Peter Sparrow
New York
Through all the trials of his new life, Peter Sparrow was thankful, at the very least, that there were good days and bad days. Before, in Dublin, it was all bad. There were good moments, perhaps, when a passerby took pity on his wretched self and fed him, when he got to sleep somewhere warm. But these were rare and fleeting, scant lights of hope in a bleak and dreary existence.
Now, Peter found that life was something that could actually be enjoyed, that he could look forward to things, days, events. True to his word, Rehoboam had started to teach Leif to read along with Peter, and miraculously, the relationship between the two had begun to mend. It wasn’t fully healed—that would take time, and there would likely always be some mistrust, some resentment. Peter didn’t even know if he should wish otherwise—that let Rehoboam off the hook. While he did consider him a friend, and while he wasn’t there to witness it, Rehoboam still hurt Leif, and that was wrong. No amount of reading lessons could amend that, but at the very least, in Peter’s mind, Leif could work to forgive Rehoboam, and Rehoboam could work to earn that forgiveness.
Unfortunately, even through the good days, there was this looming sense of dread that hung over Peter and the others through each passing day, week after week. The English were coming for them—for their farm, for their land. This community of free black folk was trapped on a sinking ship, working tirelessly to bail the water that sought to flush them out, bucket by bucket. Legally, they were fighting a losing battle—though Peter still barely understood it, as Leif explained it to him, their strategy now was merely to delay the inevitable. Every court summons was postponed, and when they could be put off no longer, the sessions themselves were stalled with long diatribes and tangents. Their lawyer, Winslow, played his part well—each time they were summoned, they left without having made much more progress in either direction than they started. Still, they could not feel a victory in this—the patience of the judge grew thinner and thinner, and no one knew when the day would come that their land would be taken for good. All they knew is that it would come, and when it did, they would be left with nothing.
It was hard, feeling so helpless. Peter was barely old enough to understand what was happening, let alone do anything about it. Leif was older, but not old enough—not to achieve anything meaningful. He studied every hour he didn’t work in the field, poring through any scraps Rehoboam had that were even remotely related to the law. It was not a true education, however, and Leif’s grasp on the law was tenuous, even now. What’s worse, the more Leif learned, the more hopeless he felt. The law was their only path to justice, but the rules were not written by them. And none of them could do anything about it.
Still, despite the threat of that distant doom, the days were good. Solomon’s heart had softened ever since Christmas. It was no wonder, Peter thought—every time he saw his son, the old man’s spirits lifted just a little. Their relationship was still a strange one, like a dingy clay pot, covered with cracks and blemishes. The two hardly said a word to one another, only ever sharing as much as a glance or perhaps a nod—certainly less than one would expect between a father and a son. But Peter had never known his own father, so he figured that even a fractured love was better than none at all.
Today, however, was not one of the good days. It was an awful, horrible day, worse than all the ones prior, since the day Peter was whipped.
He had been warned, of course. Leif spoke of it. Solomon didn’t directly, but there was always some fear in his eyes. His son, friend though he was to Peter, was not well. In his life, Peter had come to understand that some were born different, plagued with some struggle from their first day on this earth, some weight to carry with them until their dying breath. He had seen beggars on the street with him, some blind, some lame, and had come to know these ailments, and understand them to a degree. But nothing could have prepared him for this.
Rehoboam’s mind was, for lack of a better term, unusual. Most days, its manifestations were benign—his odd manner of speaking, his preoccupation with cults and secret societies he believed to be hidden within the annals of society. But sometimes, it was not a preoccupation—it was an obsession. Rehoboam heard things that were not real, saw things that were not there. It was a strange, confusing debilitation that Peter struggled to understand. At first, he thought it was just the man’s imagination run wild. After all, Peter himself loved to daydream, to fantasize, and figured that Rehoboam simply struggled sometimes to distinguish fact and fiction.
Over time, though, he came to understand that this was not some dream born from wishful thinking—it was an invasion. These hallucinations were unwelcome, terrifying things that seeped into Rehoboam’s consciousness. Paranoia grew in him like a parasite, larger and more sinister until it consumed him. It was a torment Peter could hardly imagine—to feel like you were always being watched, followed, observed. Rehoboam was haunted by phantoms of his own involuntary making, imperceptible to all but him, yet as real as the house and the farm and everything else.
