Divine 05 - Nevermore

by Melanie Jackson

  Emerson nodded once.

  “As a child, this sudden mental dislocation was disconcerting. I had to learn to hide it from my foster family. And it only got worse when I entered adolescence. If I was not on guard at every moment I would just slip away. My foster father had hoped that the military would cure me of such fanciful beliefs since his beating could not.” Emerson laughed, but there was no humor in it. I knew that his foster father had been an abusive drunk who browbeat his wife and did his best to drive a wedge between her and their foster son. After his foster mother died, Allen had disinherited Poe and left his money to his other bastard children. “It didn’t cure me, of course, but in time I was able to master the talent and now I can see it as a weird blessing as well as a curse. It even saved me in the days following the change. My mind did not heal as rapidly as my body. Horror at my changed state threatened to overcome me. For several days after my rebirth, I wandered in a nearby wood, lost in the mind of a raven who stayed near me day and night. This simple existence of hunting for food helped me remain sane, as odd as it sounds. When I finally came back to myself I was able to face what had happened with some objectivity and much less panic.”

  “It was harder for you then? Than it was for me?” Echoes of his nightmarish experience echoed around me in a sort of déjà vu. I had a feeling that I could share his painful memory more directly if I wanted to. I said a firm no thanks to that and then felt gratitude that at least I hadn’t had to hide my gift from my own family.

  He spread his hands, the equivalent of a shoulder shrug. I couldn’t help but notice that he had beautiful hands—delicate but strong. Hands that I suddenly thought I might want on my body. My breath caught on this thought. Where had this idea come from? It was a vagrant thought and I was not sure I wanted it camping in my brain without a permit.

  “How can I say? There is no way to measure emotional pain. I will tell you that it takes a determined person to cheat death. I have never made another of my kind, but the Dark Man told me that most of his early efforts failed. Only those with great will or who were already different in their minds could survive transformation. I know that you had to fight hard to come back and without the raven, you might not have survived. It is why I sent him after you. I feared that perhaps Saint Germain might try and take you when you were vulnerable. I have seen his spirit messengers, these restless dead he collects. They fly in groups like flocks of birds, coming from the west, and enter the home of a dying person in an effort to carry the soul away with them before it can flee to heaven.”

  I shivered. The birds that had attacked me had felt evil. They had not been angelic doves of peace. So, there really was something worse than death.

  “I’m glad you did. But how did you know I was dreaming tonight? Can you hear my thoughts when I sleep?”

  “Not as such, but I can feel your moods if I open myself to them. And you may experience some of my emotions as well if I am careless or distracted.” Part of me thought this might be neat. The rest of me knew this was not a good thing. I did not want to be psychically chained to another person.

  “Saint Germain…. Can he feel us too?” This was truly alarming.

  “Not in the same way, but he can sense when we are near and send malicious thoughts our way. Be wary of any unusual, destructive thoughts. It may mean that Saint Germain is nearby. The creature is a liar and a deceiver who will try and trick you; but if you look closely, you can always know when the wicked impulse is not your own.”

  “Why is he like this? Why—” I didn’t even know how to frame my question. “The Dark Man did something to his son to make him this way? Was it like what he did to you? Or did something go wrong when he changed? Is that what made him so…?”

  “No. The son is wholly evil, not merely insane from too many electrocutions damaging his brain. He was born evil and his father encouraged it.” Electrocutions. He had finally said the word. “It excuses nothing, but the Dark Man came from an era when science was making great leaps toward finally understanding medicine and misunderstanding the minds of those with gifts. Mind you, it was far better for those driven to madness to be treated by the Dark Man than to be burned at the stake as witches or demons, but I had no desire to be in his hospital and having his science wrought upon me. I was treated against my will. I had sought only relief from my pain and had no true understanding of what this treatment would mean.”

  “I should think not. No one would give informed consent. It all sounds like wildest fiction.”

