm, I should find a mirror.
He sat down in his chair to watch the body swing.
Don't worry, you ole coot. You'll get them boys
. Darkness plopped his wedge-shaped head in Narce's lap. He scratched behind his ears.
 

“We'll get them boys and their evil trinket. Don't worry about that, boy.”

 

 

 

Chapter Ten

 

Crispus slouched in a chair in Rayford's living room. It was more a kitchen than an entertaining room. A gas stove rested against the back wall, and a small table with two chairs stood nearby. Hard, stiff Antique chairs dotted the room. He glared at the constable sitting on a couch across from him. Rage. Disgust. They both consumed his heart. Both at Rayford and himself. He'd been too scared to act, but he couldn't decide who he hated more—Rayford for not letting him, or himself for being too
scared
to act.
Stop thinking about it. You will make yourself insane, Crispus. Push it aside like Lil Juris. Don't let your thoughts get the best of you.
The two men sat in silence. Crispus felt Rayford's forlorn eyes on him.
 

“You may never forgive me, boy, but I did what was best.” Rayford shifted his weight on the couch. “A black man shouldn't be out there trying to fight white men . . . especially not now.” He stroked his twitching mustache.

“And why not!” Crispus screwed up his face.

“You lucky they didn't hang you years ago after what you did to Clarron!” Rayford's eyes flashed like lightning. “I'd rather have a living
boy
than a dead
man
. You think you the only one who lost somebody? Elle Mae got murdered because she went out trying to warn others.” His voice quivered. “That woman has been with me for almost fifteen years! She was a
good
woman. She ain't deserve that.”
 

Anger washed away from Crispus. Rayford must've loved Elle Mae, but he showed such indifference. “I didn't know you cared for her like that. And you are right about Clarron.” Remorse filled his eyes.

“Not all whites hate your people. Michael Wardell got killed because he tried to fight the Klan off her,” Rayford continued. “This racist balderdash destroys us all, ya know,” he said, almost to himself.

“That's more than true.” Crispus nodded.

There was a soft knock at the door. Rayford jumped to his feet and hurried over. He put his ear against the wood. “Who goes there?”

“It's Jeb.” His voice sounded too calm. Something happened, decided Crispus.

Rayford opened the door. Morning light bled into the room, Jeb's body blocking out most of the sun. He stood almost half a foot over the constable and had a bigger build. Still dressed in his torn brown pants and dirty white shirt underneath his black sack coat. Jeb's matted hair dripped with sweat. Crispus couldn't face him but watched him out of the corner of his eye. The moment Jeb saw him he'd know what Crispus did.
Didn't do.
 

“Thank God you're alive, Jebidiah.” Rayford shook his hand. “Come in, come in, my friend.”

“Where's Lafayette?” Jeb stepped inside and closed the door. “Crispus! Where you been? Why you here and not at Lafayette's?”

“When the riot started, it was no longer safe at Lafayette's, so I had to move somewhere else.” Crispus looked away from Jeb and those dark, judging eyes. He felt like more a boy than a man under those eyes. Keturah's fretting did the same.

“That's when I found him, Jebidiah.” Rayford nodded at Crispus. Jeb eyed Rayford, then Crispus.

“Good thing.” Jeb gave a sneer.

“Put your feet up and rest a while.” Rayford motioned Jeb to sit down. “Let me grab you some clean clothes."

“Thanks." He nodded and took a seat on the couch opposite Crispus. They both watched Rayford make his way up the stairs, and then eyed each other.

“This just like Lil Juris.” Jeb leaned forward.

Crispus turned away from him, thoughts flooding his mind. Eight years ago. At the Gracious Allenville Pub. Too many drinks in him. Master Clarron, and his slave boy Lil Juris. He made that boy work too hard. Too
damn
hard. From what Crispus remembered, he boasted about the end of the war. Juris would be free. And Clarron couldn't do a damn thing about it. A fight ensued. First time in his life, Crispus won. Knocked Clarron out cold. After everyone left, Clarron beat Lil Juris. The next morning he was in the road like rotten meat. Clarron's words never left Crispus.
Ha! Now dat boy never be free.