Alexander C. Irvine (7 page)

Stein
watched t
he
lithe figure of John Diamond blend quickly into the crowds in front of Independence Hall, then vanish behind a passing cab. Aaron Burr had spent more than a little time conniving in that building; Steen wondered what sort of backstage machinations had been going on during the Constitutional Convention. Because Burr had died disgraced, history had not recorded his true influence. Steen intended to leave a more distinctive mark. He would capture history in his hands and make it speak.

The clock on the Independence Hall tower read eleven twenty-eight as Steen flicked the reins over the horses. They started slowly, tired from the long journey through the Cumberland Gap and north from Baltimore. New horses were definitely in order upon arriving in New York, but Steen’s mind was on other things. He hadn’t much time before his surprise appointment with Phineas.

How had Diamond found him? Steen had been worried when informed of the dancer’s presence, but not overmuch; if Diamond had intended any sort of revenge, he would hardly have advertised his arrival. And he hadn’t acted at all hostile on the long trip to Philadelphia; rather, he had supplied Steen with an extremely valuable bit of information.

Why, Steen wasn’t sure. There were many things about Diamond that Steen wasn’t sure of. The dancer might have been walking and talking, but he was obviously far from normal. He smelled of the swamp he’d drowned in, dark rings encircled his bulging eyes, and he muttered to himself—not always in English—at inopportune times. Noon and immediately before sunrise were times of noticeable peculiarity, which was why Steen had let Diamond off before the meeting he had planned for noon. He wanted all of Barnum’s attention focused on the merchandise.

Steen frowned as he guided the horses through Philadelphia’s crowded streets. If any man had cause to swear vengeance on him, it was Diamond. He had died hard, drowning faceup with the tip of his nose barely three inches deep in the silted water of a Mississippi River inlet.

A New Orleans native, Diamond had been a dancer in Barnum’s Grand Scientific and Musical Theatre when Steen had been the company’s puppeteer. Jane Prescott had recently escaped from him, and Steen had discreetly let it be known that he was interested in finding a certain Mexican woman named Lupita, whom he thought was in Louisiana. He had been sure that Lupita would be able to locate Jane, and in the spring of 1841 Diamond had led Steen to her in Natchez. The reunion had quickly turned ugly, and Steen had been forced to kill Diamond when the dancer tried to leave.

Steen had been owing Lupita a debt for nearly six years at the time; after her
mocihuaquetzqui
had gotten out of control the night they had captured the girl, Maskansisil himself had come to New York on her trail and had instead found his. Steen had barely escaped with his life the night the Pathfinder had caught him, and when Lupita refused to assist him in tracking Jane he had let his self-control lapse.

Killing Lupita had been sheer pleasure, revenge for Steen’s terror during those weeks when he had been certain that Maskansisil would drop out of every tree, bur Steen had regretted having to kill Diamond; generally he didn’t like blacks, but the dancer had been a valuable asset.

“Sorry, Johnny,” he’d said after the last bubble had broken on the surface and Diamond’s struggles had stopped. “There are only so many people who can know about this, and I’m afraid you’re not one of them. And there are far worse places than Tlalocan.”

As the water settled into perfect stillness, the reflection of the moon had resolved into a glossy circle over Diamond’s dead face. The
Tochtli
had been prominent that night; Steen remembered wondering what portent that held. Perhaps a man drowned under the Rabbit would be drunk when he got to Tlalocan, the afternoon paradise reserved for those who died of water or weather or earth. He had left Diamond’s body where it floated in the thigh-deep water; a dead Negro floating in the Mississippi was hardly a noteworthy occurrence.

And now, for reasons Steen couldn’t begin to fathom, Diamond had sought him out.

Steen turned south onto Front Street and moved at a trot past Society Hill, preoccupied with the strange signs the sky had been giving in recent weeks. The Rabbit, for one; it had been everywhere lately. Beyond being a symbol of drunkenness, the
Tochtli
was also associated with the south and uncertain fortune; it could mean anything, depending on what other signs it was found in conjunction with. The signs that night in Natchez had maintained a stony indifference, even as he went back up the rotting stairs to the hovel to make sure Lupita’s ancient body wouldn’t rise of its own accord and follow him.