It came like a dark wind, sudden and unexpected. Leif and Peter had finished their chores for the day, and had gone in the house to read. Rehoboam helped them, albeit in his own erratic way. Half the time he would get distracted or lose interest in his role as teacher, and returned to his own tomes, poring through them with a wide-eyed passion. Leif and Peter didn’t mind—sometimes it was hard having a conversation with the man, ever-breaking into random tangents and ramblings.
So this time, when Rehoboam stopped talking and buried himself among the pages, just as he had a dozen times or more, the two boys thought nothing of it. They used the silence to return to their own individual readings, each of them working through their own journey towards literacy. Peter’s favorites were the stories—adventures and tragedies and great romances. Right now, he was immersed in the epic tale Jerusalem Delivered, whisked away to a distant time, a world of knights and witches and magic.
Leif sat opposite him at the dining table, poring over his literature of choice: broadsides. They were Peter’s least favorite—they didn’t even have a story, just a haphazard collection of public notices, decrees, and other updates on the happenings of New York. But where was the fun in that? He supposed it was Leif’s only access to a smattering of the law, desperate as that boy was to learn anything and everything that could save their farm and way of life.
As he reached the end of a stanza, Peter took a moment to rest his eyes and mind. As he looked up from the page, he noticed that Rehoboam wasn’t there. He blinked. He looked again. The man was gone.
“Leif,” he interjected. The elder boy took a second to look up, enthralled in something.
“Leif,” Peter repeated.
“What, what?” Leif said, half-annoyed.
“Rehoboam’s gone.”
Leif looked up. Then he shot up. His head whirled around, trying to find him.
“Dear God,” the boy said, the words leaving as a gasp, like the rapture itself had come calling. At once, he started towards the door.
“Grab the master from his room,” He barked at Peter, and Peter rushed to do so. He opened the door to his master’s chambers slowly and half-scared (forbidden as it was) and shook Solomon awake from his nap.
“Master, master,” he said, worry growing in his heart by the second.
The old man muttered, still half-asleep.
“What?” He growled. “What do you want?"
“It’s Rehoboam, master. He’s gone. We don’t know where he went.”
“What!?”
Solomon sprang out of bed like a cat.
“What do you mean he’s gone?”
“I… I just…” Peter stammered, trying to think of the words. He needed to choose them carefully—the last thing he wanted was for his master to beat him again.
Solomon pushed past the boy, not having the time for an answer to his question. He opened the wooden drawer by his bedside table, producing a small phial that contained some unknown tincture.
“We were just reading, Master,” Peter blurted out, having found the courage. “I got distracted, and when I looked up, he was just gone.”
“I should never have allowed this,” Solomon said. “This was bound to happen.”
“I’m sorry, Master. I… I didn’t mean to—”
“Hush now. There’s no time for this. Follow close, boy, and pray harder than you ever have.”
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As he said the words, Solomon himself signed the cross over his chest, then paced out of his room towards the door. Peter swallowed, uttering a quiet prayer to whatever god would listen, then ran to catch up.
“He’s over here!” The two heard Leif yell once they were outside. Together, they sprinted in the direction of his voice over to the barn. Peter was relieved to see Leif standing in the entrance, his arms and legs wide to prevent anyone from leaving it. Through the gap between them, he could see Rehoboam inside the barn. His back stood straight and crooked at the same time, some off-kilter angle that frightened Peter. The man’s dark eyes were wide, his pupils flitting and darting all around him like he was besieged by a volley of a thousand arrows. In his hand, he gripped something tightly—it took Peter a second to recognize it. It was the metal poker from the fireplace, brandished like a black iron sword to thwart some unseen enemy.
Solomon cursed at seeing the poker in his son’s hand—Peter had never seen the old man so worried, so scared. He couldn’t tell if he was afraid for Rehoboam’s safety or his own.
“Let me talk to him,” Peter said to Leif. “I’ve calmed him down before.”
“Not now,” Leif shot back, the tone in his voice uncommonly stern. “Not when he’s like this. He won’t recognize you. Worse, he might think yer a foe, and attack.”
