I walked, and Lord! the sand shifted beneath my feet to the point where I stumbled and fell several times. Through the thickest of fogs the sea roared like Leviathan a-dying, slapping intermittently with the force of a hurricane, tearing chunks of the shoreline away and swallowing them in its agony. Once I learned its direction I scrambled for higher ground, and the beach was eaten behind me as I climbed. Grasping at shrub, root, and rock, sliding back, catching hold again, I pulled myself at length above its reach, achieving, however, as I did so, a region where the winds swelled and howled their answer back to the sea-beast below. And Lord! the tumult of the elements' divorcement! Earth, air, and water strove, then fled one another in heartbeat pulses! And then as I raised myself those final feet—a gout of fire fell the welkin's course to fry a tree before me, last element joined in ghastly image cast upon my streaming eyes. I lifted my arm in moment shield, and when I let it fall, the tree smoked and flickered in the wind, and the figure of a man stood, almost unconcerned, nearby, staring past me toward the raging, invisible sea, dark cloak flapping.
I rose into a crouched position, shielding my face with my arm, and I moved in his direction.
"Allan!" I cried, recognizing him as I drew near; and then I added, "Poe!"
He inclined his head slightly in my direction, something like a wistful smile occurring as he responded. "Perry. Good of you to stop by. I knew, somehow, that you would."
I came up beside him, his cloak striking me about the right thigh and hip.
"What the hell's going on?" I asked.
"It is but the perishing of the Earth, dear Perry," he replied.
"I do not understand."
"The Art-scarred surface of the Earth is purified as the physical power of a word is withdrawn from its atmosphere," he said. "The passions of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts are unleashed. A welter of unfulfilled dreams dies about us."
I brushed my hair from my eyes. The tree crackled at our back, lighting the fog most balefully. The seas boomed like thunder.
"The memory of past joy—is it not present sorrow?" Poe went on.
"Well—could be," I replied. Seeing him more clearly now, I realized that he—who had always seemed of an age with me—appeared considerably older, his face more heavily lined than my own, dark pouches beneath his eyes. It was almost as if we viewed each other from different times in our respective lives. "The thought of future joy," I suggested, "might sort of balance things out. Isn't that the meaning of hope?"
He considered me for several seconds and then he shook his head and sighed.
"Hope?" he repeated. "That word, too, has been withdrawn from the atmosphere, the ether, the land. Things fall apart, dear Perry. For all that, you are looking remarkably fit."
"Allan . . ." I began.
"Let it be 'Poe,' " he said, "between us."
"Damn it then, Poe!" I cried. "Just what is it you are talking about? I truly do not understand you!"
"The beloved spirit is departed," he answered. "In this absence the shell of our world crumbles. She is gone, my other self. Alas! most evil of all evil days! That which pervaded this place pervades no longer—and you know the name as well as I.
"Annie . . ." he sighed, and he raised his arm in trembling gesture. I turned my head in the direction he indicated, seaward, and the fog parted to where I beheld upon the sea-chewed strand the form of a gray mausoleum, so slickly drenched by the assaulting waves as to appear masked in glass. "Her tomb," he said then.
"I don't believe you!" I cried, and I drew away from him. Turning, I rushed back toward the cliff.
"Perry!" he called after me. "Come back! It's no use! I do not know what will happen to me if something ill befalls you!"
"She's not there!" I shouted back. "She can't be!"
I was descending, scraping my arms, tearing my garments.
"Perry! Perry!" he wailed.
I saved my breath, half-sliding, half-falling the rest of the way to the sand. Immediately, I was on my feet, fighting heavy winds and knee-high waves as I crossed to the shining monument. I could still hear Poe before the burning tree on high. I could distinguish no words, but only a baying sound now.
I caught hold of the black iron gate, lifted its latch, flung it open, and entered. I crossed its murky length, black water swirling about my ankles. A stone sarcophagus lay upon a ledge before me.
It was empty. I wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously. Instead I lurched to the entrance, where I cried, "Poe! Poe! You're wrong! She's not here! Poe! Poe!"
A great dark wave came rushing toward me and it smote me back into the tomb.
I awoke upon the stateroom floor, though I recalled having cast myself the previous evening across the big bunk which had been Seabright Ellison's. I did not recall having fallen from it, nor any means by which my garments could have become soaked and torn. There was sand in my shoes and a series of tracks led back from where I lay to a location near the center of the room, where they seemed to begin. I rotated a knuckle in my right eye then sat up. On removing the ruined russet shirt I discovered a number of abrasions on my forearms. Then I recalled the storm, the mausoleum, the wailing form of Poe beneath the burning tree.
