The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (31 page)

“—Crispus didn't run off with the staff.”

A sad realization hit Zelig. He was right. He'd picked the wrong
thief to follow. Cursing himself, Zelig watched the two disappear into the streets under the sackcloth of night.
 

Zelig grunted and slid his Luger back into its holster. There was no point in following them now. They would return to the warehouse by the park.

The Chancellor won't be happy
.
 

Zelig navigated his way through the streets still choked with people, toward Manhattan.
Next time, he'd wait until the right moment. That girl Tempest was the key. He'd ransom her off to the boy, no doubt the other two would go along, in return for the staff.
 

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-Five

 

Walking to Theodosia's home was what Shelley called  a
waking dream
. Crispus heard the former Klansman's stories. How Theodosia's mother had been obsessed with having a daughter. Refused to accept he was a boy, baptized him with a girl's name, and forced him to wear dresses until the age of two.
 

Like Frankenstein's Monster, Theodosia's days as a White Defender loomed over him with pallid, milky eyes. From what Crispus remembered, the Defenders murdered freedmen and slaves an owner wanted put down without the guilt of doing it themselves.

After fighting for the Confederacy in the War of Northern Aggression, Theodosia enlisted in the Ku Klux Klan, where he spent years—Crispus didn't remember how long. And like Frankenstein, he hated each word of the farmer's racist past, but they lured him into listening. Caused an obsession in him. The method of change. From one into another. If only it could be taught in classes and spread throughout the world. With the Pharaoh's Staff Crispus could be that mad scientist. The one to raise hate-scarred flesh to purity as the vile doctor channeled life into dead flesh. Then Crispus's waking dream faded.

Like a high-pitched Gatling gun, the steamy warbling ripped Crispus from the darkness. Eyes open, seeing nothing but wood, an unintentional groan escaped his throat. Over a kettle shrieking, he heard bustling about him, tin clanging together. Muffled voices grew loud enough to pull Crispus into sitting up. He rubbed his head. It ached as if under the pressure of a vice. He was on a hay mattress in a one-room home. A stove and oven sat against a wall, with shelves full of spices and jars of pickled foods. A sawbuck table with three misshapen chairs, stood nearby, adjacent to a wide tin bathing tub. A slat-backed rocker chair positioned against the back wall, and a large unfinished knit comforter in the image of the Confederate flag covering it.

Seeing the comforter, Crispus's legs begged him to bolt for the door. Though his head was in too much pain to
listen.
Oh.
Then he remembered Theodosia. Taking him home. Hiding him from the Klansmen. Saving him.
 

Crispus looked over to see a plump woman in a calico dress, pale hair tied up in a bun, pouring a kettle of hot water into several tin cups.

Oh no!
He found Theodosia sitting at the sawbuck table, now wearing clean pants and a homemade ruffled shirt, tapping the glazed staff sitting on the tabletop. Theodosia watched him with a suspicious glare, waiting for a reaction. He scowled, no doubt at the frightened face Crispus had to be wearing.
 

“So what ya doin' with this here stick, boy? This look like one them museum pieces I done seen in the Albany Instatue of Arts and Hestory.” With his other hand, Theodosia pulled a French LeMat revolver from his pocket and aimed it at him. The .44 caliber gun had been smuggled in from France to evade the Union blockade of Confederate supplies.
Odd weapon to have.
 

Crispus narrowed his eyes on the barrel. He gulped. How was he going to explain it to
this
man? He took a deep breath. “It'd be difficult for me to explain in a way that didn't sound insane." He kept his voice soft, polite, submissive. Didn't want to give this good ole boy a reason to use that pistol. Since, he
had
stolen the staff.
 

“I'm assumin' you done stole this here from that museum, didn't ya?” Theodosia clicked back the hammer of his revolver, with his other hand still on the staff. “Looky here. That spy a Sheridan's vouches for ya. He says them Klan boys ain't here for me. Says him akeep me straight with the town marshal if I look atter ya. So I'm afixin' to do that.” He gave a quick glance to his wife, at the stove behind him, steeping tea. “But lit's get somethin' straight. I find out you's some type a jailbird or bad egg, I ain't got a problem ahandin' you over to whoever lookin' for ya.”