“But I’m not his enemy. I’m his friend.”
“He doesn’t know that, lad. Not right now. Only one thing to do, and you’ll need to help with it.”
“What’s that?”
“Have you got the laudanum?” Leif asked Solomon. Solomon nodded.
“We’ve got to give it to him,” he said to Peter. “It’s the only thing that can calm him down when he’s lost himself. Get him to sleep the nightmare off.”
“Are you sure it’s the only way?”
“It is. Please, for fuck’s sake, trust me for once. He ain’t himself right now. He’s—I don’t know what he is, or where he is. But he’s dangerous right now, Peter. Be very, very careful.”
Peter didn’t quite understand, but he nodded. He knew that Rehoboam was different, that he thought certain things, saw certain things. He could never know what those things were, let alone understand them, but he was resolved, at the very least, to help. Rehoboam was his friend and teacher, and as he looked in the man’s eyes, erratic and delusional as they were, what Peter saw most in them was fear. Whatever illusions crossed his eyes must have been terrifying, and Peter would do whatever he could to rid them from Rehoboam’s mind.
“Just tell me what to do,” he said. “But I’d like to try to talk to him. I really do think I can help.”
“That’s the plan, anyway,” Leif said. “Ya need to distract him. I’m gonna try and get close without him—nab him from the back, so the Master can get him the laudanum. When I do, ya need to hold him down with me. He might try to hurt you, so be careful, and protect yerself, but don’t let go. Got it?”
Peter swallowed nervously, but he nodded.
“Alright. Get in there, see what ya can do.”
Peter stepped into the barn, and Leif hopped over the door to the stable, trying to use the tall wooden stalls as cover.
As Peter approached, fear grew in him, and guilt with it, too. It was wrong, he felt, to feel this way about a friend, and worse still to lie to him like this. But it’s not Rehoboam, Peter told himself, trying his best to provide some comfort to his terrified heart. It’s something else, someone else. Some devil or other evil's taken hold of him, and I’ve got to get him back.
“Rehoboam?” Peter called out, stepping forward to occupy the man’s field of view. “Rehoboam, it’s me. It’s Peter.”
“Peter?” The words left Rehoboam’s lips shaky and erratic. “Peter…”
“You know me,” Peter told him, trying to make sure his words were soft and soothing. “We’re friends, remember? We read together.”
“Peter, listen to me,” Rehoboam said, his voice wavering. “You need to get out of here. It’s not safe… they’re coming…”
“I know you’re afraid, Rehoboam. But I’m not going to leave you. I want to help. Who do you think is coming?”
“D—don’t you see them?”
“See who, Rehoboam?”
Rehoboam arched his back like an alley cat, hissing through clenched teeth.
“The patterns! The shapes, the black sigils, infernal and twisted! In the wood, in the walls! They’re omens, Peter. They’re coming. The Kings of Hell—Baal, Paimon, Belial, Asmodeus.”
“I don’t see them. It’s just wood, Rehoboam—we’re in the barn right now. No one’s here but me and the Master—your dad. We're just here to help."
“No. No, you’re wrong. The Masons—they’ve brought them here, conjured by their black magicks. You just can’t see the patterns. You’re just like him.”
Rehoboam lifted his hand, pointing the poker at his own father. He took a step back, then another, until he was stopped, trapped by the wood of the stable behind him. Each step backwards, Peter took one forwards, trying to slowly encroach without alarming the man.
“You don’t understand,” Rehoboam sputtered, tears coming to his eyes. He wasn’t addressing Peter anymore—he was addressing his father.
“You don’t understand,” he repeated. “You never have. You can’t see them—or maybe you don’t want to. That’s why you killed her.”
“I did not kill her,” Peter heard Solomon say from behind. He had never heard such a tone from his master—so soft, so pleading.
“You did! You didn’t believe her! You didn’t protect her!”
“I tried,” Solomon said, his voice growing louder, defensive. “I could not save her from herself.”
“You brought the Devil to her! You bought the knife!”
“It was not my hand that drove the blade!”
“And still you guided it! Your callousness, your inaction!”
“It was her madness, not mine!”
“What madness is there but life? The demons are all around us, and only the mad cover their eyes!”