I hunted up fresh garments in the sea chest, changing into them as I reflected upon the experience. I hoped that Poe was all right. I had been unsettled as much by the seeming strain of madness which had taken hold of him as by the bizarre course of events itself. I had somehow, long ago, realized our strange encounters to constitute both a reality and something partaking simultaneously of the realm of symbol, sign, or portent. I could, in this fashion, understand the matter of the empty tomb if Annie lay entranced in mesmeric slumber. But there was more to it than that. There had to be. I had learned more about the phenomenon last night than I had known, from Ellison's remarks upon it. But even the doughty alchemist did not know all that much. There was no one I could really ask concerning the matter, unless—
I wondered. Prior to his departure, Ellison had introduced me to the large-eyed, raven-haired lady, Ligeia, a woman of such fascinating beauty as slowed the cadence of my thinking to at least half its normal pace. Yet, it was not entirely her appearance which, I realized after a minute or so, was doing this to me. It was some other element about her person which was producing an actual physical effect. Immediately I realized this, I stepped back a pace and took a deep breath. The sensation vanished. The lady smiled.
"Delighted to make your acquaintance," she'd stated as Ellison named me, her voice low, hypnotic, accented in the manner of a Russian immigrant I had once known, eyes staring into my own with an unusual intensity.
"This is the man of whom I was speaking earlier—"
"I know," she stated.
"—and he has agreed to manage the business to which I referred."
"I know," she repeated.
"So I would appreciate your placing our special resources at his service."
She nodded.
"Of course."
"However, he has had an extremely filled day," he went on, "and I feel that any farther excitement would not be in his best interest. So I suggest we postpone his introduction to your charge until tomorrow. He is already aware that Monsieur Valdemar is able to obtain us information from places beyond this version of reality."
"I understand," she said.
"I don't," I said, "but I'll take your word for it."
"I will obtain sailing information and relay it to Captain Guy before my departure," he said.
"Very good," I replied. "In which case—"
"—you may retire," he finished for me, "and I'll bid you farewell and good luck as well as good night."
He clasped my hand with a firm grip.
"All right," I said. "Good-bye and good night."
I nodded to Ligeia. "I'll see you tomorrow," I told her.
"I know," she said.
I headed back to the stateroom, where I cast myself face downwards across the big bed. I was asleep almost immediately, later going away to our kingdom by the sea. And now. . . .
Sufficient light streamed from the ports for me to shave by, drawing fresh water from a large tank at the alchemical end of my quarters, emptying my basin out the nearest port when I had done with it. When I had finished grooming myself I went in search of breakfast. In the mess I was told that I might be served in my stateroom and instructed in the system of signaling for service. Since I was already in the saloon, however, I elected to remain, while eggs and onions, toast and halibut were prepared for my refreshment The night's shadowy farrago of dreams and bewilderments, puzzles and fears, was washed from my spirit by several cups of excellent coffee, the final of which I took with me on deck, to sip as I beheld the icy, sun-spotted waves, a few benign-looking clouds drifting like white islands in the placid blue overhead. The sun was still low in its corner of the heavens, and taking my bearings there from I sought in what I thought must be a shoreward direction for signs of the coast we had departed, but my gaze met land neither in that direction nor any other. A trail of gulls rode the winds behind us, dipping into and rising out of our wake. When the cook—a one-eyed Spaniard named Domingo—called something loudly (whether curses or snatches of song, I am uncertain) and dumped the morning's slops, they answered him and fell quickly to feasting in the churning waters. I moved forward then, seeking for some time in that direction after any sign of the great dark vessel Evening Star. But, it too, lay beyond the blue edges of my world.
I shivered and gulped more of the steaming coffee. I resolved to wear something warmer the next time I was above deck this early in the day. Turning to head below and return my cup to the galley on the way to Ligeia's cabin, I encountered a grinning Dirk Peters, who touched the bill of his cap in mock salute and growled, "'Marnin', Master Eddie."
I gave him a smile and a nod and returned, "Good morning, Mister Peters."
" 'Dirk' will do," he responded. "Lovely day now, ain't it?"
"Indeed," I agreed.
"And how does it feel, bein' in charge?" he continued.