He leaned forward in his chair, raising his LeMat revolver. Aimed squarely at Crispus.

“Yes, sir. I assure you, you will have no trouble—” Crispus started to explain, but Gerralyn jumped in.

“Now, Theo, you leave this here boy alone.” She swatted him with a dishrag. “Forgive him, son, he still thinkin' like he Jesse James on the run from the law.” Gerralyn gave Theodosia a playful scowl as she put the three tin cups billowing steam on the table. “Drink up, son.” She motioned Crispus to sit at the table.

Crispus hesitated but stood and made certain he sat in a courteous manner. Though he wanted to dash for the tea and gulp it down, since he'd yet to satisfy his thirst or hunger. He wouldn't ask for food. Didn't want to bother the couple. Besides, the Confederate flag comforter had the opposite effect on him.

“Thank you, ma'am," he said, taking a seat at the table. The misshapen chair hurt, and dug into his rear, but Crispus ignored it. He sipped the tea. It tasted like a strange mix of cherry and coffee.

“Sheridan's boy, Davis, done say you got somethin' to be doin'?” Theodosia relaxed, placing the revolver on the table. Still looking suspicious, he slid the staff over to Crispus.

Crispus nodded, taking another mouth full of tea. He gulped it down and put the staff in his satchel.

“Theo, leave this boy alone till he gets sumthin' to eat in ‘im, you hear me?” She put a plate full of collard greens, a piece of hoecake, and several strips of bacon with the grease and fat still sizzling. It smelled divine, the scent of meat mingled with the soft aroma of fresh bread.

“Thank you, ma'am," Crispus said through mouthfuls of bacon and bread. “This is all so good, thank you so very much." He took a big gulp of the tea. “What kind of tea is this? It tastes wonderful.”

“Just a little mix I like, coffee leaves and dried cherries.” Gerralyn headed back to the oven and started to wipe it down with a rag.

“Now that you got some food in yer belly, lit's talk bidnis.” Theodosia leaned forward in his contorted chair, his voice low. “That feller, Davis, say you agonna let me knows what you need.” He looked to make certain Gerralyn was busy with the cleaning. “I'm a do what I can for ya, cause I needs to be straight with the law. But I ain't doin' nothin' illegal, hear me?”

Crispus nodded. He swallowed another chunk of hoecake. “Yes, sir. I just have to reach the Cow's Head dairy farm by tomorrow night—or is it tonight?!”

Theodosia's face paled, almost like freshly washed china.

“Don't you worry, boy, it's only about three a.m. You got a full day ahead of you.” Gerralyn chimed in.

Crispus hadn't realized how late it was. Or, rather, how early. But he gave her a nod.

Crispus read fear in the farmer's wide eyes. They spoke of something...horrible.

“What bidnis ya got out there?” The farmer pulled his crooked chair toward Crispus. He leaned in closer as if afraid his wife would hear a horrible secret. “That place is hainted, cursed, gone bad on account a some
voodoo
,” whispered Theodosia. “The soil done dried up. Nothin'll grow. Them cows ole Cooper had went useless, their milk all soured up. Them Yankees say it's just bad luck, but I tells them it's the
voodoo
. I'm from the bayous. I knows
voodoo
when I seen it.”
 

Crispus almost snorted, but he managed to catch it. Of course
voodoo
was real. He'd seen its power. Laying down brick dust to keep out one's enemies, Jeb's
Ayizan
charm, the ritual spell scroll Lafayette gave him that caused fear in his enemies. It didn't mean Crispus was a fool. He recognized the difference between real magic and ignorant farmers who thought a bad harvest was due to witchcraft. Nonetheless, he needed Theodosia's help and, to be honest, was curious
why
he thought what he did.
 

“What makes you say that?”

Another glance back and Theodosia seemed satisfied Gerralyn couldn't hear them. Then motioned Crispus close. “Ole Cooper. When I ‘elped him tend the land. We done find chickens cut in a ways...” He looked afraid to continue.

“And?”

