The Freedman and the Pharaoh's Staff (8 page)

Whites would judge Verdiss. He'd never reveal the curse he'd been given. It took him years to master a white dialect. Nevertheless, he learned
voodoo
rituals from his caretakers. They called the harmful
voodoo,
fenwa majik
. Dark magic. Though he loathed the deviltry, it served his purposes.
 

Another crack of thunder scattered his thoughts. “
Geist Führer,
what of the
majik
you promised me?” Verdiss tried to hide the impatience in his voice. He
hungered
for those boxes that displayed living photographs, and metal air gliders equipped with Gatling guns. Most important were the colossal air torpedoes the
Geist Führer
claimed would
reduce nations to ash.
 

 The
Geist Führer
hesitated, the boiling water seemed to mirror his suspicion. “In good time, soldier. Once you know where the scepter is, I will supply you with the weapons to destroy our enemies. Have faith in my unfailing wisdom. I must return to other matters. We will speak again.” His stony face vanished in the steam.
 

“Excellent.” Verdiss flicked his tongue. He'd have to hurry to retrieve Narmer's staff.
Those weapons will be mine
.
 

Footfalls slopping through mud interrupted his thoughts. “Grand Dragon! Grand Dragon!” Narce came running. He toppled over, landing in the mud. He climbed to his feet, wiping muck from his face.  

Verdiss wheeled on him. “Out with it!” He hoped Narce hadn't seen or heard his conversation. If the Grand Wizard, or his men, learned he employed
fenwa majik
, he'd hang.
 

“Two of them . . . pickets seen the constable . . . takin' his wagon out to them swamps.” Narce spit a glob of mud on the ground. “They questioned him, but let him go, him bein' the constable and all.” Narce finished cleaning the filth from his robe.

Verdiss frowned. “There is no doubt he is carrying the thieves with him,” he said as he pulled his hood over his bulbous head. “Not splendid news, Narce, but I'm pleased you have proved your worth.” Verdiss meant it too. But if he'd said anymore, the Nighthawk would start to slack. He needed his men to fear him, otherwise one would grow too  comfortable with him. Then they might learn of his curse.

“I knew he was a-takin' them boys, too, so I had three men follow them,” said Narce.

“Ah . . . well done.” Verdiss smiled. He'd find the Pharaoh's Staff's location faster than he'd thought. “Come now.” He patted Narce on the back with a malformed hand, hidden by a thick glove. “We have our men to join—and I remind you to
never
speak of what is said between us.”
 

Verdiss scowled as he left the grove followed by Narce. The two headed into the thundering night toward town. Verdiss couldn't stop flicking his tongue.

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve

 

“Can't we stop? I'm tuckered out,” Fallon grumbled as he drudged through the noxious waters of the bayou. The sludge crept up to his knees, but it didn't bother him. Gators slithering around did. Out of the corner of his eye he'd spot one staring at him. Not to mention his legs ached, and his back could give way any moment from the sack of equipment over his shoulder. Fallon begged Narce to let him prove himself. He didn't mean sending him out into the swamps to find Constable Rayford and the thieves. At least Percy came with him, but Narce also sent that deadbeat Galin.

“We just rested twenty minutes ago, you lazy deadbeat,” said Galin. He glared back at Fallon. “It'll build you character. Teach you how to be a man.” He laughed, turning to Percy. “Right?”

Percy stopped, gasping for air, a hand on his sagging chest. “No . . . no the kid's right. I need some rest.” Percy collapsed onto his ass in the thick water.

“Fine, you parlor soldiers. I'm fit as a fiddle, so I'll scout ahead,” said Galin. He glared at Percy, his face twisted in disgust. Flexing his muscles like a buffoon, he winked at Fallon as though he should be awed. Once satisfied, Galin hurried off.

Fallon patted Percy on the back. “Come on, Percy, admit it, the harder you push, the more weight you'll lose. I'm fine now, so come on!” He jumped, sending muck everywhere.

