“What? Where?”
“My family has some roots here, Griswold. I am familiar with the Old Western Burying Grounds. I know the old man who is keeper of the place.”
“Burying Grounds?” I had images of the savaged grave at Yellott’s Retreat. That place had been called a burying ground.
“Rest your mind, Griswold. The Old Western is for the finest families and a few others, but mostly the best of society. Colonel James McHenry, A Poe or two, David Stodder, Secretary Robert Smith, Thomas Jefferson’s friend, are all resting gently there. There’s even talk of someday building a fine stalwart Presbyterian church there. Right on Fayette Street – a wonderful place to spend eternity.”
“How have you managed this? And what money could you possibly…”
Jupiter laughed. “Mr. Poe’s fifteen-hundred dollars.”
“That was stolen,” I said.
“And I took it back from Molly’s body.”
“She stole the money?”
“And no bad reflection on her. It was to be expected that she would.” Poe refilled his cup and mine. He offered me a leaf to chew. I refused for the moment.
“Old Mr. Spence was not a bad sort. I trust him,” said Jupiter.
“As well you should, Jupiter.” Poe turned to look out the window. The rain had stopped. “A Presbyterian is the most honest of men. Unlike the Baptist for instance…”
“Poe,” I interrupted.
“Present company excluded. Spence’s son is sexton of the new congregation. It will be honored.”
“She’ll be buried there?”
“Yes, and in the Poe family plot.”
“They’ve said they will put her on the edge of the grounds,” Jupiter said as he dipped his hands in the basin and shook them dry.
“You gave him a full thousand?” asked Poe.
“And one hundred for himself,” answered Jupiter. “I think the grave number is ’80,’ or so he said.”
“You see Griswold, I have done a good deed today.”
“Thank you, Poe. Sincerely. Thank you.” I was sincere, and I did thank him in my heart. I raised my glass in a gesture that Poe would understand, and we drank man to man as friends. A knock came at the door.
“Who is it?”
“Open the door.” It was the voice of the young Johnny Hop-Frog– ruler of Bradshaw’s Hotel. Without waiting, he opened the lock from the outside and stepped in. “Done and done.”
Poe went to him. “Then here’s your hundred dollars.”
The black boy offered no gratitude, no thanks, no interest in such a large sum of money, especially when compared to the station in life he and his race occupied. He pocketed the bills without a second’s look.
“And Sugar Alley?”
“Like I said, done and done. The man from the undertaking place will be here shortly. He’s bringing the box.”
“And the other. The fine coffin?”
“Stored downstairs for when you need it.”
“No one save us, are to know where the fine coffin goes.”
“As you told me,” sniffed Johnny.
“And the rumor of the Raven’s burial tonight?”
“As I said, done.”
“Sugar Alley must know that the Raven has died.”
Johnny Hop-Frog gave a little smile. “By now they all know.” The boy looked down at Molly’s wrapped remains. “And I’ll be glad to see that bundle gone.”
Perhaps I was a little drunk. The boy’s remark made me angry. “I’ll have you speak with some respect…”
“Sit down,” commanded Jupiter. I sat as I was told.
Hop-Frog looked at Jupiter and looked at me. He smiled. “Pleasure doing business with you gentlemen.” He turned and left the room. Poe turned the lock behind him.
“There it is, then.”
I offered my glass for Poe to refill. The liquor was having a wonderful effect. Last night was fading as horror and assuming a glow of passion in my memory. “Curious,” I said.
“What is curious, Griswold?” Poe asked.
“It’s just that… No matter.” I kept my strange thought to myself. “So, Molly will be put in the good coffin and transported to the Old Western?”
“Precisely, then the undertaker comes for his pauper’s body.”
“The Raven. You want them to think you’ve died.”
“Succumbed to my vices,” Poe laughed – that dry laugh.
“I have it. You pretend to be dead. Will you drug him, Jupiter?”
“Drugs?’ Jupiter seemed distracted. “Yes, drugs.”
My brain was foggy, very foggy. I was having some difficulty talking. “Then the undertaker leaves us to say our farewells. We get you out, we fill the box with some stones, close it up, it’s buried in the grave, and Fox sends men to dig it up.”
Poe turned to Jupiter. “He heard more than we thought.”
“How much does he know?” Jupiter asked.
I lay back on the bed. I was very tired. “We shall follow Fox’s men. Nabbity the ghoul – we shall follow him to Fox’s lair,” I mumbled.
“You understand the plot, Griswold.”
“You gave him enough?” asked Jupiter.
“Plenty.” Poe was leaning over me. He seemed very small. In fact, he was upside down. But this time, I was walking on the ceiling. “Curious,” I said.