The signs were no clearer today, especially since the sun was obscured by stubborn clouds. It was the last day of Quecholli, when a feast generally took place, and the sign was Deer—sacred to Tlaloc—and the number was eleven, generally unlucky.

And the month has a bloody
R
in it,
Steen thought. None of it meant anything as far as he could tell.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry abour Maskansisil any more, not if Diamond kept his word and found Tamanend’s mask. Tlaloc must have gotten to the dancer when he’d drowned; why else would a man do such a tremendous favor for his murderer?

The late-morning sun was a pale smudge in the lowering sky as Steen brought the wagon to a halt at Penn’s Landing. Gulls dipped and swooped in the chill wind that blew off the Delaware River, their shrill cries gnawing at his already-fatigued nerves. He looked anxiously up and down the docks, trying also to keep an eye on the back of the wagon. Any would-be thief would get the surprise of his life, particularly today, but Steen hoped to avoid any disturbance; he wanted to accomplish his goals in Philadelphia and move on to New York with as little distraction as possible.

He checked his watch: eight of twelve. Barnum was supposed to be on the twelve-thirty steamer going up the river to Trenton; he should have arrived by now. Cursing the paleness of the sun and the looming proximity of the Gloria Dei church, Steen walked rapidly in a clockwise circle around the wagon. Diamond had said Barnum would be here, and Johnny certainly had sources that were uncommon to say the least, but the showman was nowhere to be seen. Hundreds of people were boarding and disembarking from steamboats all around Steen; it was possible Barnum had simply passed unnoticed.

Steen caught himself mouthing Nahuatl curses under his breath, and he closed his eyes and leaned against the wagon’s ribbed canvas. He counted slowly backward from twenty, breathing deeply and evenly through his nose, feeling the heavy veil of tension lift from his mind. Nothing would be gained by stamping around in circles and cursing the day for being cloudy.

When he opened his eyes again, a group of approximately fifteen children had appeared and formed a semicircle around him. “When’s the puppet show?” one of them asked. “Do you do
The Battle of New Or
leans?”

The group was ragged and undernourished, varying in age from seven or eight to perhaps fifteen. Probably runaways and orphans who had banded together for protection; if he had encountered them at night and in a secluded area, they would more likely be demanding his purse than asking for a show. Steen had given hundreds of shows for groups of children when he was younger, purely for the joy of it, and these disheveled urchins looked as much in need of a little diversion as any he’d ever seen. He looked from face to face, wondering which of the old Punch and Judy shows he could remember unrehearsed; then he spotted P. T. Barnum over one of their shoulders.

“No performance today, guppies,” he said regretfully, shaking his head. “If you can get to Shackamaxon tonight, you might see a real show.” Barnum was gesturing expansively as he spoke to a mustachioed and immensely fat man in a red stovepipe hat.

“Some puppeteer you are,” one of the children said, and the rest began complaining boisterously, cursing to shame a sailor as Steen swung up into the driver’s seat and spurred the horses in Barnum’s direction.

“Ahoy, Phineas!” he called. “Half an hour before your ship leaves, isn’t it?”

A look of surprise crossed Barnum’s jowled face, bur the showman quickly assumed a neutral expression. “I won’t inquire as to where you came by that information, Mr. Steen,” he said coldly. “In any case it is of no consequence; we have nothing to discuss except reparation for your breach of contract.”

“Bygones, Phineas, water under the bridge,” Steen said, before Barnum could resume his conversation. “I have something in the back of the wagon here that I believe would be quite a sensation at your museum. It’s a good many years older than your Joice Heth, and authentic to boot.” He winked broadly at Barnum’s companion.

“Perhaps we could resume our discussion on board,” said the red-hatted buffoon. “In this chill, I’d like to ensure I get a seat near the boiler.” He tipped his silly hat and made his way toward the waiting steamer.

Barnum watched him walk away, then returned his attention to Steen. Steen clicked open his watch and shook his head gravely. “You’ve only got forty-five seconds to catch the show, Phineas. After that, it’s over for the day, you’re gone to New York, and I have to search for a buyer here.”