“I'm up. I'm up,” Percy grunted, climbing to his feet. “Let's move out, copperhead, and catch up to that fool.” He smiled and set off after Galin.

 
Copperhead? I'm still just a copperhead to them.
Fallon sulked as he followed Percy. It took him a few months before realizing the term wasn't a compliment. Born in the Union side of Virginia, he'd left it behind when his father died in the war. After that, a boarding house in East Virginia took Fallon in.
I'm not a copperhead, heck, I was raised in
the Confederacy
. It didn't matter to any Southerner he'd met—he was still Yankee scum.
 

Trees swayed in the delicate breeze, their leaves whispered to Fallon.
Stay alert. Watch out for that gator. Careful, there's one!
He imagined the wind carried his father's voice from the heavens. Fallon sighed.
 

They walked for hours, treading through the swamp. Several times one or the other realized they were lost and had to double back. It took he and Percy two hours to catch up to that deadbeat Galin. Of course, he
knew
where the constable was, but the bayous were massive. “And
everyone
gets lost once. This is just my once,” said Galin.
 

By nightfall, the chill air returned to the swamps. With night came terror. Flashes of light darted through the haze and thickets. Fallon couldn't keep track of them all.
Percy's wrong. They're not fireflies
. He held tight to his Starr pistol. The Creoles said the witch lived in this swamp and if that was true then so were their other stories. Horrible creatures, serpents and dark spirits. Worse, were the Lugarues, people who at nightfall tore their skin off and turned into wolves. They could be anyone.
Even Percy!
Fallon drew his weapon, then found himself falling ass back into the muck.  
 

“Watch where you're going!” Galin glared back at Fallon. “There it is." He pointed ahead to a hut with a surrounding porch which sat five feet above the water on stilts. “That's
voodoo
magic.” Galin nodded to a layer of brick dust running along the verandah. “They lay dust around their home to keep enemies from getting in,” he said with a smirk.
 

Fallon squinted, finding the horde of flickering lights came from rows of lit candles that filled the front windows. “She must be cooking someone.” He gaped at a smoke plume puffing out from the chimney. Though the hut looked normal enough, evil spirits lurked around the house, guarding their witch. Fallon just couldn't see them yet. But he felt them—that witch was waiting for him.

“Where . . . where's the wagon?” Fallon stuttered, trying to maintain a cool face. He moved and hid behind Percy's round body.  
Can't let her see me!
 

“There it is. On the left flank.” Percy pointed at the wagon, which protruded from the rear of the building. “I wonder how long they been here. Here, Fallon, let's get our arms out.” He pulled the heavy sack off his shoulder, and proceeded to pull out pistols, knives, a noose, and a short sword. He slipped a Remington revolver into his belt, along with a large butcher knife. Percy handed Fallon a small, six-inch Colt pocket pistol, and Galin a large Confederate Rigdon pistol. Fallon trembled watching the two load, prepare, and secure their weapons.

“We each got forty dead men, so here's how we're going to do this.” Galin glanced at Fallon. “We wait for them to come out. If Narce and Grand Dragon Verdiss don't get here before then, we'll have to take them ourselves.” He gave Fallon a reassuring nod. “You can do this, Ghoul. We're here with you.”

If he hadn't been seized with anxiety he'd be flabbergasted.
Now he wants to be friends?
Fallon's face was slick with sweat. He'd never killed anyone, seen battle, or fired a gun at someone. All he'd been allow to do was take them apart, clean them, and put them back together. “How . . . how do I aim?”
 

“This little tab on the top,” Percy smiled and pointed to the sight. “You'll do fine. Trust me.” He chuckled. Then rubbed Fallon's head.

“Shut it.” Galin put a finger to his lips. “I can almost hear them.”

The three sat in the mud, shrouded by foliage. Fallon listened, straining to hear but couldn't find what Galin seemed to hear. The door opened, and Rayford stepped out onto the porch. Fallon stifled a gasp. “He's so short.”

“Looks strong though.”

