Fully half-again as large as Jupiter, the creature had a small shaved head on massive shoulders that near split his snag-knit shirt. His arms were as large as my body. Surely only the element of surprise had enabled Jupiter to frustrate the thug’s attempt to bar the way. I fumbled in my pocket for the gun. I was flat on my back and worried that I would be crushed as the thick-necked brute was but a foot from my feet. I wondered if two bullets would even slow him.
I did not find the gun. In my panic, I was searching the wrong pocket. It did not matter, at any rate, for the giant did not reach his feet. Jupiter was on him before I could discover my mistake. I scrambled backwards out of the way.
Jupiter grabbed the man from behind and drove his fingers into the eye sockets. With a grunt he ripped the head towards him as one gory ball flew free and dangled on the doorkeeper’s cheek with a splash of blood and a scream. Jupiter continued his pull and toppled the man backwards until, with his victim’s legs caught under the torso, the joints snapped and tore loose. Jupiter was not finished. Holding the skull like a knob on the lever of the spine, he shifted his weight and drove it back and down into the pavement with full force. The cranium shattered like an overripe pumpkin. But Jupiter was not finished. He let go the head and with a leap, brought his knee up and with all of his weight behind it, landed it square on the bent nose of the ruined face. That sound was indescribable.
Poe was to his feet by then. “Come on, Griswold. Help us.”
We drug the bodies inside as quickly as we could. The large man took all three of us to deposit behind the door. Poe looked outside. “There’s not much we can do about the blood,” he said. “Pray the dark hides it.” With that, he slammed the iron door and threw the bolt.
We found ourselves in a narrow space made narrower by the dead bodies we had deposited within. A narrow and steep staircase made of honeycombed iron led up into the dark between two close brick walls.
From above, there was the sound of a piano and a violin. I recognized the melody. I had seen a performance of the piece but a month before in New York. It was from von Weber’s Oberon opera. Suddenly the voice of Puck began the aria.
“Over the dark blue waters” is a close translation. The little god was singing to spirits, and his contralto voice soon joined with three others to complete the quartet.
Poe smiled at me. He recognized the piece as well. “Wieland’s poetry is execrable,” he said, and he laughed. “Don’t you agree?”
I did not answer. I was looking up the iron steps into the dark and wondering what we would find. I pictured a woman at the top of the passage waiting to welcome us. In my imagination, the Odalisk opened her arms and opened her mouth.
She had the blackest of tongues.
Chapter 31
October 1, 1849 11:15 p.m. - The Rays of Numerous Candles -
In my own defense, it is incumbent upon me to say that I realize nothing in these journals reflects on me to my credit, nor will the public, should they read this tale, derive any useful edification. Events that I could not control then and have not attempted to explain to any, save these secret pages, ripped me from my chosen path and condemned me to a solitary examination I always hoped to avoid. Though some would consider this a hopeful fate, I say with full fervor that there was no purpose to my fall, only passion. And passion serves no purpose but its own.
The iron stairs were black, and the passage blacker. The music guided us as we ascended – Poe leading, Jupiter behind me. The strains of the violins grew louder, and the voices, blended in such harmony, seemed to surround us. There was the sweet scent of sandalwood and clove in the air.
Our pace up the steps was steady, and when Poe stopped, I stepped ahead onto his heel unknowingly.
“Ssshhh!” He turned, and his head was illuminated as he carefully and slowly slightly parted a black velvet curtain in front of him, letting a flickering light leak into the narrow stairway. He put his eye to the gap, and I stood in darkness again for some minutes as he did his reconnaissance. Finally, he closed the curtain tight again and turned to me, or so his voice made it seem, for I could not see a single thing in the pitch darkness. “There are many people.”
“What will we do?”
Jupiter’s voice came up from below me. “We go in. That’s what we are here for.”
There was a pause. Then Poe, evidently having thought through the situation, spoke again. “Jupiter, Marie and Virginia will be on the next floor up. Molly mentioned the upstairs as the place the special ones were kept.”