“Like I says, I'm from the bayous. I knowin'
voodoo
when I seen it. Summoning spells. Rituals. They conjurin' bad spirits up there. Them
loas
. That place meant for it. It make they rituals more pow-ful.” Crispus nodded, not sure what to say, but made sure he'd remember it. “I'm afixin' to take ya there in the mornin'. I ain't getting' catched out there at night,” said Theodosia, his dirty index finger pointed at Crispus.
 

“Thank you.”

Theodosia stood. “Now git yerself some rest. We got some walkin' to do tomorraw.” Theodosia motioned to the hay mattress, then let himself fall into the slat-backed rocker. Motioning Gerralyn to join him. They kissed, interlocked for long moments, then Theodosia wrapped the Confederate flag comforter around them.

After finishing off his plate, Crispus climbed on to the hay mattress. His head still ached. He lay down, trying to sleep, but he couldn't get his mind to agree to it. So he stayed awake for hours, long after the Ranas put out their lamps.

How strange, he found himself welcomed in the home of a former White Defender and Klansman, one who left both foul organizations behind. Seemed to redeem himself. Could he forgive Theodosia's past? The man proved anyone could change. After all, Crispus himself changed. Not long ago. He seethed, crying in Allenville's bloodied streets, unable to defend a mother and child from evil's grip. Now, his strength, no, his courage blossomed like the petals of a newborn rose. He'd faced Tillemont Darkwa, the self-proclaimed Master of the Dead, in battle and overcame him.

Not only can a man grow and become who he wants to be
, but Crispus decided a man could try to live down his past. Redemption was so close. Not just his, but the world's. Crispus Moorfield could bring that change. Remembrance of his name didn't matter. What mattered was tomorrow. He'd kill Verdiss and with him, prevent the coming war.
 

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-Six

 

Rumblings among the men crashed down like torrential waves. Thoughts of betrayal or desertion foamed like surf. Verdiss sensed it, though his Nighthawk Narce hadn't. He assumed the nature of his practices would come to light and cause dissent among his den. He hoped to do away with the issue by paying each man one thousand dollars. Enough money to purchase several upscale homes. He was still cautious, though.

Verdiss spent his fifty-seven years of life amassing a fortune. With some skill, he managed to claim La Croix's properties and finances. He'd become skilled in passing as a white man. His disease, which left his face misshapen and covered in welts, made his skin color indistinguishable from any of his contusions. Considered a freak, yes, but a black man, no. Forging the proper documents proved more difficult. So Verdiss found a miscreant to do the work for him.

He crouched on the dilapidated barn's floor, still shrouded in the black robe of the Order of Saint Benedict, cutting symbols into the boards. Verdiss used a ceremonial dagger given to him by his "father," Tillemont Darkwa, to etch the
veve's
outer circle. The carving required a particular dagger, one crafted just for this purpose. Its hilt was made of a fine conductive copper, which allowed Tillemont to charge the ritual tool with certain energies. The worker could then transfer the dagger's energy into the ritual he'd perform. Though the blade's steel was well made, its weak hilt made it useless in combat.
 

By noon, Verdiss finished engraving three concentric circles of varying sizes upon the floorboards. They covered the fifty-foot ring-shaped area of the barn he'd cleared away. Towers of moldy hay surrounded the encirclement. And filled the lofts above.

It would take him many more hours to finish carving out the
veve's
symbols. Each image was unique depending on its purpose. The slightest improper nick could hamper the entire ritual. Not to mention it'd be a waste of a charge from the dagger's limited supply of
majik
.
 

Some symbols were elaborate, and some mundane. Triangles within triangles, several pentagrams to pull the spirit from its present place, right and left rotating spirals to pull energy from across the earth and from beyond to maintain Verdiss's strength during the difficult rite. Numerous double spirals would allow him to make physical contact with his former master across the nexus of time
.
 

In the center of the three rings, Verdiss etched the symbol of Damballah, father of all
loa
. Complex, it required meticulous details. It consisted of a triangle with three long, wavy lines erupting from its tip. The centerline, carved a foot long, ended in a line etched through it horizontally to form a cross. The images of two snakes cut diagonally through the right and left lines that broke from the original triangle's tip. All surrounded by three pairs of introverted and inverted triangles, looking like three frogs etched upon the floor.