Galin gave Percy a shove and pointed to the constable climbing atop the wagon.

At first, Fallon thought Rayford was leaving, but he didn't move. “Is he sleeping?” He felt Galin's glare on him. “I-uh talk when I'm nervous.”

Galin grunted, then gave Percy a nod. “Follow me, we'll see if we can take him quiet-like.”

Fallon watched both men pull themselves up out of the mud. They drew their blades and started off toward the witch's hut. A gurgle of swamp water followed each step they made, Fallon winced at each one.
Be careful. They're making too much noise!
He counted the seconds as Percy and Galin circled the house.
Ten minutes. Rayford's got to be asleep.
For a minute, the two men vanished in the darkness.
Where are they?
He wanted to call out, make sure they were all right, but thought better of it. The next
minute dragged out for what seemed like centuries. Second by second, Fallon waited, shifting his eyes from Rayford to the hut to the shadows and back again. Then Galin crept out of the darkness followed by Percy.
 

Fallon watched, panicked, as the two men stalked Rayford. Percy seemed nervous, glancing back at Fallon as he moved closer. Galin moved in for the kill. Then lunged at Rayford knife first.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirteen
 

Shelves and chests filled the one-room hut. Many of the boxes overflowed with old, decrepit clothing, some covered in mold. Jars of dried animals and roots crowded more shelves. One in particular held jars full of moths. Burning candles sat on the windowsills, and a collection of leather-bound books were stacked under the table where Jeb and Crispus sat. Rayford had stepped outside to escape the putrid stench in La'Rita's hut, leaving the brothers-in-law with the
mambo
. Jeb had made Crispus swear not to tell her about Lafayette's death. If anyone had seen them leave town, Verdiss and his Klansmen would come here for them. La'Rita too.
Good chance we'll all be dead by sunup. No point in laying that pain on the old woman.
 

“
Youn moman
,” she muttered, flipping through an timeworn book, its binding cracked and pages yellowed with age. A subtle beauty danced behind the boils covering her skin. Jeb couldn't place it—those white eyes pierced through her thick dreads. She resembled a lioness about to pounce on its prey.
 

Jeb shifted his weight in his seat. It was absurd to think magic,
voodoo
or any other thing the Creoles whispered about was real. Still, the old woman turned his stomach—Momma Shug said she'd seen magic—Crispus's chair creaked as he leaned forward, arms on the table
 

“Ah.” La'Rita looked up, and closed the book. “We must open dee gate beetwin dee spirit world and our own.” She pulled a cloth pouch out from her dress. She emptied it onto the table; tiny animal bones clattered on the wood. With willowy fingers, the
mambo
pushed the bones around, examining each one. “I
see dee most evil king
seventy years from now brewin dee most evil war
.” She looked up and nodded to Crispus. “Dee evil king's war will end millions of lives. No one be safe from this most evil king.
 

"This war beetwin all dee world will kill us all out. We people of color, Jews, Hispanics, and all those not like he.” La'Rita mulled through the bones. “Dee staff holds sway over who win dee war. Dee evil king that Verdiss serve or . . .” She hesitated. Jeb watched uncertainty glaze over her
empty eyes. “Many a lands drawn into dee bad war. But our land be valuable in winning dee war.”
 

“What war?” Crispus marveled. “Tell us about the staff.”

Jeb grunted and looked away.
Now she's a fortune teller...
 

“Ah. Me think I seen you before. You dee man in me vision.” La'Rita pointed at Jeb. “I
see
you pain over a child. No matter.  Is not your fault.”
 

Jeb grumbled, then grabbed the wooden case from Crispus. “We don't need the past, we need this.” He slammed it on the table.
The nightmares are enough
. Talking about Moses Noitavlas meant facing him. Not in some dream, but what Jeb had done. Then the thought he'd just snapped at a
voodoo
worker turned his stomach again. He muttered, “My apologies.”
 

“Indeed,
mambo
.” Crispus laid a hand on Jeb's shoulder.