The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (2 page)

“What you want?” he snarled. The fat pig took up most of the doorway. But Jeb got a glimpse of five Klansmen sitting at a table playing cards. He hesitated a moment, those hate-filled glares burned like gunshots. “Out with it, boy!” He shoved Jeb with a thick finger.

“Sorry to disturb y'all at this late hour, but is Constable Rayford in? I'm here about my brother-in-law,” said Jeb, realizing his voice faltered. He tried his best to stand tall. To them he was just some no-good
boy
.
 

“Heh, yer a kin to that piece of trash.” With a grunt, the oaf pointed to a heap of a man cowering in a cell. It must've been Crispus. He got himself arrested almost every week about whatever injustice rubbed him the wrong way that day. “Go over yonder to Rayford's place if you want. The boy agonna hang for tryna steal our property, and you ain't gettin him out before Grand Dragon Verdiss show up.” The rotund Goblin pointed off down the road as though Jeb should run off at his command. He obliged, no reason to cause a ruckus yet, but worse he'd used
those
words. Grand Dragons were the most influential racists around. Which made them the most dangerous. Charged with overseeing whatever Realms they'd been assigned. Most of them were locked up, or abandoned the order through the years. Reconstruction scattered the Klan like rats. Except in Louisiana—
they're the cockroaches of the South.
 

Jeb hurried down the street, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and those thugs. “Crispus must've done hell to bring him a Grand Dragon down here.” He kept his voice low as he made his way through the dark, wet roads toward the constable's home.

By the time Jeb reached Rayford's house, the pounding rain had lessened into a few sprinkles. He hoped a soft knock would wake Rayford. The less folks knew what happened the better.
Wonder if Rayford tried to stand up to them boys
. Then again, if he had he'd probably be in that cell with Crispus.
 

No answer. Jeb knocked again.

A lantern burst alive from within, casting off rays of light. Through the window, Jeb watched as Elle Mae, Rayford's servant made her way to the door. Though aged and wrinkled, the small woman moved through the room with grace. Elle Mae opened the door, wiping greasy hands on her weathered brown dress. Grease hung in clumps in her dreadlocked hair.

Too tough a life for a woman her age
.
 

“Evenin, suh. I hear Mr. Rayford acomin down them steps.” She stepped aside as the constable came to the door. Rayford shooed her away and held up a lantern to Jeb's face. Suspicion filled his eyes. He twitched his mustache for a moment. Seeming satisfied, Rayford frowned.

“I'm supposin you're here about Crispus, huh?” He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I did my best, but them fools wouldn't listen. I told them you were a good man. They didn't care when I told them about you saving that little white girl from them thieves.”

“Thank you, sir. You're a good man for even trying.” Jeb nodded, forcing an, ‘appreciative' tone to his voice. “Keturah's worried, and now I seen why." He nodded in the direction of the jailhouse.

“Agreed. Come in, my friend.” Rayford stepped aside, motioning Jeb to enter. Though they'd known each other for five years, since the incident involving those thieves, considering Rayford a friend could prove dangerous. Trust was more than a rare commodity after the war.

Jeb took the invitation and stepped inside to escape the rain. The living room was jammed full of items that belonged in a kitchen. The gas stove sat against the back wall, where a table with two chairs stood nearby. Most of the room was covered in antique chairs, which looked far from comfortable. Many of them looked of a French design. Several chairs appeared to have been done by locals from the bayous and were covered in images of slaves working the fields.

“Come on over and sit down, Jebidiah.” The constable walked Jeb over to an old Creole chair and put the lantern on the ground as he took a seat. Jeb did the same, but couldn't help wondering if the Creole chair was
his
place.
 

“I'm sorry to bother you so late.” Jeb spoke first, shifting the saber at his side so it wouldn't scratch the chair. “I'm wondering if you know what Crispus done?” Jeb asked, not sure if he wanted to know. What could he do? Fight off the Klan? Hell, the jailhouse thugs outnumbered him by four men.
If
Crispus had done something, it'd be hard enough for the white folks who knew him to let him
go, let alone the Klan.
 