  “Frankly I’ve no ambitions to ever be in any hospital again. Even if we escaped Saint Germain’s notice when we entered the system, I do not feel confident that the doctors would stop the examinations with their magnetic autopsy. We are too fascinating and scientists have not changed that much. It would not end until we were in the hands of the vivisectionist.”

  I thought for a moment. Magnetic autopsy— he meant MRI.

  “As to why the creature is so evil, I do not know who or what made Saint Germain as he is—mere human evil or perhaps the Devil himself—but I know that it was not brought about by the mere transmutation of the body we have undergone. It is said that he was a powerful wizard and clairvoyant before he ‘died’ and the process amplified his powers and they have continued to grow as he has ingested other kinds of power and magic.” Emerson paused and a frown marred his brow. “He ignored me for decades and I him. I kept myself from others of our kind since there are dangers in being together—too many of us gathered at once could possibly cause terrible storms or perhaps even earth temblors. But losing sight of him after the Dark Man’s death was perhaps unwise, for I fear that he may be stronger now than I ever guessed. And perhaps less sane. I shall have to think on this. The list of options is not long or attractive.”

  Sight, the poor man’s clairvoyance. Call it what you like, I was sort of glad to know that my family was not alone in this ability. Every so-called psychic I had ever met had been a charlatan or delusional. This confirmation of Emerson’s and Saint Germain’s talents meant that though rare, my talent was not unique. It was unfortunate that the trait was shared with a psychopath that I would never voluntarily communicate with, but at least there was Emerson.

  “My mom knew things, too, though she didn’t like to admit it,” I confessed, wiping my cheeks. I was surprised to find them wet. “My sister can see stuff sometimes, but she ignores it too. Or just thinks she’s lucky about picking lottery tickets or guessing that the school bus broke down and going to get the kids at school before someone calls her.”

  School. How I had hated it. Some things are okay to excell at in school. Like baseball and spelling. Intuition about your second grade teacher, Mrs. Linden, having an affair with Mr. Pascal, the band teacher, is not. Clarice figured this out before I did and kept her mouth shut. I was slower to learn.

  Emerson nodded, waiting with that infinite patience for me to finish my thought.

  “I was always more willing to… accept the difference. My grandma would help me practice clearing my mind after I had a vision so I could seem more normal. And she got me a dog so I would never be alone when the seizures happened.” This helped me be around Harrison and his family without scaring them. I swallowed, remembering. Clarice had weightless charm—that’s what Harrison said. Whereas I had an appealing gravitas. She was delightful and I was insightful. I would have disputed the description back then but now I have gravitas in spades. Grief had altered me.

  And Emerson’s change had altered me again, brought me back closer to what I had been as a child.

  “Has practice helped you moderate or enhance your knowing?” he asked curiously. He swept his long black hair to the side, showing more of his face. It was careworn but beautiful. And I found that it was easy to talk in the dark, that it was a relief to finally speak honestly about what I was.

  “No, the knowing just comes when it wants to, as long and as strong as it wants to. And given how often my mother saw the deaths of others, I’ve just never understoo
d why she didn’t see the plane crash coming. If she had known, surely she would have stopped Dad from going up— somehow. Or at least not have gone with him.”

  I couldn’t recall if I had told Emerson about my parents dying in a plane crash, but knew that I didn’t need to go into details. We were so synched in thought that night because of the dream that I knew that at the very least he understood the hellbroth of emotion I felt whenever I contemplated their pointless deaths that had left Clarice and I alone.

  “Maybe she did know.”

  “What?” His words shook me. I wanted to deny this, but the unwelcome thought had always been with me even if I never said the words aloud. Emerson took my hand and some of my pain subsided in the warmth of his concern.

  “Maybe she chose to go with him anyway. It is often the case for the fragile ones with the gift of Sight that they cannot endure the knowledge that a loved one will die. They choose death over grief. Or madness. I have seen this many times. Many, many times.”