“Then we go there,” replied the African.
“These steps go no further,” Poe said.
“Will my Caroline be up there as well? I must go to her.” Again, my place in the company was in question.
“Yes.” Poe took a deep breath. “Of course.”
“We must go through the curtain in any case,” offered Jupiter from the shadows.
Again, there was a pause. I could hear my own pulse in my ears. Then, finally, Poe with all the brightness he could call on said, “Then, gentlemen, welcome to the Odalisk.”
He threw the curtain open wide, and I blinked in the sudden light of a hundred candles. Arrayed in banks around the long room, the candelabras blazed in a line that ran through the darkness to a group of people standing at the far end of the space with their backs to us. There on a small stage played the little orchestra. Three violins, a piano, and a cello made up the group. And four singers, dressed in gown and doublet from a different age, sang on as we watched.
A near naked woman, her features indistinct in the flicker, led a stumbling man through a red curtain and into a small alcove off the main room. A small velvet settee in a shadowed corner was occupied by a man with his head thrown back in ecstasy as a woman knelt between his legs and another, bare breasted, kissed his neck.
Our entry drew not the slightest attention. And as we entered, we soon reached a table set with wine and brandy, oysters and pate, cheeses and fruits, all arrayed around a centerpiece bronze statue of a dancing courtesan – the Odalisque.
Poe helped himself to a glass of brandy. I poured myself a wine that glowed red in the candlelight. Jupiter did not drink. He stared ahead of him, looking hard in the dim light for any dangers and for the steps that might lead to his Marie.
The decorations of the Odalisk were rich, yet tattered and antique. The brick walls were hung with old tapestries and bedecked with heirloom swords and reliquary displays. Here and there in small niches set in the walls were fine paintings of beautiful women.
Dressed in fine gowns and bare-shouldered, they stared out of the frames with a seductive power. One had almost violet eyes, or else it was a trick of the light. Another was almost beckoning with auburn hair and translucent skin. I passed down the length of the room, sipping on my wine, looking at each face. I was almost to the stage when I saw her.
There in an oval frame, she looked back at me. Her arms and her breasts, even the fragile strands of her hair, seemed to melt into the dark background as if she were some phantom attempting to emerge from the portrait. The effect was startling, but not so startling as the face itself. Molly looked out of that frame, and I found myself kneeling before her.
How long I lingered there I cannot say. I only know that I forgot any purpose and any fear. I knelt there and adored her. Time lost itself somewhere in the room, and the music itself seemed to fade. A sweet familiar smell and taste surrounded and filled me.
It was the lightest of touches. At first a dragonfly, then a bird, and finally a finger brushed my neck. Perfume richer than before enveloped me. A hand was on my shoulder and with just a hint, bade me rise. I stood slowly, my eyes remaining lost in the depths of Molly’s portrait. A hand took my hand and turned me. I was led from the picture, but I kept my gaze trained towards the oval-framed image long after it was no more than a shape. A curtain opened and closed, and I found myself in a small room full of Oriental cushions. I shut my eyes, trying to bring the face of my Molly back to life. I saw her so
clearly.
The hand pressed lightly on my shoulders, and I sat down on the soft pillows. The stem of a pipe was brought to my mouth, and I felt the sting of smoke in my nostrils. The sting turned to soothing warmth, and the stem was placed to my lips. I inhaled.
Within my eyes, behind the lids, were visions of my Molly – her skin and her walk – her eyes and her breath – and sweet tastes and sounds of passion breathing. I saw a future that could not be and a past that never was. I yearned for a now in the sweet smoke, and in that waking dream – there on the pillows beside me – was my Molly. Her eyes were on mine, and she was looking at me over her bare shoulder. Her arm stretched out and rested on her naked hip that turned away from me to offer its rich fertile landscape to my caress. Her skin was heated alabaster, and her legs long and slim stretched across the cushion. Her eyes were half-closed in invitation and challenge.
“Would you pay the price?” she asked.