"Hard to say," I replied. "I haven't given any orders yet."
He shrugged.
"No need, so far as I understand," he said. "'Less some emergency comes along. Mr. Ellison should've taken care of all the orderin' for a time."
"That's how I understand it, too," I said.
"You much of a seaman?" he asked.
"I was abroad, as a child, I don't remember getting seasick, if that's what you mean."
"Good," he observed, as a dark shape fell from the rigging, to bound across the deck and come up beside him. He reached out to clasp the hirsute shoulder of his ape, Emerson. The beast responded in kind, and I could not help but note that they resembled each other more than slightly. I say this not to disparage the man who came to my aid in a time of need—for I agree that it is more pardonable to trespass against truth than beauty—but because the very ugliness of his physiognomy was, in some wise, a thing of far greater fascination than those paragons of handsomeness the artists favor. His lips were thin, his teeth, ever-visible, long and protruding. He might almost give the impression of amusement were one to pay him but a casual glance. On return regard, however, one might liken it more to the merriment of a demon. In fact, his face was twisted, as if convulsed with laughter, and of paler pigmentation in patches between some of these creases than others, leading me to wonder whether some areas of his face might not be formed entirely of scar tissue. It was a frightening face, especially when one realized that its transition from seeming jollity to ferociousness was entirely a matter of one's own deepening perception rather than of any action on the man's part—as if reaching after a jewel beheld in some shadowy recess, one realized it to be embedded in the head of a serpent. "Good."
"What can you tell me about Valdemar?" I asked him.
He reached up as if to scratch his head, passing his fingers beneath his fantastical crop of black shag, raising it in the process and revealing it to be a peculiar wig. Observing my fascinated gaze he grinned a genuine grin and said, "Cut it from the skin of a bear who'd meant me ill." Then, "Valdemar," he observed. "Never laid eyes on 'im. He keeps in his stateroom, next to yours."
While there was something of the sailor in Peters' speech and manner, there seemed even more of the frontier. So, "You from the West?" I asked him.
He nodded.
"My pappy was a voyageur, a fur trader," he said, "and my mammy was an Upsaroka Injun out of the Black Hills. I've tracked and hunted all over the West. I've walked through Colter's Hell and been down in a canyon so big you could drop Charleston in and lose it." He spat over the railing, striking a luckless gull with terrible accuracy. "I've been down in Mexico and up where the northern lights hang like curtains at the end of the day." He scratched under his wig again. "All b'fore I was twelve," he added.
While I was not unfamiliar with tellers of tall tales, the man's ruggedly bizarre appearance and casual manner of speaking had me believing him entirely. A liar cares whether people believe what he said, for he wishes to impress them. I did not believe Peters gave a damn what anybody thought.
"About Valdemar . . ." I suggested.
"Yes?"
"How long has he been aboard?"
"Don't rightly know, sir," he replied. "Longer than me. The men were told he's an invalid and likes to travel. But I kinda wonder how much enjoyment there can be, stayin' in one room like that."
"You think there's something involved we don't know about?" I asked.
He shrugged.
"¿Quien sabé?" Then, "The lady Ligeia, I s'pose," he finished.
"What do you mean?" I inquired.
"Somethin' strange about that lady, his nurse. 'Minds me of a Crow medicine chief I once met. Johnny-Walks-With-Two-Spirits. Spookiest fella I ever knew in his comins and goins. When he talked to you you could almost see the ghostlands at his back, an' hear funny sounds in the winds. She's like that, too. Dunno any other way to put it."
I shook my head.
"I was kind of sleepy when I met her," I said. "Didn't really talk at any length. Has a kind of striking appearance, as I recall."
He grunted.
"She pretty much keeps to herself, too," he said. "I suggest stayin' on her good side. Got a feelin' she could be a tough enemy."
"I'm all for harmony," I said. "In fact, I should be paying Valdemar my respects soon."
"I imagine the captain will be wanting to talk soon, too."
I studied him as I nodded agreement. He did not seem aware that Valdemar was Ellison's resident expert on the trail we were to follow, rather than a simple tourist. So it seemed prudent to depart the subject, though sooner or later I would have to discover exactly what he did and did not know. I mused aloud, "Wonder which I should do first?"
"Hell, you can see the cap'n anytime," he said.
"You've a point there," I agreed. "Who knows how long it might take to meet our mysterious traveler if things aren't well with him? Wonder when I should drop by?"
