Divine 05 - Nevermore

by Melanie Jackson

  Turning back to Emerson, I made an involuntary noise of surprise. All thought of ghosts were knocked from my mind. Squatting in the middle of the dirt floor was a giant wooden stork— a Fieseler Storch— just like my father had sometimes flown. Gooseflesh rose in my arms. I was getting to see a ghost after all.

  “Amazing, isn’t she?” She was. The preposterous looking high-winged plane had changed German history when it zoomed into the aeronautic scene after the first World War. It had an eight cylinder, invert-V, air-cooled engine, a fifteen thousand foot ceiling, a stall speed of thirty-two miles per hour, and two hundred-forty mile range. And one machine gun. The mechanical stork sat there with spread wings, placid and sturdy in its finger of moonlight. It looked like an awkward bird poised for flight and even seemed to smile at us.

  “Holy cow. These are really rare. I mean, really, really rare,” I said. The Storchs are extremely rare— mythical almost, at least in The States. I hadn’t seen one since we sold off Dad’s plane at the Watsonville Air Show back in ’02. The tracing the plane’s history had been Dad’s second love and obsession, and he had done his best to share it with me on those rainy afternoons when I wasn’t able to ride my bike and had gotten tired of reading. Truly, it seemed like a message from my father that there would be one sitting right there in the middle of the nowhere. But what kind of message? A warning? And could I talk about it without sounding crazy?

  I looked at Emerson. He was calming pulling chocks from under the tires. Clearly he felt competent to handle this. And just because my parents died in a plane crash, it didn’t mean that I would too. Did it?

  As planes went, this one was pretty safe. I knew the history by heart since Dad told of the plane’s adventures whenever he got bedtime detail and had to come up with a story. The Storch was the airplane that had been used to rescue Mussolini from the roof of an alpine castle. The female pilot who had conducted the daring mission had struck a parapet on take-off and lost a wheel, but she still managed to land the plane safely. It was also used in numerous other rescue missions because it was so stable and easy to fly. Dad had often joked that someday he would teach our dog, Gus, how to land one.

  But then, Dad had thought his own aircraft design was safe too. So what did he know?

  “We should hasten. Why don’t you get our bags?” Emerson suggested. Then, when I didn’t move, he looked over at me. “What’s wrong?”

  But then he had it. In an instant, he was at my side.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. I wasn’t thinking of anything except that this was the best way to travel and leave no tracks behind. Have you been in a plane since the accident?”

  His warmth was tempting but I didn’t lean into it. If I started being weak now I would never get on board. Not unless he smothered my will completely and I found that thought to be terrifying, more frightening than the smiling plane.

  “Yes. Once. A jet. To Baltimore.” And it hadn’t gone real well, had it? Of course, I was alive, and as the old saying went, any day above the ground was a good one. “I’ll get the bags,” I said and spun about quickly. Perhaps I just needed another moment to adjust to the idea that we were going up in a small plane.

  Emerson had the Storch outside by the time I had fetched our bags. And put on some lipstick, brushed my hair, and crunched up some antacids. Dawdling? Who me?

  “Climb in. You’ll really like it,” he said, optimist that he was, “I’ll move the jeep into the shed and close up.”

  “Okay.” Saying the word was hard, moving my feet was harder, but I did it because Emerson was helping me. I couldn’t help but add: “Dad flew a Storch.”

  Emerson said nothing, just looked more grim.

  The passenger seat took some effort to mount and I was being clumsy. Fear, though repressed, had done something to my muscles. The seat was worn and there didn’t seem to be any seatbelts either. But that didn’t mean the engine wasn’t in top form, I assured myself as I glanced once at the few dials in the dash. One was for airspeed and the other an altimeter. That much I remembered.

  Emerson pulled into the barn and I heard him close and lock the doors. In a moment he got in beside me. My body was too rigid to look around at him, so I stared ahead and relied on peripheral vision to keep informed of his actions.