“I would,” I said, and my words seemed to echo, even in that curtained room.
Could eager mouths and hands join any closer than we joined ourselves there? I had no reference for the sensations. I have so many images of her engraved in my soul’s thin book. She was above me. She opened my belt, and she touched me. I touched her. I saw her with my fingers. Her breasts were small and peaked with excitement. Her thighs were like soft coals around me. I was swallowed by her moist fire. She shuddered and arched her back. Her neck was long, and her chin sculpted out of eternal living stone. Her face, looked up and away from me at the ceiling and a fresco of cherubs, her belly taut and glistening with sweat – I exploded into her, and she moaned in a little death.
And when I opened my eyes at last, I saw her – Molly, with her black hair tousled around her head, covering her face. She straddled me in spent passion and fleeting ecstasy.
“Molly, is it you?”
“If you wish.”
“I wish.”
“Then I am Molly.” She collapsed, face down, next to me.
The music in the large room was slow now. The violins played some theme as I have heard the Romas play. The notes bent, and they cried. I raised myself up on my elbow and almost fell back with the sight of Molly’s naked body stretched out beneath my hand. I ran my fingers along the line of her spine and traced the unscarred place on her throat where once a mortal wound had torn her. My head cleared slowly as my blood resumed its normal course, and my breathing became easy again.
“You aren’t Molly.” I said it before I had even thought of the words.
“I am Molly.”
I let my hand run down the middle of her body from throat to smooth slim hip, and I found myself quivering. I reached out. I took her hand in mine. I squeezed her fingers. A ring – I felt a ring, and I remembered.
I held up her hand and looked at her finger – the same Chi-Rho – the same two stones.
I sat up. “You are not Molly.”
“I am Molly.”
“Fox didn’t kill you. You are Molly’s sister.”
“I am Molly.”
“I took her face in my hands and looked at her eyes. The pupils were completely dilated. She was drugged. Molly had sold her own sister into this place. Could that be?
“What is your name?”
She sat up and placed her hands over her breasts. She closed her eyes and bent her head down. And when she looked up, she opened her mouth, and thrust out her blackened horror of a tongue.
I screamed as I had never screamed before. I leapt to my feet. She crawled towards me, her spine rippling like a snake’s.
Outside the curtain there was another, deeper scream and a loud crash. I rushed out through the drape, attempting to buckle my belt and gather myself. I could barely stand. Dizziness almost overwhelmed me. There in the middle of the room was a crumpled body wearing a dark velvet vest, wet, and covered in blood. Ready Tom had fallen from somewhere above me.
I looked up and could see a balcony running around the edges of the big room. Poe was up there leaning back against the railing holding his head as if he were dazed, waving his Malacca cane in front of him like a drunken fencer. And Jupiter – Jupiter’s shadow was wrestling with another dark shape. I reached into my jacket pocket – somehow I still had the gun. I raised it, but there was no shot. Even a marksman would have been hard-pressed to find any opportunity in that dim light and from where I stood below the struggle.
All at once, Fox came into view. His tall, thin form was instantly recognizable. He was rushing towards the stunned Poe with a large antique sword held high to deliver a deathblow. Without thinking, I pulled the gun’s trigger, and with the explosion, my hand was thrown high almost over my head by the recoil. There was another flash as a section of the railing shattered and a shout as Fox spun around in surprise, dropping the sword.
Poe was leaning backwards on the spindle railing, trying to avoid the blow Fox had threatened to deliver. Even in his stunned state, he could see the blade. And as Fox regained the sword and straightened to renew his attack, I tightened my finger on the trigger again, knowing full well such luck was unlikely to repeat itself.
Fox raised the broadsword again, and in that instant the railing behind Poe cracked and failed. The black-clad Poe disappeared into the darkness and then reemerged into the candlelight of the lower room just before he landed on his back on the banquet table. Glass shattered, and shards flew. Wine splashed across the floor like blood.