“Well, you’ve cerrainly queered my negotiation with Pembroke there,” Barnum replied, frowning at the wagon’s flapping banners. “I hope that this show of yours is worth it.”

“After you see this, Phineas, you’ll thank me for bringing it to you first.” Steen stepped around to the back of the wagon, looking again at the sky as he did so. He was unsure whether the heavy cloud cover would have an effect; if it did, Barnum might well walk away, or—if he was feeling petty—call the police and have Steen arrested.

All over a simple case of answering the door when opportunity knocked, Steen thought. When Diamond had brought Steen information about Lupita, the opportunity for revenge was far too important to be subordinated to a traveling medicine show. Steen had secured advance wages from the company bursar and headed north on the river to see if Diamond’s claim was true.

Barnum had been far more angry about the loss of his prized dancer than the trivial amount of money taken; he claimed lost ticket sales in excess of five thousand dollars. And, after the events at Natchez Under the Hill, Steen had thought the chances of Barnum hiring Diamond back very slim indeed.

But now Diamond was back, he thought as he tied open the flaps on the back of the wagon, and it might not be a bad idea at all to have him working for Barnum again. It was something to look into if the demonstration went as he hoped it would, and Barnum bought the chacmool for exhibit at his Museum. The American Museum was safe ground of sorts, a place where Steen knew the chacmool wouldn’t be disturbed until it reanimated in December. The old Tammany collection, dating back to the time when Tamanend himself had still walked the earth, would attenuate the avatar’s power. Selling the chacmool to Barnum would also net Steen some much-needed cash. Money no longer flowed from the Tammany coffers the way it had before Martin Van Buren’s defeat in the 1840 presidential election, and that damned Croghan had driven a ruinous bargain.

“Ten seconds,” Steen said, beckoning Barnum to stand beside him. The showman’s eyes widened as he looked into the wagon bed.

The chacmool looked none the worse for its arduous trip from Kentucky. It lay on its back, the cloak of green quetzal feathers carefully arranged around it. Its hands were empty, crossed on the fragile skin of its chest; Steen had thought of mocking up some sort of weapon but decided against it. Barnum was an expert at spotting frauds when he cared to be, and Steen wasn’t altogether sure he wanted the chacmool armed, not until he was reasonably certain of a few things.

Steen’s watch said twelve o’clock. The light seemed to grow brighter in his left eye, while in his right it seemed to bend, as if deforming under some incredible weight. Ants, hundreds of them, appeared from nowhere to crawl across the wagon bed, and then the feathers started to move.

They twitched and swayed, slightly at first. Then the motion became more precise, a rippling that swept up and down the cloak in clearly defined waves. Barnum forced his attention from the phenomenon long enough to look at the sky, and Steen knew he was smelling rain.

A dull creaking sound jerked Barnum’s attention back to the wagon. The mummy’s hands were moving; they uncrossed, slowly, and slid down its emaciated torso until they formed a crude bony cup over its navel. Its head turned back and forth, and the skin of its cheeks cracked and fell away as its mouth opened and shut. The bald head bent forward until the mummy’s chin touched its chest, and over the rustling of the feathers Steen heard a choked whistling in its throat.

Then it shuddered and was silent, its head lolling back onto the wagon bed. The rippling of the feathers lost its pattern; the cloak twitched and quivered a few seconds longer, then it was still.

Steen let the flaps drop and turned to face Barnum.

“Easily enough done for a man who knows how,” Barnum said hoarsely. His eyes remained fixed on the back of the wagon.

“You smelled the rain, Phineas,” Steen said, grinning. “You can’t tell me you didn’t smell the rain. And the fire.”

A
few
stars
glittered through the broken clouds and the canopy of leaves spread by the Shackamaxon Elm. John Diamond walked slowly to the base of the tree, trying to step quietly among the fallen leaves. He dropped the shovel from his shoulder and leaned against the cool bark of the old tree, fighting to still the muttering in his head.
“Huehueteotl, huehueteotl moyucoyatzin, teteu inan, teteu ita.”
Diamond gritted his teeth, but the words forced their way out.
The Old God, he who created himself, mother to the gods, father to the gods.