The Man Who Was Poe

by Avi

  “At the church,” the boy said.

  “I am not surprised,” Poe murmured, delighted that these characters of his were speaking their own lines. It was so much easier than having to struggle to find the words himself.

  The boy turned, and under Poe’s fascinated gaze, helped the woman to the bed, where she lay down. She sighed and closed her eyes. The boy took a place near her on the edge of the bed.

  Poe smiled. It was his dream come true. He needed only to look at these images, watch what they did, and describe them on the page. For a while he studied the two. Then he bent over his notebook and wrote:

  The boy turned and helped the woman to the bed, where she lay down. She sighed and closed her eyes. The boy took a place near her on the edge of the bed.

  “Did you buy food?” came a voice.

  Poe, without looking up from his writing, shook his head. “Only a necessary drink,” he said softly and to no one in particular. He wasn’t sure who had spoken.

  “Please give me money. I need to get her some food.”

  “I am trying to write,” Poe said.

  “Please, she needs it very badly.”

  Poe looked about, surprised to find that the boy character had drawn very close. Then to his horror he saw the boy reach out for the bottle. Before the boy could grasp it, Poe himself snatched it from the table and hugged it to his body.

  Warily, Poe studied the boy’s face. Now he was no longer certain it was his character. But then who was it? Just the thought made his head ache.

  “Do you know who I am?” the boy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  Poe thought carefully before answering. Puzzling questions, he reminded himself, are not beyond all conjecture. He studied the boy’s face carefully. Even as he did a name came into his mind. But he rejected that name as not right. He tried another. “Is it,” he said, “Edmund?”

  “Yes.”

  Poe grunted with satisfaction. “The other boy is better,” he said. “He does what he is told to do.”

  “What other boy?”

  Poe put a hand to his head. “The one here. His name is —”

  “Mr. Dupin —”

  Poe slammed his fist on the table. “Poe!” he cried.

  “Please …”

  Poe closed his eyes. When he opened them he saw that boy, Edmund, standing there, waiting. Grudgingly he reached into a pocket and dragged forth some coins and held them out. When Edmund took them Poe turned to look at the bed. The woman was still there. But the other character was gone. Annoyed, he bent over his writing again and tried to recapture the vision.

  * * *

  Edmund glanced at his mother, trying to make up his mind if he dared leave her. She was asleep. He studied Poe. Edmund was not at all certain the man really knew who he was. At the moment he seemed to be utterly absorbed in his work.

  “I’m going to get some food,” Edmund announced.

  Poe said nothing.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Edmund left the room, shut the door behind him, then paused to listen. When he heard the steel pen scratching across the paper he took one step only to stop, put his key in the lock, and turn it. Mr. Poe would not be able to get out.

  Suddenly Edmund was caught up in a memory of the last time he’d locked the door. For a second he had the distinct sensation that he was seeing himself in some story. What would happen, he wondered, if he opened the door again. Would Sis be there this time? With a shake of his head, he cleared his head of the foolish thought and moved toward the stairs.

  When he walked into the saloon Mr. Throck was laying cards out on the table for a game of solitaire. At first he gave the boy no more than a quick glance. But when he realized it was Edmund, he stared at the newcomer.

  The man behind the counter looked down. “Yes, boy,” he said gruffly. “What do you want?”

  “Please, sir,” Edmund said, dumping Mr. Poe’s coins on the counter, “a meat pie. And candles.”

  “Large pie or small?”

  “This is the money I have, sir.”

  The man made a slow count of the coins. “Four candles and a large pie,” he said, taking up the money.

  While the counter man got his purchase ready Edmund stole a glance at Throck.

  “What are you looking at?” the big man growled.

  “Are you Mr. Throck?” Edmund said.

  Throck considered for a moment, then said, “That’s me.”

  “Were you engaged by my aunt to find my mother?”

  “I was.”

  “I have found her.”

  “Did you now?”

  “But I haven’t found my sister.”

  Throck frowned. “That’s nothing to do with me.”

  “I need your help,” Edmund said.

