The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (7 page)

Crispus hung his head. “Uh . . . I just came out of . . . Lafayette's . . . and . . . Just like Rayford said.”

“You still the same rash fool you was then.” Jeb grunted, remorse dancing in his voice. “That's why you get treated like a damn child.”  

Jeb glanced at the stairs as Rayford descended with a pair of black trousers, a smooth white shirt, and black vest.

“I think they'll fit rightly. You can go up them stairs to Elle Mae's room and change.” A hint of sadness still lingered in Rayford's eyes. He handed Jeb the clothes, his hands trembling.

***

Rayford's mood didn't compare to the insanity that Jeb had faced outside. He grumbled under his breath as he walked through the short hallway and took the first door on the right. By the look of it, it'd be Rayford's room. The bed was a pile of feathered pillows and blankets. The dresser was covered in framed photographs. He perused the pictures. Each frame held a picture of Rayford and Elle Mae. Her small frame dwarfed by the constable's thick build. Her dreadlocks, pushed out of her face, accentuated her plump cheeks and full smile. Rayford looked happy. His smile seemed to glow even in black and white.

Jeb couldn't help scoffing at the pictures. He'd never thought what they suggested. He didn't believe it either. Just his imagination—if not, he wasn't sure what he'd think. He laid his coat on the bed and pulled off his tattered shirt. Every now and then the crisscross of scars covering his right abdomen burned. The sawbones did a horrible job on him. Then again, they called them sawbones for a reason. All they were good for were amputations. Jeb shook the thoughts away and finished dressing, putting on the trousers, tucking in his shirt, buttoning up the vest, attaching his sword to the belt, pushing the Colt pistol into his trouser pockets, and sliding a dagger into his boot.

He made his way back down into the sitting room where Rayford and Crispus sat, both silent, staring at each other. Something had happened and sure as hell, Crispus was behind it.  
 

“These clothes are better than anything I own.” Jeb studied Crispus's expression, then Rayford's. His lips drooped as much as his mustache. “What happened?” Jeb eyed Crispus. He gave no answer. Jeb scowled. “This is 79
th
Infantry and you're gonna tell me what happened.”
 

“Bully,” said Rayford, climbing to his feet.

Crispus gave Jeb a smile, a sneaky smile like Bettina gave when she was hiding something. “The constable is going to take us out of town with the map to escape the Klan. From there, we can make our way to the
mambo's
.”
 

Rayford pulled the sheriff's badge from his pocket. A round piece of metal emblazoned with the state flag, a pelican with unfurled wings. He pinned it to the right breast of his shirt. “I'll take y'all in the wagon. Y'all have to hide in the rear. Don't want none of them scum finding you.” He motioned them to follow him.

“I'll find out, you hear me?” Jeb turned on Crispus. Then followed Rayford. The back door opened into an alley, where a cart stood, the bed covered by a thick canvas. He pulled up a corner and motioned to Crispus. “Go on and climb in. I need to talk with the constable for a minute.” Crispus nodded, but he still had that fear in his eyes. He helped Crispus into the bed. “I'll be right back.” Jeb pulled the cover closed. He turned to Rayford and sighed.

“Come on then. We'll talk some while I fix up Honey.” Rayford headed toward the hitching post in his front yard. Jeb followed him, his eyes darting about trying to see everything the sunlight touched. The Klan put a fear in Jeb he'd never understand as much as he understood it. Like ghosts, they drifted from place to place—some in hiding—some in the open. They could be anywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“You all right?”

“I wanna ask you to do something for me.” Jeb watched Rayford unhitch Honey, a caramel mare. Still unsure if he could trust him. “If they kill me, send word to Keturah and keep that dang fool alive.” His eyes drifted to the wagon thirty yards away.

Rayford caressed the horse. “We been through the mill, Jebidiah. I can promise you that. But I got to give it to you, you got a lot of grit.” He laughed.

Townspeople already started pouring out into the streets, the morning sun blazing overhead. “We got to go. Every one of us out here's gonna hang.” Jeb rushed back into the alley, and climbed in the wagon. With a jerk, they were in motion, the sound of Honey's hooves click-clacking against the flagstones.