  He leaned forward and pushed the magneto switch—I was so happy that I recalled this detail of the take-off procedure. Happy to be thinking of anything but dying. The plane burped in response. Then it coughed. Then it began a bronchial wheezing that I found rather alarming— but it finally started. The engine sounded rather asthmatic to me, but Emerson didn’t wait for it to stop spluttering before coaxing it into motion. A glance out the side window showed me that the sinister clouds were closing in. They were limed with green light and moving at hurricane speed. It was time to make like a birdie and fly south— or east or even north— before the storm.

  Emerson was keeping all emotion from me, but I knew he was aware of these clouds and unhappy about them.

  “How did he find us?” I asked, too shaky to put any force into the question. I could fight the battle of terror on two fronts.

  “I don’t know—not in a car and not on the wing.”

  “Then what’s left?” I asked blankly.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he is outsourcing some of his work to The Nightside. Something scared away the resident ghost.” This last was added under his breath.

  Emerson released the brake and advanced the throttle forward. The stork waddled away from the barn, pretending that we were all pals out for a friendly after-dinner stroll. Its internal combustion had settled down while mine was getting increasingly less smooth. I didn’t entirely trust it, but decided that it was now all in the Emerson’s pale hands. Either we would get airborne or we’d die splattered all over the mountain in front of us.

  I knew that the plane was supposed to take off into the wind, but it kept shifting in an unnatural manner. And anyway, there was only one clear path that led from the shed, so our options were non-existent. It was a case of using that bit of runway or not running away at all. The smugglers used it all the time. We would be fine.

  It was a very short runway though. I had to tell myself that in the hands of an experienced pilot, the plane could get airborne in just under one hundred and sixty feet. But our path looked rather shorter than that and at the end there was a very large mountain. The plane was capable of acrobatics, but could it pirouette in place and head the other way if we ran out of runway?

  The Storch waited politely for about three seconds more and then as the wind— or something— began screaming behind us, it quit lumbering and got down to business. It leaned into the moonlit sky and went leaping forward. It ran, blaring mechanically as it raced along the narrow runway under the wind’s buffets, weaving like chicken trying to avoid the fox. I attempted not show worry about our slewing around in a wild slalom while Emerson got the feel of the rudders and fought against the rising wind.

  Lightning snapped. Something slapped against the windshield leaving a red blot and a lot of black feathers—too small for the raven, thank God, but some kind of bird. I looked up from Emerson’s tight hands and saw beyond the unidentifiable guts that the end of the dirt road was coming up fast. A previously unnoticed cyclone fence was approaching at a sickening speed. If I’d had a horn, I’d have leaned on it with all my might. If I had had brakes, I would have stomped on them. Instead I contented myself with some cathartic screeching. My utter panic broke Emerson’s hold on me and I was alone with my terror.

  “Godogodogod!” Almost on top of the cyclone fence, Emerson hauled the stick back into his chest, clutching it like a thrashing snake. Wind hit us broadside and a sheet of lightning came flying at us. The plane gave a lurch and then, perhaps affronted at the assault, entered into the spirit of things. It leaped for the sky with a choking squeal and nearly pulled a loop-the-loop before Emerson got the growling engine and ailerons back under minimal control.

  I looked out the window as
we banked and caught a brief glimpse of several ape-like creatures running toward the shed and then Emerson banked hard the other way, heading in the opposite direction. As we bombard the tops of the snowy pine trees with our prop-wash, only inches above the top spikes, the unnatural storm threw a last bolt of lightning at us. We were lucky that we weren’t on the west side of the Sierras where the real forests are. If the trees had been any taller or denser, we would have plowed into them.

  “I believe that it is time to seek some assistance from those who cannot refuse to give it,” Emerson said.

  Assistance. I liked the sound of assistance.

  “We need someone who knows The Nightside better than I do. Someone who will not get trapped in visions.”

  “Okay. Where would we find such a person?”

  Emerson looked over at me and I knew I didn’t want to hear his answer.