  Throck rubbed the side of his face with a large hand. “What about that … friend of yours. He gone off?”

  “Mr. … Dupin?”

  “If that’s his name.”

  “He won’t help me anymore.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s crazy.”

  “Is he? Did he find your mother for you?”

  “In a way.”

  “Does he get the reward then?”

  “Mr. Throck, I don’t know anything about a reward.”

  “That’s as may be.” He rubbed the side of his face for a moment. Then he said, “If I help you find your sister will you put in a word for me so that I get it?”

  “Mr. Throck I’ll do what you tell me to do.”

  “Your word now. A good word for Mr. Throck.”

  “I promise.”

  Throck sat back, gave a grunt of satisfaction, finally pulled a chair near to him. “Well then, what exactly do you want me to do?”

  “It’s my sister. I want you to make Mr. Dupin find her.”

  “Thought you said he was crazy.”

  “But I think he knows where she is.”

  “You want it out of him then, do you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You sit down here and tell me all about it.”

  * * *

  When Edmund unlocked the door to the room and stepped inside, Poe was still writing. The boy glanced quickly toward his mother. She lay asleep on the bed.

  He came further into the room, then beckoned to Throck — just behind — to follow. When Poe didn’t seem to notice their arrival, Edmund approached him. “Mr. Poe,” he said softly.

  Poe continued to write.

  “Mr. Poe,” Edmund repeated, raising his voice slightly.

  This time Poe lifted his head. Edmund could see from his eyes that he was having a hard time focusing.

  “Sometimes,” Poe said, “you lose control of your characters. They want to take over. Do what they want. It’s a question of who is stronger. Writer or character. But it’s all right. I’m almost finished with you.”

  “What?”

  “And your sister.”

  “Mr. Poe, it’s me, Edmund. I’ve brought Mr. Throck.”

  Poe stared first at the boy, then at the large man who loomed behind him, his bulk magnified in the smallness of the room.

  Throck grinned. “Evening to you, Mr. Poe,” he said.

  * * *

  “Ah, yes!” Poe said. “They threw me out of the army too. I’d been drinking.” He turned to Edmund. “Why did you bring him here? He’s no longer part of the story.”

  “Mr. Poe,” Throck said, “this boy here, he says you can tell us where his sister is.”

  “His sister is here!” Poe snapped, slapping his notebook. He bent to his work. The pen moved over the paper.

  Throck looked at Edmund for an explanation.

  “He thinks she’s in the story he’s writing,” Edmund said. “Mr. Poe,” he went on more urgently, “you can find her. I know you can.”

  “Edmund,” Poe cried, flinging down his pen, “this is what’s important!”

  Moving suddenly, Edmund snatched the notebook from under
Poe’s hand. As though struck, Poe leaped from his chair and tried to grab the book back. Throck was quicker. He stepped in front of Poe and heaved him against the wall.

  Poe looked from Edmund to Throck with frightened eyes.

  Edmund held the notebook tightly. “Find Sis or I’ll destroy it,” he said fiercely.

  On the bed, Mrs. Rachett stirred, sat up, and looked about in confusion.

  Edmund noticed her. “It’s all right, Mother,” he called. “This is Mr. Throck. He’s going to help us find Sis.”

  Throck turned. “Please to meet you, madam,” he said. “And sorry of your misfortunes. Your sister had come to me for help and we was endeavoring to get you for her. And if this man is willing, we’ll find your daughter too.”

  Unexpectedly Poe jumped and grabbed up his carpetbag. “My manuscript,” he demanded, his hand outstretched.

  Edmund shook his head. “Not until you help us find Sis,” he said.

  “Be reasonable, sir,” Throck suggested. “You want to get on with your work. He wants his sister. I want to get them that got into the bank, for I understand from the lad here that they’re connected. Now, if you put your mind to it, it can all be done in one effort.”

  Poe glared at the man.

  “Didn’t I tell you,” Throck added, “that Throck sees it through.”

  For a moment Poe’s gaze wavered. Then, giving way abruptly, he sank back into the chair.