“Them Klansmen came here looking for him. They say he stole some map of theirs. They plan on lynching him come sundown, I think, when this Grand Dragon Verdiss come in.” Rayford put his hand in his pocket, fishing around for something.

“Can't you do something?” Jeb pleaded. “You're the constable.” His words didn't mean anything. The Klan would bring every racist white man from the entire parish to enjoy a good ole lynching. Rayford was one man and Jeb couldn't do anything. He had to think about Keturah and Bettina.

The constable found what he'd been looking for and pulled a rusted key out of his pocket. “I can't do anything with a clean conscience. We both know how this works, Jebidiah. Some of us white folk don't hold any ill against your people, even down here in the bayous. I'm hoping there's a way I can repay the good you done in this here town.” Rayford smiled and placed the key on the arm of Jeb's seat. “But I done lost my key to the jailhouse. Only the Klansmen got one now.” Rayford stood, nodding to Jeb. “Now, if you excuse me, Jebidiah, my day been long and I'm too old, and tired. I known you a good man all these years we've been friends. Good luck to you and your kin.” He ambled to the front door.

Jeb pocketed the key as he followed Rayford. He stepped outside the door into the night. A blast of cool air rushed through town, a howling ghost.
At least the rain stopped.
 

“I'm thankful for them kind words, Constable.” Jeb turned to face him and found his hand extended. He cracked a smile; in the six years since the war ended, his white “friend” had offered him a handshake twice. Once for saving the little white girl, and the second time for killing an alligator that'd wandered into town from the bayous. Jeb took Rayford's hand and shook it. It was an honor to shake a white man's hand, the Constable's too, but Jeb hated that it
was
a privilege.
 

“What time them fools planning this hanging?” Jeb doubted his friend would say—he'd make up some story.

Before Jeb heard the door close, Rayford whispered, “Eight o'clock, sunset.”

Perhaps he misheard him. A lynching at sunset didn't seem right. The ones he'd seen, numbering in the dozens, had been early enough so the children could watch before bedtime.

When the Goblins in the jailhouse were asleep, that'd be the reasonable time to strike. Jeb stood in the street, thinking for a few minutes. He couldn't take anyone else with him. This was his responsibility. Besides, no one else would dare break into the jailhouse full of Klansmen to free Crispus.  Hell, Jeb didn't want to. But, something nagged him. A part of him needed to know what Crispus did to raise this kind of Hell.

First, he had to alert Keturah, tell her and Bettina to hide. Then, he'd have to find somewhere in town for Crispus to hide. Who would take in a runaway troublemaker?
Goddamn! I had a good thing here and now this fool ruining it.
In a single night, Allenville lost its veneer of quiet life.
 

While Jeb was away in the army, he was lost without his family, and death hunted him every day. Was Crispus worth risking his family? Jeb could go home and tell Keturah there was nothing to be done. But why was the Klan after some old map?

Why'd it bring a Grand Dragon here—one of the last? If Verdiss is the last Grand Dragon, that means Nathan Bedford Forrest is be close by
. Forrest founded the Ku Klux Klan, calling himself the “Grand Wizard.” Another thug using some stupid name to inspire terror in his enemies. Down in Louisiana, the word ‘magic' sent shivers through white folks. Either way, Louisiana was the Klan's final resting place. They flocked down here like migrating birds, following their near oblivion at the Union's hands.
I hope this'll be their graveyard.
 

Jeb couldn't hide Crispus anywhere that'd put his wife and child in danger. So who could he trust?
Lafayette Blakely—the houngan
! Jeb turned on his heels and ran through the wet street, cloaked by night. It must have been midnight when he stopped, puffing clouds of air from his lungs. His age dragged the energy out of him like he'd climbed the Appalachians. He bent over, trying to catch his breath for a few minutes. Jeb looked to make sure he was at the right house. He was. Strange symbols drawn in chalk covered the brick building. Besides the markings, what made the house different from any other home in
Allenville was its circular shape.
 

