Emerson worked to fill his time. Obsessively.
“Workaholics, the both of us,” I muttered.
“But you understand,” he said. “Of course I generally prefer to be alone and to do my work in solitude. But I am indirectly responsible for your situation and I honor my obligations, however challenging.”
Obligation. I didn’t like that word. My family believed in love, not obligation. I hoped he wouldn’t bring that up too often.
“Yes, I understand—the impulse to keep busy at any rate. I am just not sure that it is a practical long-term solution. For me. I mean, so far so good, but I’m going to want to see family and friends again. Work isn’t enough of a distraction. It was Harrison’s dream, not mine.” He didn’t say anything and the next sentence was wrung out of me. “But I guess we may be entering into some new life phase. At least I am. There are bound to be new considerations.”
“Yes.” So calm. Not unsympathetic, but not indulgent either.
“I hate this. You’ve done well as a loner. I am not so certain that I am suited to this way of life. Company has served as a buffer—kept me from thinking too much. My brain is no place for a depressed person to be left on their own.” This confession sounded pathetic and probably was.
“I understand. I was not always a loner, you know. In fact, I was terrified of being alone and unloved, and I spent my whole first life questing for love. But that buffer, which has saved you before, may now be in danger. You cannot want to repay their kindness by endangering them. If needs must, you are strong enough to face your grief in solitude.”
He was right. I would do whatever I had to in order keep my sister and her family safe. He was right, but I hated it. And maybe, just a little, just for a moment, I hated him too for making me face this.
“What you’re really saying is that I may have reached the end of my normal life and I am going to have to change everything.” I poured wine so I would have an excuse to look down for a moment.
His own eyes were sad as he accept the glass.
“Yes. There will be more time to prepare for a new life if Saint Germain hasn’t found you. But if you are attacked again….” He sighed. “The first change is the hardest. It is a kind of death, leaving behind family and friends. Probably you will eventually have thoughts about making them as you are. But you can’t.”
I had thought about changing Clarice. For about ten seconds. But she would never agree— not without being able to change her kids and husband. And maybe not even then, given her bone-deep rejection of all things supernatural. Nor had I forgotten what Emerson said about the Dark Man’s warning at his own death and resurrection, that most people didn’t survive the conversion. Clarice might make it because she was like me, at least a little, but her children had so far demonstrated no psychic talent and her husband was hopelessly mundane. Any attempt to change them could leave them dead and Clarice would never forgive me. I would never forgive me.
And if she did survive being electrocuted, would that mean that Saint Germain would be after her too? He probably wasn’t aware of her now because we had different names, and even if he did discover I had a sister, she had always buried her talent. As far as the rest of the world knew, she was normal. If I stayed away from her, he would have no reason to look for her or her children.
“Okay. I guess I can accept that. But I can’t afford to miss putting out an issue of Golden Words. Not if I’m going to have any money to live on,” I said and got a reluctant nod. This was about more than money. It was keeping Harrison’s dream alive. “February is nearly ready to go. I need only a few days to prepare it. Maybe it’ll be a little lighter than usual, but at least it will get out on time and I won’t get a rash of cancellations.”
Emerson nodded again. I realized he understood how the business worked and how narrow the margin of profit was for a magazine like Golden Words. He had been the first writer in America to make his living solely through writing and had struggled to keep several periodicals afloat. I knew from research of my own that the ‘new technology’ of the modern printing press in his era was supposed to aid writers but aided printers instead; and so he had finally determined that he needed to start his own magazine that would treat writers fairly.
And then he ‘died’, his dream unrealized. At least Harrison had gotten to see his magazine in print.
There is a certain irony to think that Poe had also hampered in his writing career by the lack of international copyright laws— something he and Charles Dickens worked on together, Dickens being published without pay here in The States and Poe pirated abroad. Though the new laws recently enacted would have pleased both men, they have actually done little to stop piracy in this day and age; computers have made the theft of creative material all too easy, which is why I hadn’t put the magazine online, in spite of Harrison’s wishes. It is incongruous that Poe was more popular in Europe than America but earned almost nothing from it. Things might be better now, though I was willing to bet Emerson James got pirated a lot. Literary kleptomania was nothing new.
“You have chosen a difficult and thankless profession,” he said sympathetically. “It is rarely profitable and at the mercy of changing social tides. This current ‘economic downturn’ is all too familiar to me.”
I nodded. Poe had also been caught in the Panic of 1837 which caused bank failures and massive unemployment and many periodicals went under. And here we were, facing these same troubles again. Golden Words teetered on the brink of bankruptcy. The only reason the magazine remained afloat and able to pay contributors even minimally was because I had no mortgage and a small property tax bill.
I also had a thirty year old roof. It was sad to think that new shingles could mean then end of Harrison’s dream.
But that was life. The more things change, the more they stay the same. My anger melted. None of this was Emerson’s fault. He hadn’t told me to come and spy on his mystery mourner in an effort to boost magazine sales. And heaven knew that he had paid his dues both emotional and professional.