  “Iceland,” he finally said. “If we can get there. The smoke from the volcano can play havoc with airplane engines and it is grumbling again.”

  “Iceland? Like the erupting volcanoes Iceland? Christ on a crutch,” I muttered and shut my eyes. “We can’t get there in this thing, can we?”

  “No. We will have to switch to a commercial carrier. That is unfortunate and the tide could go against us if Saint Germain has somehow gotten your name on a watch list,” Emerson said. “And I won’t lie to you that this will be easy even if we make it to Iceland. My friends are a bit odd and rather secretive. Antisocial, I believe they call it now. And perhaps not completely sane. But there is less chance of being molested by Saint Germain’s creatures there. And they will assist us if for no other reason than to see us gone as swiftly as possible.”

  The tide could definitely go against us, and of course Emerson’s friends were odd and antisocial and secretive—what would he do with gregarious, charming, sane friends? I waited for the inner voice to weigh in with an opinion of this plan but it remained mute. There was no more alarm though and I didn’t feel threatened by the idea. In substitution for experience I could offer intuition, something I trust more than logic and it hadn’t raised a red flag.

  “Trust me?” Emerson asked, dark eyes shining.

  “Certainly, but I retain the privilege of not liking it.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Chapter 11

  “The raven, too, intensely amusing as it is, might have been made, more than we now see it, a portion of the conception of the fantastic Barnaby. Its croakings might have been prophetically heard in the course of the drama.”

  Poe’s review in Graham’s Magazine of the Charles Dickens’ Barnaby Rudge.

  We frog-hopped across the country, landing in airfields and airstrips that were probably unknown to anyone except smugglers. We stopped only long enough to refuel the plane and our bodies and then we moved on. Emerson never said that he thought Saint Germain was on our heels, but then he didn’t have to. I wondered if I would ever again feel safe with my reality happily fixed and unchanging. It seemed unlikely now that I knew there were monsters who could follow us even through the sky and attack at any time.

  We finally set down in Bangor. At Emerson’s insistence, I put the covers for the March edition of Golden Words into storage—the box was heavy— and he purchased us tickets for New York and then Iceland. There hadn’t been time to arrange a new passport for me, but at least we had no problems with visas or my name turning up on some terrorist watch list. The only bad part was the indignity of milling about in crowds with bare feet and having a pat down. It was dumb to be resentful when everyone else’s dirty socks and bunions were hanging out too, but I did resent it—as much as Emerson would let me. My poet was turning out to be a bit of a tyrant. And I knew why we couldn’t do the body scan. We would probably have blown up the machine.

  Completely numb, I got on and off planes as required. Take offs were bad, but Emerson pushed into my head and soothed me. I didn’t fight him. And once we were allowed electronic devices, I opened the computer and worked on the layout for the March issue. When that eventually palled, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Perhaps I did sleep because the flight seemed shorter than expected. There was also surprisingly good weather all the way and wondered in Emerson had anything to do with that.

  A short trip to the bathroom decided me that it would be best to avoid food and mirrors until back on terra firma. I felt—and looked—like I had been embalmed, my brains pulled out from my reddened nose like an Egyptian mummy.

  There were an exclamation of voices in several languages as we deplaned at the Leifur Eiríksson Air Terminal (Flugstöð Leifs Eiríkssonar, the sign said) at Keflavik International Airport, the bulk of which had been built by Americans during WW II, explained Emerson in his best tour guide voice. I’m pretty sure the gasps and shrieks were all variation of Damn it’s cold! And What the hell was I thinking coming to Iceland in February? I shared this question.

  The women behind us were worried about muggers, white-slavers and terrorists. I was certain they’d give birth to kittens if I told them about the real danger was the zombies and ghouls that were chasing us.

  Inside the terminal, benches were encrusted with rumpled travelers who looked so gloomy that I had to assume that they had missed flights. More crowds were gathered around ticket counters, angry ants circling a picnic basket. Piles of luggage excrescences sprouted everywhere. It was no surprise to discover that the volcanoes were at it again.