The orchestra had stopped playing and was scrambling along with some of the other patrons, if that is what they were, racing in confusion for the heavy curtain that opened onto the dark iron stairs. Behind the small stage, a drape was askew, and I spied a stairway leading up. I started to run towards the stage just as a pair of olive-skinned hands reached for my throat. Her grip was strong, but I threw her off with a duck of my shoulders, and she slid naked across the wet floor and the broken glass.
I did not look back then. I took the steps two at a time. When I reached Jupiter, he was still wrestling with Big Billy Dick. Each of them had their hands on the other’s throat. Each had bulging eyes and flailing legs as they sought purchase in the struggle.
I brought up my gun. I had one bullet left, and I could not miss at this range, but as I leveled the barrel at Billy’s temple, his head jerked and knocked the gun from my hand. It skittered across the floor of the balcony and went over the edge where Poe had broken the railing.
Jupiter and Billy fell to the ground on some cushions, and the grunts and efforts of the combat were muffled. They rolled into a curtain that hid another alcove, and yards of velvet fell on them. All that I could see was a writhing, boiling mass of heavy fabric.
The fight seemed endless. A rolling and thudding thunder issued from under the drapery as it twisted and turned towards the back wall. Then there was a great stench and the sound of a man’s bowels opening. The struggle ceased in an instant.
A portion of the fabric covering the men lifted. I looked for another weapon. I prepared to flee. But where would I go? She was surely still loose below me. Jupiter crawled out from beneath the curtain, rubbing his neck and gasping for air.
I went to him. “Jupiter, thank God. Let me help you.” I put my arms under his shoulders and gave some small assistance as he struggled to his feet.
“Poe?” His voice was hoarse and ragged. “Where is Poe?”
“Downstairs,” I said, and he pushed me out of the way as he started running towards the steps. I followed, though I must admit my speed was not without some hesitation. I reached the main floor well after he had and saw at the far end of the space a horrifying sight.
Poe was on his back on the banquet table and the naked girl, Molly’s sister – if that is indeed who she had been – was standing astride him, her legs spread, holding a sword that she must have taken off of the wall. She had it raised in her hands. Flaps of flesh had been torn off her body when she had fallen and tumbled through all of the shattered glass and crystal shards on the floor. Blood dripped, no, it flowed a
cross her body and flowed off her arms in streams onto the now crimson-stained tablecloth at her feet.
Her sword started its arc towards Poe’s neck, and in that very instant, Jupiter smashed into the table and threw the girl, Poe, the Odalisque bronze, and all the ruins of the food and drink onto the floor and into the wall.
I raced over to where Jupiter now had the naked, bleeding girl in his grasp. Quickly, he tore a braided curtain pull off of its rod and tied her hand and foot. I went to Poe and found him alive, but disoriented.
Jupiter dragged the girl away across the sharp glass without any care as she struggled and fought vainly to escape him. A trail of blood was left in the wake of their passage. He pulled her all the way to the small stage and, as if she were some piece of meat, picked her up and tossed her onto the platform like a butcher working at a cutting board. She screamed.
I helped Poe to his feet. He looked at me blankly. I could see that another of his spells was near. We staggered over to the velvet settee, and Poe collapsed onto the cushion. He was gasping for air. I thought sure he had been wounded, but could find no obvious injury or any blood upon him.
Another scream ripped across the dim space and the candlelight itself wavered as the sound ran through the room. I looked towards Jupiter. He had flipped the girl over onto her belly and was doing something to her hands.
Beside me, Poe began to giggle hysterically. The sound was deafening. In the distance, Jupiter shouted something that I could not make out.
The girl continued her futile thrashing. Poe’s giggling became mad laughter, and Jupiter shouted yet again. There was a sudden silence. Poe sat up straight as if he were some marionette tugged by unseen hands. His head snapped to the right and, with wide, unblinking eyes, he looked straight at the stage where some bizarre ceremony had reached its climax.
Imp: Being the Lost Notebooks of Rufus Wilmot Griswold in the Matter of the Death of Edgar Allan Poe Page 23