"You been hearin' the bells?" he asked.
"Yes. Don't know how they work, though."
"They mark the watch," he explained. "They ring 'em every half-hour, from one bell to eight. Then they start again. Eight-thirty was one bell, nine o'clock was two. Next'll be three bells, nine-thirty. Might want to go by at three or four bells. Give him a chance to wake up and freshen."
"Thanks," I said, extending my hand. He did not take it, but Emerson reached forward, seized it, squeezed it, and pumped it. Had he wished, I could tell, the beast could have crushed it like a handful of dry sticks.
Peters grinned a totally evil grin and nodded.
"Anything I can help you on, Eddie, just give me a holler."
Then he threw me another mock-salute, turned, and passed below. Emerson sprang upward, to vanish behind a sail.
Three or four bells. Okay. I went below, myself, to fetch another cup of coffee while I waited. By three bells I'd had enough. I returned to my stateroom, where I sought through my wardrobe once more. A white shirt and cravat might well be in order, I decided. By four bells I'd also turned up a suitable vest and jacket as well as a tin of bootblack, and I'd allowed my Army habits to take over.
I walked past the intervening stateroom and knocked upon Ligeia's door. It opened immediately, and she met me with the faintest of smiles.
"I was expecting you," she said.
"I expect you were," I replied, finding a faint smile myself.
She had on a nondescript gray smock-like garment, and her fingers and wrists no longer wore the jewelry I half-remembered from the previous evening. Again, there was a peculiar feeling in her presence—as if lightning had just struck or was about to.
She neither invited me in nor joined me in the corridor. She simply studied me for several moments. Finally, "You are even more unusual than I first thought," she observed.
"Really?" I said. "In what respects?"
"Geography," she replied.
"I don't understand."
"You don't fit anyplace I know of," she said, "and I thought I knew everyplace. So you must be from someplace else."
"It would seem to follow," I replied, deciding not to pursue matters further as I could see a strange exercise in tautology upon the horizon. "And I will be happy to leave things there," I added, "if you will, too."
She furrowed her brows, narrowed her eyes.
"Where?" she inquired.
"Someplace else," I said.
Then her face relaxed and she smiled fully.
"You Americans are always joking," she said then. "You are joking with me, yes?"
"Yes," I said.
She leaned against the door jamb. Was there a slight sway to her hips as she did so?
"Is it that you wish to see Monsieur Valdemar now . . . ?" she asked, as if inviting me to complete the sentence on a different note.
"I would," I replied.
"Very well," she said, gesturing toward the door to my left, which came between hers and my own. "Wait by that door."
With that, she withdrew into her stateroom and closed its door. I heard a bolt or bar fall or slide into place.
So I did as she'd ordered, walking to the next door and waiting there. Several minutes passed, and then abruptly, the door was opened for me. It stood perhaps a foot ajar, and I could detect nothing but blackness within.
"Come in," I heard her say.
"Uh— I can't see a thing," I said.
"That's all right," she replied. "Just do as I say."
Reflecting that Ellison had enjoined me to trust her, I took two steps on the oblique, sufficient to carry me past the door's edge into the dark interior. The door closed immediately, I heard the snick of a bolt, and I stood stock-still.
"Mightn't we have a little light?" I asked. "I don't know which way to move."
Immediately, I felt my hand taken.
"I will lead you," she said softly. "Monsieur Valdemar's condition is such that the light bothers him considerably."
"Even a small candle?" I asked.
"Even a small candle."
She led me back and to my right. After several paces, she squeezed my hand and placed her other hand upon my chest. "Halt," she said; then, when I did, "That's just fine. Stay there."
She released me, moved a few paces away. Shortly, I heard a creaking sound as of a door being opened, from somewhere before me. There followed a total silence, and after several minutes of it I cleared my throat. She ignored this, so I finally asked, "Is everything all right?"
"Of course," she said. "Be patient. It takes a little time to establish rapport."
I could not tell what she was doing, though I detected the rustling of movement. Then I felt the peculiar tingling sensation which I immediately recalled from the previous evening. And I became aware of a faint line of light to my right. Of course, the connecting door between her suite and this one—it was not entirely closed. Then came the murmurs. She was speaking very softly.
"Let's not wake the poor fellow up now," I said. "Let him get his rest. I'll come back later."
"No," she answered. "He's doing just fine. It takes him a while to—pull himself together. That's all."
There followed a terrible moan.