  “Much better,” Throck said.

  “I must have the notebook,” Poe said.

  “Help us first,” Edmund insisted.

  Poe let out a deep breath, closed his eyes, and leaned forward, resting his head in his upturned hands. Then he sat back. He reached for a bottle, but saw that it was empty and put it aside. He looked inquiringly at Throck.

  Throck grinned and held up a full bottle, saying, “Help us first.”

  Poe cleared his throat. “Mrs. Rachett,” he said, his voice ragged, “have you any idea where they might have put your daughter?”

  Mrs. Rachett shook her head. “I only knew they had put her in the mausoleum,” she replied. “When I went there she was gone.”

  “And you, Mr. Throck,” Poe said. “I suppose the boy’s told you everything. Do you have any ideas?”

  Throck shook his head. “He mentioned some sort of message.”

  “Message?” Poe echoed.

  Edmund said, “The one I found in Mrs. Whitman’s house.”

  Poe looked about, then searched his pockets and retrieved the coded message Edmund had found. He held it out to Throck.

  Throck took it and in exchange gave Poe the bottle.

  While Poe quickly opened the bottle and drank from it, Throck examined the paper. “I can’t read it,” he said, handing it back.

  Poe glanced mockingly at Edmund before reading the message out loud.

  “Meet me at the hotel. I have moved girl and gold. Must leave. Sunrise at six A.M.”

  Throck grimaced. “The first part may make sense,” he said. “But sunrise should come closer to seven o’clock these days.”

  Poe took out his watch. “It’s past two now.”

  “Five hours,” said Throck as if he had observed something profound. Poe nodded. Then to Edmund’s dismay, Poe offered Throck the bottle. The night watchman grinned and helped himself to a swallow.

  Edmund’s mother, on the bed, dropped off to sleep again.

  Feeling betrayed, Edmund retreated into a corner and watched as Poe and Throck passed the bottle back and forth. The two men discussed all that had happened. It was as if it were some private matter which had nothing to do with Edmund.

  Even as he tried to concentrate on their talk — which grew increasingly slurred — Edmund found himself dozing. He didn’t want to. Fought it. All the same, he slept.

  AT NEARLY FOUR in the morning Edmund woke with a start and looked about.

  His mother was asleep in the bed. Throck, also asleep, was seated on the floor, his head thrown back against a wall, mouth open and snoring. Poe slept too. He was slumped over the table amid several empty bottles, head cradled in his arms, fingers clutching his notebook. The last candle, no more than a stub, was burning low.

  Suddenly conscious that much of the night had passed, Edmund ran to the window. Though it was still raining, he decided it must be close to dawn. Alarmed, he turned back to the room. His mother, he realized, would not be able to help. Nor, he saw, would Poe, or Throck.

  With growing panic he looked about for something that might help him and noticed the coded message on the table. He snatched it up, but when he confronted the symbols again, his heart sank. Once more he felt engulfed by feelings of fear and insufficiency. He rushed over to Poe and shook him.

  “Mr. Poe … Mr. Poe …” he cried.

  Poe continued to sleep.

  Edmund, trembling with frustration, gave it up. Taking hold of himself, he placed the message on the table near the candle and racked his brain to remember what Mr. Poe said the symbols meant. Gradually it came back to him:

  Meet me at the hotel. I have moved girl and gold. Must leave. Sunrise at six A.M.

  Edmund glanced out the window again, wondering how long it would be before sunrise. For a moment he watched the rain trickle down the window panes. Where had they put her!

  Once more he gazed around at the sleepers. But this time a thought came to him, something Mr. Throck has said about the hour of sunrise given in the message, that it wasn’t right. Even as Edmund remembered that, something Mr. Poe had said popped into his head: “Lies have their own truth.”

  Edmund considered the message another time and tried to pry some new meaning out of “Sunrise.” Not a lie exactly but some other sense, some other truth. Had Rachett meant, not dawn, but something else? Where had he seen the word Sunrise before? Somewhere?. … the day before … when Peterson had tried to catch him …

  And suddenly, Edmund remembered.