  “I…. Maybe. She made Clarice and I stay home that day. We were supposed to be on that flight too.” I thought for a moment. “But why didn’t I see it coming too? And why didn’t I know that Harrison would die? Why can’t I see the things that matter instead of who is about to phone me, or what sex an unborn baby is, or who is cheating on their wife? Why don’t I see things in time to help?”

  Emerson glanced at the picture by my bed. I also looked at the small silver frame on my bedside table and felt a pang. My memories of Harrison had been gathering dust, just like those old family paintings in the back hall where I rarely cleaned. Some recollections were still clear—like the day he brought home our first computer, a monstrous heavy thing that had every littler internal memory and used floppy disks. I could still see his excitement at taking this first step toward making Golden Words a reality. But most of my memories were slightly blurred, the emotion extracted by time and therefore the specifics of the occasion were drained of meaning and more easily forgotten.

  Not everyone (like Clarice) had understood my marriage. People seem to think that it is easier to love against the tide of reason than to find romance in the eminently practical. These are people who didn’t have their world end in a plane crash when they were twenty. Passion was less important to me than predictability. Harrison was older, safe in his sensible nature and I loved him and his dream of being a publisher.

  Clarice would probably say this blurriness of memory was ‘healing’. At best, it felt like necessary self-defense against pain. The loss of love might not leave wounds on the body, but it sure left them on the psyche. There is only so much grief one can endure before either dying or slapping on a bandage and staggering onward. I was a coward. I wanted to forget.

  “Sometimes The Sight allows us to see the future for others, but not things that affect us directly,” Emerson’s voice was soft, a caress and I lost track of what he was saying. His gaze was also nearly a physical touch.

  I frowned. It was hard to identify where the growing attraction came from. Yes, he was kind and beautiful, but I couldn’t break this sudden desire down into anything understandable. It was not his chin—that was just a chin. His nose was just a nose. His mouth… Well, the mouth was unusual. Thin lips but slightly curled at the corners, as if he were preparing to share some amusing insight.

  Yes, the mouth. And those eyes. I sat up straighter, leaning his way. I’d never seen anything like them, and now they were mine too. They were so dark that they seemed to have no pupils. On him, the look was fascinating, on me it was weird and foreign.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard a voice, but whether his or mine I could not say. It took a moment to place the verse. It was called To All Blasphemers:

  Sweet as secret thievery,

  I kiss her all I can,

  While Somebody Above remarks

  “That’s not a nice young man!”

  “I could warm myself in the heat of your gaze,” I heard myself say in a tone that was not my own. “Would that be so wrong?”

  He blinked and then caught his breath.

  “Anna, I apologize,” Emerson said, taking back his hand, though I couldn’t think what he was sorry for. “I didn’t realize that I was affecting you so strongly….”

  Under this unwavering gaze, I felt my mind emptying of fear and sorrow and even the nascent lust died too. Calm returned. Though I couldn’t guess how, I was fairly certain that Emerson had just administered some kind of mental chill pill. That probably should have worried me, but didn’t. I was mostly glad for the deadening of my senses. I had belatedly recalled the rest of the verse and it wasn’t flattering.

  Lillith, She’s my sweetheart

  Till my heartstrings break,

  Most of her is honey pale

  And all of her is snake.

  I looked down at the covers.

  “Do not chide yourself for failing to foresee the loss of your parents or husband. Your mind may have been shielding you from what you couldn’t endure in that moment. The fortuitous news is that while you will see more now, you will also have better control over the visions with time and practice. You will hopefully be less overwhelmed when they come. Less incapacitated.” He did not however seem completely certain of this and his voice lacked total conviction.

  “You have The Sight too?” I guessed.

  “In a sense. It is more that I see… into other places through other’s eyes, some living and some dead, and sometimes am giving warnings. These are places both long gone and not yet here. Places not of this earth, I suspect. Nothing very helpful to me as a rule and almost always horrifying. I do not gaze into the void any more often than I must. That way lies madness.”