  Customs was easy since we had little luggage and Emerson seemed able to speak the language fluently. I tried not to blink when I caught a glimpse of his passport which said he was Ingólfur Sigurðsson of Greenland. I was still plain old me, my passport naked because I hadn’t traveled overseas since my parents died. I was asked the purpose of my visit in stilted English and I said genealogy. This earned me a small but approving smile.

  My eyes were itching and I could smell smoke in the air. It was time for the contacts to come out, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom where I swapped lenses for sunglasses. When I emerged, a car was waiting for us along with a scarecrow driver. He was a somber creature with sunglasses, advanced humor impairment and woolen clothes that apparently made him itch in embarrassing places. Embarrassing for me. He didn’t care. And since he didn’t seem the type to stick his fingers down his throat after every meal, he either forgot to eat at least two meals a day or was not in any shape financially to be offering hospitality to strangers. I sincerely hoped we were not staying with him. I couldn’t see how this creature would be of help to us in any way, shape or form.

  Emerson introduced us in English as the steam vapor rose around us, our bodies being so much warmer than the brisk air around us. The man’s name was Björn Arnarson and he didn’t speak. So I contented myself with a quick smile and a nod. Emerson was tense, not afraid but unhappy about something.

  We climbed in the foreshortened and flatulent car with giant tires, stowing our bags on the floor and the seat between us because there was no trunk. The windows were dusty and I soon saw why. Need to get away from it all? Come to Iceland—it’s as away as it gets. At times I wondered if we were actually on roads at all.

  “So who are we going to see? Can you tell me now?” I asked Emerson, too tired to really care. Sustained terror is exhausting.

  “A friend called Jón Jónsson who has a boat. He will take us to my special friend, Magnus Håkonsen who lives on a sort of island. It is surrounded by water except at low tide when there is a causeway to the mainland.” Emerson spelled these names for me later, at the time they were barely recognizable. I was looking in the rearview mirror as our driver removed his unneeded sunglasses and was only half-surprised when I saw he had the now familiar black eyes. His face was cubical, hewn and hardened by hard living perhaps on the open sea. If Emerson and I were elfin pale, this creature was weathered gray. There was also some weird sort of scar tissue not quite hidden by the collar of his shirt. His forearm had a raven tattoo.

  “How nice,” I said finally,
pulling my gaze away. Nice covered everything from Girl Scout cookies to pleasantly landscaped rest-homes. It was a step up from ‘different’. I didn’t much care for boats, but they beat the hell out of airplanes.

  “Rest if you can,” Emerson advised.

  I closed my eyes again as we pulled on to an almost deserted highway and was glad when Emerson’s hand covered mine. The encouragement helped delay the hysteria I knew was again building. My pantomime of calm reasonableness was beginning to wear thin. My audience was probably already doubting my sincerity, but there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. I had foolishly hoped that with the death of my parents and husband that life was through damaging me, but of course there was more. There was always more. It’s the dues you pay for being alive.

  Emerson and our driver spoke softly. Though they did not use English, I found that I could more or less understand them anyway. That had to mean that I was more deeply connected to Emerson’s moods and thoughts than I realized and it was worrying, though not half so troublesome as the driver saying something about how there had been a murder last month that wakened the mound dwellers—the restless dead. And the volcano was again rumbling.

  I slitted an eye and looked at Emerson. He reluctantly explained.

  “They call them trolls now but I have long suspected that they might be zombies called up by magic. And not necessarily human magic.”

  “Great. I didn’t know there were other kinds.”

  “Oh yes. Though not so much any more.” My brain tried again to panic but it was no good. Emerson, the benevolent tyrant, had it locked up tight. I was sort of grateful but I was beginning to feel like a pressure cooker that would eventually blow. My emotions were not gone, they were just being tamped down.

  The driver said that he was going to take us to a place where a man had been killed. I could not fathom why until we arrived and discovered the body was still in situ. He had apparently failed to report the death to the authorities. This didn’t entirely surprise me.