". . . And I hate to put an invalid under such a strain," I added.
"Nonsense!" she replied. "It's good for him. Keeps up his interest in life."
Again, the moan.
I edged a trifle nearer, as my eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness and I was hoping to discern something of interest beyond the movements of her arms over the dark object upon the bed. Again, I felt the vibratory sensation. Before I could remark upon it, however, the moan came again, followed by a distant "No! No! . . . . Let me be. Please! I beseech you!"
"Are you sure . . . ?" I began.
"Of course," she responded. "He's always a little out of sorts when I rouse him. Just a matter of mood."
"Sounds the way I feel before I have my coffee," I said. "Perhaps we should send for some breakfast for him."
"Oh! Ooh!" he moaned. "I am dead!"
"No, he's not much for food or drink," she replied. "Come around now, Monsieur. There's a gentleman here I'd like you to meet."
"Please! Just—let me—go . . ." came a raspy, distant voice. "Let me die."
"The more time you waste arguing, Monsieur, the longer it takes," she stated.
"Very well," he said then. "What is it—that you want?"
"I wish to introduce Mr. Edgar Perry, who is now in charge of our expedition."
"Expedition . . ." he said softly.
". . . In pursuit of Messers Goodfellow, Templeton, and Griswold, who have kidnapped the woman known as Annie."
"I see her," he said, "ablaze—like a crystal chandelier—before us. She is not of this world. They use her. They use her—to follow—another. Let me die."
"Von Kempelen," I said.
"Yes. But I know not—where they—are headed—because—it is not clear—where he is headed—yet. Let me die."
"We do not need that information now," I said, an extraordinary thought occurring to me and causing me to begin sidling to my right. "Tell me what you can of the connection between Edgar Allan Poe and myself."
"You are—somehow—the same—person," he said.
"How can that be?" I asked.
"Crossover," he said. "Poor Poe—will—never know. Never to find what is sought—through hollow lands—and hilly lands."
"Why not?"
"Let me rest!"
"Tell me!"
"I know not. Only Annie—knows! I am dead!"
One more step to the right, then I turned and kicked open the door. Daylight spilled through from Ligeia's own quarters, catching the lady in mid gesture above an opened casket, within which lay a frightfully pale individual whose white whiskers stood in violent contrast to the blackness of his hair. His eyes were opened but the pupils rolled upward. His face was twisted, lips drawn back, teeth bared. His tongue, slightly protruding, appeared to be black.
"Good Lord!" I said. "The man is dead!"
"Yes and no," she observed. "He's an unusual case."
She gestured slowly and his eyes closed. She shut the lid.
"But then, we all have our problems," she added. "Would you care for some tea or hashish?"
"Have you got anything stronger?" I answered, as she took my arm.
"Certainement," she replied, and I cast a backward glance as we departed, surprised to note that the casket when closed possessed the shape and size of a large crate of wine-bottles, even to the point of bearing labels, producing the impression of a doublebox of Chateau-Margaux, of the antelope brand, violet seal.
She steered me toward a comfortable-looking chair, saw me seated in it. Closing the connecting door, she repaired to the far end of her stateroom, where she opened a cabinet. Shortly thereafter, I heard the cool clinking sounds of glass upon glass and the splashing of liquids.
She returned after a few moments with a tall tumbler of muddy, greenish liquid, bits of leaves and other matter floating on its surface.
"Looks like swamp water," I said, accepting it.
"Tastes like swamp water, too," I added, after a small sip.
"It is an herbal tonic," she explained. "Very relaxing."
I thought about it, then took another sip.
"Valdemar is—indeed—dead?" I said after a time.
"Yes," she replied, "but he tends to forget. Each time he remembers it becomes somewhat stressful."
"When, how did he die?"
She shrugged.
"Months, years, before we came aboard," she said. "Long before I found him."
I cast my gaze about her quarters, hung with bright tapestries, strewn with animal skins and oriental rugs. There were dark wood figurines I guessed to be African, decorated with copper wire and bright beads. A pair of Toledo blades hung upon one wall. There was a Turkish water pipe beside the huge, silk-curtained bed. The aroma of some exotic incense hung heavy in the air. It reminded me somewhat of a Gypsy caravan where I had once paid to have my palm read by a heavily rouged lady who, I felt, was somewhat overimaginative on my behalf. Yet there was something more to this ensemble than to that one. Peters had been right. I could almost see the ghostlands at her back.