“What is the theme of this issue?” Emerson asked, tentatively tasting a bit of the enchilada and then digging in with real enthusiasm.
“Cowboy poets. The featured poet is Robert Service, though some would argue that he wasn’t actually a cowboy. The thing is that no one is actively writing Yukon and gold rush poetry these days. And I needed an historic figure who was both interesting and whose writing is in the public domain. I sat on the fence about this for the better part of the autumn but couldn’t delay any longer. My butt was getting sore from the narrow rails. I’m combined the categories and moving on.”
This earned a fleeting smile.
“Would you like some assistance? I can’t touch the computer but I can edit hardcopy, write essays or do art work.”
Like I would turn down the chance to have Emerson James—Edgar Allen Poe—art or essays in my humble magazine. It might even boost circulation. My smile must have startled him because he blinked twice before smiling back.
“I haven’t had any help for a long time,” I said inadequately, but he understood. If anyone this planet could understand, it was this reclusive genius in my kitchen. “My sister offered to lend a hand after Harrison died, but…”
“Just because someone is willing it doesn’t mean they are able.”
“Exactly. Do you think you could draw something for The Cremation of Sam McGee? The more lurid, the better.”
“Of course. It is common knowledge that I was friends with Charles Dickens, but I actually met Robert Service once, in a saloon in Juno. Many people don’t know this but he was a pianist and when intoxicated enough, he would give renditions of The Shooting of Dan McGraw with musical accompaniment.”
“Wow— if you could write about that. I mean, just mention that he met Edgar Allen Poe— at least, were you Poe then?”
Emerson shook his head.
“No, I was going by the name of Henri Le Rennet at the time, but I could relate the incident anyway.”<
br />
Henri Le Rennet was a Poe psuedonym. I wondered if anyone had caught on to this.
“Okay,” I said with real enthusiasm and attacked my food. “That would be so great. The bio is a bit thin on personal details. I haven’t had time for proper research that humanizes the subject and right now he is sounding colder than an encyclopedia entry. You know, there is a real trick to doing an accurate summation of a life that is neither blindly flattering nor too filled with censure for being a product of an era before political correctness.”
“My pleasure. You’ve got to set it up so even the tone-deaf can dance to the historic beat. That is a challenge. What poems are you featuring?”
“Sam McGee and also—” I stopped. “The March Of The Dead.”
“A fitting if ironic choice. Under the unpleasant circumstances.”
“Isn’t it just? I must be psychic or something.”
This got me a quick glance, but he said nothing. I was a little relieved. Eventually I would tell him all about the inner voices, but I wasn’t ready yet. Through the years I had faced too many shocked expressions when people found out that I really, truly could look into their lives and know what they had been doing. I wasn’t prepared to see this look on Emerson’s face. Not yet. I hadn’t made a new friend for a very long time and I was hoping against all hope that someday I would quit being an obligation and maybe become something more. If I was forced into a new life, I would need them.
Chapter 8
“While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh - but smile no more.”
—The Haunted Palace by Edgar Allen Poe
That night I dreamed and through the dreams, memory finally opened the door of the locked room where my recollections of Baltimore had been hiding.
He put me in the filthy chair and strapped down my arms and legs. My shirt was unbuttoned hastily but not violently. The taint of the chair’s previous occupant was strong in the air though we were outside and I could hear my blood pattering on the ground. The faceless man curtained with dark hair unbuttoned his shirt and pulled a chain over his head, He hung some kind of medallion around my neck and placed it over my heart. It had prongs in it and I felt them sink into my flesh as he pushed it home. Blood ran down onto my belly.
His lips were moving and I thought I heard him counting; one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand. It occurred to me that he was counting the time between lighting flashes to the east and the roll of thunder. I began to count too and realized that the storm was getting closer.
My eyes were closing, too heavy to remain open, but I saw him loading something into a syringe with a very long needle. I wanted to be frightened but was losing consciousness as cold crept through my body. It was the cold of death. I had never felt it before, but knew its touch all the same.
He turned his face to the west and waited.
“I cannot believe that this has happened,” he said, addressing the air. “How cruel are you? You bring another woman to her death before me? And you wonder why I have mistrusted you all these years— refused to worship at your bloody temples to raise my voice in prayer? Where is the endless mercy they all say you have? You may have none for me— but this woman has done nothing to deserve this and this time I shall not simply let this happen.”
There was no answer from heaven, no vision of angels. Just the growing sound of thunder.
“One-one-thou—”
Then thunder on the inside. And it seemed that all the light in the world— even the cold moonlight hiding somewhere in the trees— roared aloud and then stabbed through my tender flesh. It entered every strand of my body, spreading pitiless fire. It was the fire of creation at the beginning of the universe. But it didn’t blaze, rather it melted. It filled the head with unforgiving white noise as the atmosphere itself screamed, a noise not heard with the ears, but rather a vibration that altered flesh and blood, dislodged the molecules of the body and drove them into violent reorganization. Then, the flock of black birds swooped in with vicious talons and attacked my brain, confusing me and making it so I could no longer tell what was happening to my body, though I knew that death was closing in quickly because my heart had stopped.