Peter inched forward as the father and son argued, step by step. He could not understand their words, or the story behind them, but the pain in each one was unmistakable. One step more, and Rehoboam noticed him. He turned the poker on the boy, waving it madly.
“G-get away from me!” He shouted.
“I'm not going to hurt you,” Peter pleaded. “I’m your friend. I want to help you.”
“You…. you…. you are their emissary… Mason! Rosicrucian! Devil-worshipper! Bastard of the profane flame!”
“I’m just Peter, Rehoboam. I’m your friend. You know me.”
But even as he said those words, Peter stopped believing in them. There was no recognition in the man’s eyes, only fear, roaring like a wildfire in his deep black irises.
Peter raised his hands, open-palmed, trying his best to seem harmless. Another step forward, that he would embrace his friend in love. A mistake. To Peter, a gesture of friendship. To Rehoboam, an assault. In staggered motion, Peter saw his own friend raise the poker above his head, ready to strike him down. Leif leaped from the stable next to him, grappling the man from behind.
“Grab his legs!” Leif shouted, and Peter felt his body move on his own, pushed forward by instinct and self-preservation. The older boy grabbed Rehoboam’s arms, pinning them to his body as they thrashed wildly. Rehoboam screeched, a sound so shrill, so pained, so horrid. There was no doubt any longer in Peter—this was the Devil’s work, what possessed this poor man.
Peter rushed forward, reaching for Rehoboam’s legs. He wrapped his arms around him best he could, but he was too small, too weak. Rehoboam kicked the boy with an unnatural force, a boot landing straight in his stomach. The blow knocked the wind out of him, and Peter wheezed, gasping for air. Seizing the moment, Rehoboam elbowed Leif in the jaw with his free arm, freeing the one with the poker. Leif recovered quickly, but not quick enough—Rehoboam stabbed the poker deep into Peter’s back from above. Peter screamed as a white-hot fire shot through his shoulderblade, the black-steel spike stopped only by the wicked hook that jutted out from its side.
Still, he would not give up. Peter wrapped his arms around the man’s legs again, squeezing as tight as he could, trying to ignore his mind and body that sounded their alarms, telling him he was injured, he was bleeding. Leif knocked the poker from the man’s grasp, grabbing his arms again. He jumped up on the stable door, sitting atop it to steady him as he wrapped his legs around Rehoboam’s torso to further restrict him. All the while, Rehoboam screamed and screamed, as if his flesh was slowly ripped from his bones. It was the most frightening noise Peter had ever heard, worse even than the cracks of the whip against his tender back.
Working together, Leif and Peter had finally got the man still enough, though he continued to writhe and thrash in their grips. Solomon seized the chance, and rushed forward. He set his own grip on Rehoboam’s forehead, trying to keep his head and neck steady. With his free hand, Solomon produced the phial and uncorked it, forcing it into his son’s mouth. The screams were smothered by the tincture, and for a brief moment, the thrashing got worse. Peter gripped even tighter, even as his ribs were battered by frantic and desperate kicks. Just a few moments more, he told himself, closing his eyes tight, as if it would rid him from this living nightmare. Just a few moments more, and it’ll all be over…
And so it was. A few moments more, and the kicking slowed, then stopped. Rehoboam slumped against the stable door, falling into some opium-induced stupor. His eyes started to glaze over, then, thankfully, they closed, and he was at peace.
Silence fell in the barn, a welcome reprieve from the torturous cacophony of that ordeal. Broken occasionally by heavy breaths from the boys, tired and relieved. Peter collapsed onto his back, which bled in crimson onto the hay beneath it.
“Get him back to his bed,” Solomon instructed, breaking the silence. “I’ll take the boy.”
Leif nodded. He wrapped Rehoboam’s arm around his shoulder, dragging him like a sack of barley out of the barn. Then, to Peter’s surprise, Solomon lifted him up, cradling him to not open the wound further.
“Come,” Solomon told him, in little more than a whisper. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
That was all he said—perhaps that was all he needed to. The words came so tender they were an apology by themselves. And as the old man carried him back to the house, Peter felt teardrops fall from his master’s face onto his own. Strange things, tears. They formed and fell like soft, small emulsions—a drop of grief, two of guilt, three of hopeless sorrow.