  He hurried over to the table. “Mr. Poe,” he whispered.

  Poe looked up with only partially open eyes. “What is it?” he managed to say.

  “At the docks yesterday,” Edmund said, growing more excited, “where Peterson tried to catch me, there was a boat, a sloop. She was called — Sunrise.”

  “Sunrise?” Poe repeated, “Is it sunrise already?”

  “Mr. Poe,” Edmund said, almost begging. “I think Sunrise may be a boat.”

  “Edmund, let me be.”

  “We have to find my sister!”

  “Who?”

  “Sis!” Edmund said, shaking him.

  “Sis is dead,” Poe murmured, clutching his notebook and slumping over it again. “The way it must be.”

  Edmund let go of him in disgust. Then he went to Throck and shook him hard. “Mr. Throck,” he tried. “Wake up.” He shook him harder. This time Edmund caught sight of a pistol butt sticking out from his jacket.

  Startled, he stepped back. For a moment he just stared at the gun. Then he looked about the room at the two men asleep before him. Edmund shook his head.

  Cautiously, he pulled the pistol out of Throck’s jacket. It came with surprising ease.

  He went back to Poe. “I am going to the docks,” he said urgently. “To the Sunrise.”

  “… too late.” Poe mumbled. “Sis is dead.”

  Anger flamed within Edmund. Taking hold of Poe’s notebook he pulled out the pages of new writing, tore them to bits, then flung them on the floor. Poe, oblivious, continued to sleep.

  Pistol in hand, Edmund stepped into the hall and shut the door behind him. As the door closed, he heard movement in the room, as if someone had gotten up. He hurried down the steps.

  The street was deserted. The light was a lifeless gray. The rain had turned to a swirling web of damp, wet cold. And from somewhere far thunder rumbled.

  For a moment Edmund could only stare out onto the bleak scene. Then, after wrapping the pistol into his shirt, he rushed out into the street.

  It was about five o’clock when Edmund re
ached the wharf where he’d seen the sloop Sunrise. The place seemed deserted, the quiet broken only by the occasional splash of waves, and the soft moan of wind. He himself was drenched and cold.

  But now he was on the wharf Edmund realized that if the boat was still there, he had no idea what he’d do about it.

  Then he thought he saw something move. He waited and peered forward. The misty rain made it difficult to see. A light went on. The best Edmund could determine was that at about the middle of the wharf — the very spot where he had seen the two boats the previous afternoon — someone was moving about.

  Edmund pulled the pistol from under his shirt and tried to check to see if it was loaded. He thought so, but wasn’t sure. Did he need to cock the hammer? Adjust the trigger? He could only hope it hadn’t gotten wet. He decided it didn’t matter; he was determined to use it somehow if need be.

  Closer still, he grew sure that what he saw was a light bobbing up and down on the larger of the two boats. That would be Sunrise. His heart beat faster.

  The mist began to lift. Now he could see that the boat’s forward sail was flapping idly in the wind. And he was able to make out that the figure he’d noticed was crouching on the wharf uncleating a rope. Edmund understood then: the ship was being readied to leave.

  He took a few more steps. The person heard, stood up abruptly, and gazed in Edmund’s direction.

  Edmund froze.

  For a few moments the man continued to stare. Then he resumed his work.

  Edmund crept on. Now he could see that the man was dressed in rough clothing and a heavy sea jacket — and that his hair was blond white. Mr. Peterson!

  His hand on the pistol, Edmund stopped no more than twenty feet from him.

  Peterson looked up. “Is that you, Rachett?” he demanded.

  Edmund lifted the pistol and pointed it directly at the man, hoping he would see it. “Mr. Peterson?” he called.

  “Who is that?”

  “I want my sister,” Edmund said.

  Peterson stood still.

  Edmund managed a few more steps, trying with difficulty to hold the pistol steady. The brightening sky now allowed him to see Peterson quite clearly. And the man saw him.

  “Ah, you,” he said.