And suddenly I was in the air, floating , caught in the talons of a giant black bird and looking down at my body, imprisoned in that awful chair. I was bowed upward, straining against the straps as eerie white light danced over me. My mouth and eyes were open, the picture of agony and I pitied my poor body. I saw the black haired man approach with the syringe. He waited for the light to die and then he pulled aside the medallion and plunged the needle into my heart at the center of the burn-mark seared into my chest.
Pain! Terrible pain as I fell back into my still-burning flesh! I thought of death which now seemed easy and desirable, but my will to live was strong and my heart began to beat again almost immediately. The windmill of logical thought started back up in my brain as my spirit refilled the empty void, its sharp blades rotating through my head, slicing up my first terrified thoughts. Wounded memory retreated and then hid itself in dark waters at the heart of my brain. The waters of thought are a fine place to relax, unless the sharks of panic are circling, waiting to tear your mind apart. Memory made itself small and hid.
“It’s all over,” said the familiar voice and something stroked my hair. “You’re back now. Death can’t take you. Not today. Try to sleep and do not dream. When you awaken you will be healed.”
Gasping as my lungs slowly recalled how to function, my vision gradually faded and I obeyed the voice. I needed to sleep. To forget.
I opened my eyes to a dark bedroom and found Emerson sitting on the side of my bed. I was less disconcerted than relieved to see his moonlit profile and feel the heat radiating from his body. Usually I wake with a blank mind and add awareness only slowly, perhaps not thinking of things—like Harrison being dead—until I have had coffee and brushed my teeth. But not that morning. I had just relived my death and terror had me wide awake.
“You felt me dreaming, didn’t you?” I said. My voice was rough.
“Yes. I felt you call me when you rode the raven.” He turned and looked down at me. “You had a gift even before you changed, didn’t you?”
“Well, sort of. Not calling people in dreams exactly. And definitely not riding ravens. But I sometimes know things.” The Sight it was called. I also referred to it as intuition. How benevolent it sounded. And often it was. But not always. I don’t lie to myself more than necessary. I may lie to others in a pinch, but mostly I don’t deceive myself. It is rather difficult when you know. Unless you are delusional you have to add up the facts, subtract the emotions and wishful thinking and look at the ungainly truth. Sometimes I saw things that others couldn’t, things that I would be better off not knowing. Sometimes I saw things that weren’t in human minds. For instance, anything Gus saw, I could see too. If I looked.
Emerson nodded, not surprised or disbelieving.
“I didn’t know this when I changed you.”
“Would it have mattered?” I asked, really wondering.
“No, but I would have shielded you more. This talent of yours will be stronger now. And sadly, this will make you especially attractive to Saint Germain if he discovers this about you. We must make every effort to keep it hidden.”
“Agreed.” I thought about this for a moment, snuggling deeper into my feather tick. His eyes gleamed brightly in the dark as they reflected the moonlight and I wondered if mine did too.
“I am not suggesting that you attempt to ignore your gift. We exist only as possibility until we fully embrace what we are. Only after we have made an honest inventory of ourselves can we truly know all that we can be—both good and bad. We simply need to be discreet.”
Uh-huh. He was probably right but I wasn’t up to any kind of inventory-taking at that moment. My spine and will were buttressed only with pillows and still hidden under the duvet.<
br />
I ventured a personal question.
“You said you heard me when I rode the raven. Is that what you do? I mean go flying with the raven— in your mind?”
“It is one of the things I can do. I have an affinity for all winged creatures, but the raven is my special…”
“Totem,” I suggested when he paused.
“It sounds better than familiar or pet demon,” he agreed. “I can see through their eyes, know their thoughts. My poor mad mother could do it too. Had to do it actually. She had no control over her fits and it affected her career. She was an actress. Mid-performance her mind would leave her body. Madness would have claimed her if consumption hadn’t. I wept for her, believing her soul was in peril and that I could change nothing, stop nothing. And what was the point of this ability? What did the strange knowledge we gained avail us? It didn’t alter fate, or soften evil men’s hearts. It couldn’t raise the dead or cure the sick… It brought only unhappiness and madness.” He closed his eyes against the memories which obviously still battered his heart a century and a half later. “Once it was useful, to have someone who could fly high above armies and see where the dangers of the battlefield might lie. But now? We should have died out long ago. We would have, too, had it not been for the Dark Man.”
“That’s… hard.” I knew what it was like when the knowing came without warning. At least my family had understood and protected me when I was a child and couldn’t control myself. My parents hadn’t died until I was grown. How had he survived to adulthood?
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