Lafayette was the son of a
mambo
. She'd been chased out of town decades ago, so the rumors said. The whites heard about the
voodoo
priestess through bedtime stories to warn children from entering the swamps. She cursed the whites of decades ago for her exile, but stayed loyal to black folks. Any who came to see her earned a blessing for their troubles. Instead of traveling to Port Allen's “black designated” hospital, those who knew her would travel to the swamps to seek her out.
 

Travelling to the swamp would be too dangerous this late at night. Lafayette's home would do well enough. Most white folks in Allenville didn't dare approach his home. Intricate runes carved into the structure made sure of that. Some said they were part of some dark magic and to wrong...whatever or whoever, would bring a hex on them. Others thought just a
voodoo
temple, while the rest didn't like to think about it. Both were right, in a way. The maze work of
veves
invoked various spells and spirits. Protective and destructive...or so Crispus told him once. Like his mother, Lafayette served as
voodoo
priest to any black folk that came to him in need.
 

Jeb knocked on the door. He adjusted his boots. His feet ached like hell. Then he noticed brick dust lay across the doorway. A common practice, if he remembered right. It was supposed to ward off enemies, keep them from crossing over the line.
Horseshit.
 

A minute later, the door covered in symbols opened, revealing a face of dark complexion. Runic tattoos covered his bald head. They looked ridiculous but must be blessings of some sort.
 

“Quickly come in before dee
bakas
notice.” Lafayette stepped aside and ushered him in. Jeb knew little Haitian Creole but knew enough to know
bakas
wasn't a compliment.
 

As Jeb entered, burning herbs stung his nostrils like acid. He couldn't help gagging on the stench crawling into his throat. Lafayette followed him in, making certain no
bakas
saw him, and shut the door. Inside the house wasn't a house. It'd been built over the dirt without a proper floor. Wooden shelves filled with an array of jars, vials, and lit candles of various colors hung on the walls. Most of the jars were full of various spices and herbs, the vials filled
with strange-colored liquids. Alongside these oddities, talismans, and stranger
things
Jeb couldn't put words to hung from mounted hooks.
 

“Don't touch that!” Lafayette snapped as Jeb's foot rubbed away a circular marking traced on the ground. The two concentric circles boasted symbols of eyes, and birds at each end. Jeb stumbled to step over them.

“Sorry, Lafayette.”

“
C'est bien
,
mon ami
.” Lafayette motioned for Jeb to take a seat at the other end of the tracing. “Come, sit down over there.” Jeb couldn't understand most of the Haitian Creole, but did as Lafayette instructed and a took seat across from him. Lafayette Leaned against the front door. “
Maintenant, mon ami
, what is it I can help ya with?”
 

Lafayette's dark eyes flashed in the candlelight. Mystery churned in them, and they sent a shiver through Jeb's soul. But Lafayette's power deserved respect, and his dedication to aiding their people. In some way, he wished he could have that kind of power. Jeb pushed the thoughts away—they were pointless.

“Lafayette, thank you for letting me in the
badji
.” Jeb bowed his head.
Badji
served as a
voodoo
temple or magic circle, or whatever they were. “You've helped me before, and we got much respect between us. I'm here about Crispus.” Jeb said the name with some reluctance. Crispus and Lafayette had a few scraps back in the day over political hogwash.
 

“Ah...
w
dee brother...by law,” said Lafayette. “What has that fool gotten ‘imself into,
maintenant
?” He chuckled, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
 

“I don't know, but the constable tells me that them Klansman here lookin' for him. I heard they sayin' he stole a map from them. Somethin' that'd bring a Grand Dragon here.”
Those
words would catch Lafayette's attention.