Sam was there, sitting on his crate beside a struggling fire in the entrance of his cave. One black tooth, scars across a broken nose, the beard of a crazed prophet—still, Sam’s eyes were keen. He already had the smooth plank over his lap, waiting for Jacob. The old wizard smiled and laughed. His fetid breath through the rot of his gums made Jacob’s stomach turn. It was a horrible smell, as if everything below the old man’s gullet had dissolved into decay.
Two short women stood behind him. They had rough faces and dark hair. They were thick, mountain women from some deep Eastern European fog. They must have fed on gruel and pork fat, and a healthy dose of folklore. Their eyes sat slightly too far apart. Blotches blossomed on their cheeks in some strange pattern. They moved in jerky fits, as if they were uncomfortable with their own joints. They answered to Sam’s barks, which were not English but shot in a language that banged rough on the back of his tongue. One of these women brought the beaten leather bag.
Just inside the cave, two men cut fish and chopped wood. Jacob could only see them in shadows. Hoarse cries of invisible children bounced from deep within the cavern.
Sam reached into the bag and lifted the cards. He placed these on the board and presented his palms.
“You know what to do,” he said. His accent was thick. Russian, or something like it.
Jacob reached for the deck. It was warm, soft with wear. He cut the deck into two piles. Sam lifted the first card of the lower pile. He held it in front of him, looking at it, before lowering it. A man sat upon a throne between two pillars. The man was kingly, wearing blue robes with red trim.
“Interesting,” Sam said.
He paused for a moment. Jacob raised an eyebrow. It was always interesting, but Sam would eventually tell him the name. That would be the end of that man sitting between the pillars.
“This card,” Sam said. “He is a guide, a leader, a teacher. He is a most important man, but he, like the others, has tread where he should not. So, you must do what you do. You must bring me proof of your deed.”
Jacob nodded. The whole transaction wanted to be a ritualistic, responsorial thing. Jacob had no patience this morning. He did not feel jaded. He knew that he had important work to do, and that he would receive a handsome reward. But, the pomp, the script—why these cards and this old man? Why Papaya’s bird bones? Could there be no better way for the Old God to communicate with Jacob?
Sam cleared his throat and continued.
“This card typically refers to someone who gives advice. Someone who answers questions. This is a scholar and a professor at the college for women.”
“Right here in Jamesport,” Jacob said. This was a pleasant turn. “Who is it?”
“A man who can answer questions that most have not yet considered. He is a man who has seen things in Africa and South America. I am beginning to see his name.”
“Tell me.”
Sam shot him a harsh look. Jacob stumbled back a step and straightened his coat. He took a deep breath.
“Patience,” Sam said. “It is coming.”
The old man closed his eyes and hummed.
“Thomas,” he said. His eyes snapped open. “Dr. Thomas … Rutledge. He is noteworthy in his field. He must be stopped. It should be easy to find him. Bring me his black notebook.”
Jacob nodded.
“Thomas Rutledge.”
“Yes,” Sam said. “This one is most important. Make haste.”
Jacob turned and walked from the old man, back toward M’Lass and the wharf. He wondered, if he were to turn again, if Sam would still be there. Would the women be there? The cave? No matter. Sam had named the victim. That name filled Jacob with a purpose, at least for this day.