  And I had thought my moments of earthly intuition were hard to live with and keep hidden from other people. This sounded like looking through the gates of Hell. What would I do if everywhere I went there were gibbering ghosts and portals into other worlds?

  “You are in the mind of a bird when you see?” I persisted, wanting to understand—especially if I was also now connected to his raven. If the raven meant looking into other worlds I would be avoiding it all costs. “Is it that way with all your kin?”

  “No. They live with only one kind of sight. I am aware of other flying things—none of which are even remotely like humans in their thoughts. Bats are especially bad. Certain bird like ravens and owls can see through the veil to the Nightside. And there are ghost of winged creatures that live no more upon this earth. And once in their minds it is a labyrinth of alien thought and difficult to escape.”

  I didn’t know exactly what the Nightside was, but the word was horribly suggestive. And what was he talking about with the ghost stuff—pterodactyl spirits? Still, though I would have preferred that this cup pass me by, if I was going to be force-fed information about scary things, I was glad to have Emerson by my side to hold my shaking hand. He diluted the fear with cool calm and that was way better than swallowing my terror neat.

  “Did it get better after you changed? Do you see less now?”

  “No. But I can better guide my sight and can escape the nightmares more readily when I blunder into them. I can mostly choose when to look and when to know.”

  “I guess I can see why you wrote The Raven,” I muttered, shivering.

  He chuckled. This sound contained humor and I think we were both a little surprised. I again felt his warmth curl around me.

  “That was actually a bet with a friend and because of a scolding I gave Dickens over the raven in Barnaby Rudge. But my early experiences with the Nightside were a help with the mood of the poem.” He stood. “Will you be able to sleep now?”

  “I think so.” I glance at the window and realized it was snowing. This came as no surprise. Emerson had said that it would snow.

  *

  We worked like slaves under the lash all the next day and got the February issue of Golden Words done and emailed the cover art to the printer’s. Emerson’s illustrations were wonderful and as lu
rid as I hoped. The office, my domain now, was less tidy than the rest of the house where Harrison’s ancestors demanded sterile cleanliness and order. Space was cramped but I found it very comfortable to be in close proximity to Emerson. Nor did he seem to mind the occasional physical contact, and once in a while I would look up and find him studying me. I wanted to think that it was because he was attracted too and thought that I really was beautiful in a pale and Victorian kind of way, but probably it was the novelty of being near anyone at all.

  But what was I thinking would happen even if he was attracted to me? That we were both writers and editors and—what? Monster soul-mates? Was I imaging that some happy-ever-after was waiting nearby because of what had happened in Baltimore? There was no denying that things had changed since Emerson happened to me. Or since I happened to Emerson. But perhaps he was less pleased about this event than I was. Perhaps he was used to being alone and preferred it. Maybe I was just an annoyance.

  “If my imagination was any more fertile I’d be growing moss on my brain,” I muttered. This got an enquiring smile from Emerson but I just shook my head. I was willing to discuss The Sight, monsters, and even bad poetry, but the subject of my growing attraction for Emerson James was not going on the table. At least not until he gave some clear sign of feeling the same way.

  It wasn’t until late afternoon when I paused to consider what I could make for dinner out of capers, suspiciously old tuna and about a half cup of ancient rice that I became aware of a strange feeling, a sort of pressure in the air that sometimes happen when a storm moves in quickly. Or, once in a while, when I am about to get a vision.

  “What are you thinking about so hard?” Emerson asked.

  I considered mentioning the fleeting pressure, but it was already gone.

  “I’m thinking we better go out to eat and then hit the grocery store before we starve. Our dining selections are a bit limited. Do you like pizza?” I turned to him, shaking off the foreboding trying to creep up my spine. I was stronger now and surely I could refuse the vision if I tried.