Jeb was right. The morning was already Louisiana hot
and in the wagon, it was Africa hot. Or how hot Jeb imagined it'd be. He'd been through worse, but Crispus's goofy face started oozing sweat. “This ain't too bad, huh, Crispus? Hell, at the first line in the Battle of Manassas, I caught the Tennessee—diarrhea. We called it that cause Major Lydell Jones hated the place.
Real
Tennessee can't be as bad as Tennessee.” Jeb stifled a laugh, remembering he needed to shut his trap.
 

“Well,
I
can't stand this heat.” Crispus mumbled something as he pulled off his black vest. The wagon bounced and thudded on the ground every now and then, tossing them around.
 

“Shush. We gotta be quiet now. Those ghosts will be breaking down every door lookin' for us. We can't trust anyone—not even Rayford.” Jeb interrupted Crispus and whatever preaching he had a mind to do.

Crispus nodded. The cart stopped. Rayford climbed down from his seat. His boots clanked on the streets as he walked.
Shit! He's gonna turn us in. I knew I couldn't trust him!
Jeb readied his colt. When Rayford pulled the canvas up and peered in, Jeb slid the pistol under his leg and clicked back the hammer. Rayford's face was grim—sad. Not a traitor's face. Jeb waited.
They're everywhere.
 

“Boys, y'all best have a look-see.” Rayford stepped aside, still holding the canvas. Jeb peered out. Horror. Swinging from the town tree. Neck broken, stretched out, and ripe with rope burn. Lafayette swung from a branch. He'd been stripped, his skin caked in blood. Yet, the townspeople mulled about the market. No one acknowledged him. No one looked, as if Lafayette never existed

Jeb turned away. “Don't look.” He pushed Crispus back as he went to peer out. “You don't want to see this.”

Rayford dropped the canvas and returned to his seat. The cart rolled on.

Jeb kept his hand over his mouth, afraid if he removed it, he'd heave. Either from the sight or that he'd done it. He broke Crispus out of that cell. It should've been him swinging from that tree.
Just like you should've taken that bullet.
Some damn Egyptian toy couldn't be worth this many lives, this much death. Moses Noitavlas's death—the explosion of blood, that sickening
smack
, latched itself into his thoughts.
Too fucking many
. Wardell, Elle Mae,
Lafayette . . . how many more had to die because of him?
 

“What was it, Jeb?” asked Crispus.

“Nothing. Just go on to bed. I'll wake you when we reach the swamp.” Jeb stared at the wood. Who'd take care of Keturah and Bettina if he died? He couldn't rest until he had an answer. And if
they
died? He'd have nothing to live for...
 

Chapter Eleven

A dismal night descended on the town of Allenville. Thunder pounded like cannons. Rain turned the what little hard earth the bayou held into muck. Verdiss ambled through stagnant waters and thick underbrush, scanning the canopy for his grove. He wanted more information on the relic, and why the black thief wanted it. Through the tangle of trees he spotted the glow of his weeping willows. Ignoring the heat and mud clawing at his legs, Verdiss found the path. His cauldron still sat in the grove's heart, a fire pit burning beneath it. An eerie glow danced through the wavering willow branches—a symphony of magic Verdiss craved the moment he left the grove.

Verdiss ran his fingers over the cauldron's lips, still amazed what he'd discovered there. He'd been studying the Oera Linda Book, a Frisian manuscript discussing the
mythologies, histories, and religions of long-lost civilizations. The most prominent was Thule, a land ruled by a blond-haired, blue-eyed race far superior to mankind. Scholars placed it near Norway. The
Geist Führer's
voice had called
him to the grove of grim-leaning trees. He spoke of leading the world back to the glorious age when Thule dominated the world. The
Geist Führer
promised him those of tainted blood would be eradicated. There'd be peace among all those who were worthy.
 