"What is it that makes Valdemar special?" I asked.
"I gather he was part of an experiment in mesmerism," she explained, "on his deathbed. He is frozen at the exact point of transition between life and death. Because of this, he enjoys a unique perspective on events. It does require a particularly skilled mesmerist to deal with him, however, as he keeps trying to slip away into the darkness."
"And you are obviously a specialist in this regard."
She nodded.
"Where I come from the phenomenon is somewhat controversial," I said.
"Here it is a fact of life."
"I believe I felt it somewhat—twice now—in your presence."
"That is quite possible," she said. "Finish your tonic and I'll show you what it's like."
I gulped what remained, set the glass aside.
"That stuff didn't do much for me," I observed.
"It's quite mild," she replied.
"I thought you said it was a potent brew."
"No, you asked for something strong. That will be the treatment." She raised her hands. They seemed to sparkle. Once again, I felt the warm pulse, the faint tingling. "The tonic is but a preliminary."
"What will the treatment do for me?"
"I am not absolutely certain," she said, "in your case. What would you like it to do?"
"I'd just like to escape from myself for a time."
She smiled, extended her hands, lowered them. It was like being suddenly splashed by a very warm wave. I leaned back in my chair and let the feeling run through me. She was on Ellison's payroll, and she knew I was important to him. She gestured again and I attempted to relax fully, letting the feeling wash through me. Nothing the Gypsy'd done had felt like this.
While her first several passes were exhilarating, I realized after a short while, that they were also somewhat numbing. There was a distancing effect between my body and my consciousness. Then I realized that my thinking had grown sluggish. But it was coupled with such euphoria that I did not resist the lethargy.
Her hands drifted slowly past me.
"I am going to cause you to relax very deeply," she said. "When you awaken you should feel entirely refreshed."
I was about to respond, but then it did not seem worth the effort. Her hands passed me again and I was hardly aware of my body any longer. Except for my eyes. It seemed an awful lot of trouble, keeping my eyes open. I let them close. I felt the shadows of her hands go by once more. And then I was departing—soaring, bright white, drifting, turning to snow, falling. . . .
. . . .Suddenly, my head felt funny, my stomach worse. I raised my hands to massage my temples. I opened my eyes. I lay in bed, propped by pillows. A threadbare blanket covered me from the waist down. As I lowered my hands they trembled slightly. I listened to the sound of a catbird from somewhere beyond the window. Looking about, I saw that I occupied a small and rather shabby room. What was happening? I could not recall how I had come to this place . . .
There was a note on the bedside table. I picked it up. It was addressed to Poe. Even more puzzled, I read it, hoping for some clue as to what was happening:
Richmond, Sept. 29, 1835
Dear Edgar,—Would that it were in my power to unbosom myself to you, in language such as I could on the present occasion, wish myself master of. I cannot do it—and therefore must be content to speak to you in my plain way.
That you are sincere in all your promises, I firmly believe. But, Edgar, when you once again tread these streets, I have my fears that your resolves would fall through,—and that you would again sip the juice, even till it stole away your senses. Rely on your own strength, and you are gone! Look to your Maker for help, and you are safe!
How much I regretted parting with you, is unknown to anyone on this earth, except myself. I was attached to you—and am still,—and willingly would I say return, if I did not dread the hour of separation very shortly again.
If you could make yourself contented to take up your quarters in my family, or in any other private family where liquor is not used, I should think there were hopes of you.—But, if you go to a tavern, or to any other place where it is used at table, you are not safe. I speak from experience.
You have fine talents, Edgar,—and you ought to have them respected as well as yourself. Learn to respect yourself, and you will very soon find that you are respected. Separate yourself from the bottle, and bottle companions, forever!
Tell me if you can do so—and let me hear that it is your fixed purpose never to yield to temptation.
If you should come to Richmond again, and again should be an assistant in my office, it must be expressly understood by us that all engagements on my part would be dissolved, the moment you get drunk.
No man is safe who drinks before breakfast! No man can do so, and attend to business properly.
I have thought over the matter seriously about the Autograph article, and have come to the conclusion that it will be best to omit it in its present dress. I should not be at all surprised, were I to send it out, to hear that Cooper had sued me for a libel.
The form containing it has been ready for press three days—and I have been just as many days deciding the question.I am your true Friend,
T.W.White
I let it fall. I couldn't remember when I'd felt this weak. Nevertheless, I struggled, I rose, I crossed the room to a small mirror and studied myself within it—my face yet not my face. Haggard, red-eyed. I rubbed my temples again. So poor Poe was drinking too much, and this is what it felt like.