“
Geist Führer
.” Verdiss moved his bulbous hands over the boiling water, pulling the magic from his will. He hated performing these accursed rites, but they were a necessity. “I seek your counsel.” The wind picked up, his robes rustling. An unnatural wind. Power tingled in the air. The charge grew hotter as he came closer to contact.
 

“Dear Verdiss.” The
Geist Führer's
words were in a guttural unfamiliar language that seethed in the caldron. Yet, Verdiss heard them as if they were English. “Have you attained my map?” The image of a man's face wavered within the steam. His hair was short and black, parted in the middle. He wore a thin, short mustache under his nose.
 

“No, not yet,
Geist Führer
, but we close in on it as we
speak.” Verdiss kept his head bowed. The air took on an electrical feel when the two met, something he couldn't assign a cause. The
Geist Führer
explained it took massive amounts of magical energy to operate the machine that allowed their communication. “I have heard rumors both Generals Sheridan and Hancock are sending federal troops to capture my men and I—we must act quickly,” he said with disdain.
 

“Indeed. Remove some soldiers from guard duty and await the map at the witch's home. They are sure to seek her out. The map is far too complex for their feeble minds to understand.”

Lightning burnt through the night sky, followed by a clap of thunder. A gust of wind rushed through the grove, willowy claws swaying. “
Geist Führer
, the elements will soon end our meeting—perhaps tell me of this which the map leads to?” Verdiss flicked his tongue.
Power, so seductive.
It excited every nerve in his twisted body.
 

The
Geist Führer's
eyes narrowed beneath the boiling water; he seemed reluctant. “
The pharaoh, Narmer, ruled Egypt thousands of years ago. He united the warring states from North to South, but he grew old and knew he was soon to die, and his enemies would tear Egypt apart
.” The words reached Verdiss's ears like gold. “Upon his death, Narmer commanded his most trusted priests to ferry his staff away. His father, the god Horus, ruler of both sky and war, had bestowed it upon him. Its magic granted Narmer great power and insight, which allowed him to unite Egypt.
 

"He charged his priests with keeping it safe from his enemies after his death, for it is said he who possesses the staff is granted Narmer's power.” The harsh voice paused a moment. Verdiss leaned forward, leering. “Narmer's staff was found once, but lost again, and is still said to possess untold powers of supremacy. It will bestow its bearer dominion over all things . . .”

But what does it do!
“
Geist Führer
, why do we need it?”
 

“Sixty-nine years from now I will wage a war to purge evil from our world. The impure will be eradicated. If those wretched thieves find the staff, my war will fail. You
must
find it. Then the world is ours.”
 

The rain ceased, but dark clouds and thunder continued to roll across the sky. They dragged Verdiss's thoughts around like a rag doll. His master claimed he was
in the future, but how could a machine rip through the fabric of reality. The
Geist Führer
revealed little about his methods—he must use some kind of magical telegraph. Verdiss didn't fear such power like other men would. No, having been raised deep in the bayous of New Orleans where
voodoo
took hold of people like a plague, he'd seen what magic could do.
 

His Parisian father, La Croix, had come from France, breeding illegitimate children with slave girls like a bitch in heat. The scum birthed Verdiss by force with a twelve-year-old. And Verdiss suffered for it. Born deformed, his skin swelled as thick as hide, riddled with contusions.

La Croix decided his son had been a curse for his relations with slaves, so he hid him away in a cellar for over a decade to avoid his “divine punishment.” La Croix's slaves tended to Verdiss throughout his infancy. The few times he'd spoken with his son, La Croix berated Verdiss—
you're my punishment cause of that slut!
 

As he grew older, Verdiss entertained himself with books of Shakespeare and Marlowe kept in a rotten trunk. Soon La Croix tried to erase Verdiss from the world by murdering his mother, Rikka. Her family gathered a mob of local freedmen and stormed the house, in turn murdering La Croix. Governor of Louisiana, Andre B. Roman, put the mob down and executed them all.

La Croix's slaves secreted Verdiss away. They performed
voodoo
rituals to cure his disease. Though they strengthened his frail body, they failed to cure him. He hated them—La Croix taught him well. Verdiss cursed their skin, his own skin, and himself as one of their bastard children.