How had I wound up in his body?
I recalled Ligeia's hands drifting past me, doing things with the stuff of life itself it seemed. I remembered Valdemar, Peters, Ellison. And my last encounter with Poe. Did he think Annie was dead? Could that be the cause of his present unhappy state?
If that were so, might it change things for the better with him if I were to leave him a message? I looked about for something to write it with.
"Eddie!" the voice of an older woman, from the next room. I elected not to answer it. "Eddie! Are you up?"
There. On the small table by the window. A pen. An inkwell. I hurried to them. Paper.
Paper . . . ? The man was working for a magazine. He must have some paper. None in the drawer—
"Would you care for some tea, Eddie?"
Aha! In the box beneath the table.
I drew up the room's only chair, collapsed upon it. How to begin? I would have to refer to our shared experiences with Annie.
How many visions of a maiden that is, I wrote. And then the strength went out of me. I put down the pen. I could hardly keep my head up. At my back, I heard the door open. Curiosity bade me turn, but I was too weak to do it. I slumped.
"Eddie!" I heard her cry.
I was already losing myself again, floating, drifting away. Her voice grew tiny. My muscles went numb and the world turned gray. Then something stirred the currents of life inside me and shadows drifted across my eyes.
After a long while I sighed and looked upward. Ligeia's face was near, brows slightly knit in what might be an expression of concern as she scrutinized me.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
I shook my head and I patted my stomach. The feelings of hangover had vanished.
"Fine," I said, stretching. "What happened?"
"You don't remember?"
"I remember being in another place, in someone else's body."
"Whose?"
"Edgar Allan Poe's," I said.
"The one of whom you asked Monsieur Valdemar?"
I nodded.
"We go way back. And I'll bet he was here in my body while I was off in his."
It was her turn to nod.
"Yes," she said, "and he seemed either drugged, drunk, or mad. It was difficult to gain control, to send him back."
"Why did he come in the first place? Does this sort of switching happen often?"
"This was the first time I've ever seen or heard of it," she said. "That was a very strange man. It was almost as if I'd conjured some dark spirit."
I decided against asking what her experience was in the dark spirit area. I'd had enough excitement for one morning.
"He asked after an Annie," she continued, "and said something about his heartstrings being a lute. If he is not mad he must be a poet. But I wonder now—whether the thing that led to the transfer lies with him or with you."
I shrugged.
"Wait. Did not Monsieur Valdemar say you are somehow the same person?" she asked. "That would explain the metaphysics of it."
"Like all metaphysics, it explains nothing of any practical value," I said. "I am neither mad nor a poet. My heart is not a musical instrument. I'm just in the wrong world, I think, and so is poor Eddie Poe. I don't know how it came to pass, but the man we're following had something to do with it."
"Rufus Griswold?"
"I believe so. Yes, that's right. You know the man?"
"We met once, in Europe. Years ago. He is dangerous—in some highly specialized ways as well as the ordinary."
"I gather he's some kind of alchemist."
"More than that," she said. "A black magician of some persuasion I do not know."
"Ellison thinks he interfered in some fashion with a relationship between Poe and Annie and myself to produce the present state of affairs, giving him Annie as a guide, displacing us all from our respective worlds."
She spread her hands and met my eyes.
"I do not know," she said. "But I find the idea fascinating. Shall I see whether I can learn more
about it?"
"Please."
I rose.
"However . . ." she said.
"Yes?"
"I'd like to question Monsieur Valdemar every morning, at about this time," she said. "The routine will be good for him."
"It will?"
"Even the dead need good work habits," she explained. "And I feel that, as head of this expedition, you should be present on these occasions."
"I guess I should," I agreed. "Too bad."
I headed for the door, halted when I reached it.
"Thanks for—everything," I said. "See you at lunch."
She shook her head.
"I take all my meals here," she told me. "But you're welcome to join me sometime."
"Sometime," I said, and I went out. The passageway about me was suddenly filled with white fire.
"Comment?" I heard Ligeia say, as at a great distance, right before her door fell shut.
"This way, Perry," a familiar voice called out. "Please."
It being the voice of the one lady I would walk through fire for, I moved ahead. But even the living can use a little peace and quiet, I reflected, momentarily envious of Valdemar.