“Forgive me this, Griswold, and remember Molly,” said Poe, shrinking into almost nothingness.
I couldn’t seem to move. “Molly,” I whispered.
Poe reached down and took my hand. With a tug, he pulled Caroline’s ruby ring off of my finger. I could not resist the theft.
Jupiter stepped to my side. He had a small knife in his hand. The blade sparkled. I could not see what he was doing. I could not turn my head. The knife was out of my vision for a moment. Then it came back where my eyes – and I could not even turn my eyes in their sockets – back to where my eyes could see. There was blood on the blade.
Poe handed him the ruby. Jupiter took the jewel, and again his hand reached down to my side. I did feel the slightest pressure, as if something had been slipped under my skin.
And Poe waved his fingers before my unblinking eyes – testing their unfocussed stare. The poet whispered to me. “Please forgive me.” Such a haunting whisper. “You see, Griswold, stones will not do the trick.”
I could not move even a single thought.
Chapter 34
October 2 & 3, 1849 ? a.m. / p.m. - A Vivid Effect Upon My Disordered Imagination -
Poe’s manner, and the tremulous shake of his uplifted finger in front of my eyes, filled me with an unqualified amazement. It was the pregnancy of his solemn declaration in the singular, low, hissing utterance, and, above all, it was the character, the tone, the key of those few, simple, whispered syllables which were accompanied by a thousand thronging fears that struck upon my soul with the shock of a galvanic battery. My senses comprehended the words, but I could not compel my own to respond.
I am acquainted, as I have said, with the Holy Writ. In my studies, I have become familiar with other scholars who dedicate their efforts and attentions to the inspired and infallible knowledge those pages contain. For such wisdom is not limited to spiritual considerations, but rather, also offers a deep understanding of physical nature.
A student of scripture I shall only identify as Dr. H__ has made a study of the exact nature of death as revealed by the Bible. Drawing on various passages, which I shall annotate and cite in another place, Dr. H__ posits that the progression of this terminal process proceeds in certain stages through our awareness as reflected in the scientific truths of the canonical text.
The first of our human sensorial attributes to be extinguished is taste. The sensations of salt and sugar, bitter herbs, and copper bloods of meat fade as our need to partake in sustenance becomes obsolete. Then the touch of finger or trace of fabric on skin dissolves in the waters of our passage. The pleasures of corruptible flesh lose all meaning as we ascend tow
ards our true liberated state of being. Next, the odors of this material plane are purified and eliminated as the dog-like instinct expressed in the gift of scent becomes extraneous. The transformation continues as the created light of this world is replaced by Divine light, infinite and blinding. Our eyes fail, replaced by truer images beyond mere earthly sight. Sounds leave us in the penultimate moments. The step of a foot, a harsh voice, a bird’s song or the rustle of a breeze all escape our attention. Ears are emptied of word, music, plea, and vibration. Last to leave us is the sense that supplies us the framework of all life – memory and intuition. All interpretation and analysis, all fear and joy burst like bubbles in a womb’s water as death’s birth completes its labor.
As Poe whispered his revelation, so I began my progress through the vestibule. I tasted. I felt. I caught the scent of it. I saw. I heard. And I knew. Then I began to contract.
Now, here on these pages, I shall attempt to describe the indescribable. For this world began to recede, or better said, I began to shrink. I was. Then I was smaller. The boundaries of my existence were like heat on a pavement, and the frontiers of my identity began to erase themselves. Then nothingness beckoned. I faced the final truth – that I would not be.
The taste of the drug on my tongue and lips was not unpleasant. I spent some time considering the sensation. Poe and Jupiter welcomed someone to the room, and a discussion was begun and completed. As I said, I found myself in a world of flavors and could not seem to concentrate on the business that my companions were conducting.
I could see Poe looking at me with his flat expression. Poe was wearing Molly’s clothes. The faded black bombazine sack coat, near ripped at the seams, fit him well. The thin alpaca trousers, the old boiled shirt, and no doubt he wore the old crinkled boots as well.
“I’ll look the part. No gentleman would prowl where we shall prowl.”
“You look the part indeed.”
I could not blink – yet the scene changed as if I had. Poe was gone.
I could see Jupiter give some money to a tall man in black frock and stovepipe hat. But I could give little attention.
There was an acid tingle in my mouth. The sweet caress of Absinthe was on my palate and in my throat. I wanted to swallow all of the delicate and varied spices that seemed to dance across all the pores of my tongue. I felt such a deep pleasure in the deliciousness of the moment, and I clung to the ecstasy of balsamic vinegar and honey, sugared cake and roasted venison, all the feasts of my lifetime.
A numbness began somewhere near the back of my gullet and began to spread across the tissues of my mouth. A sour taste beyond experience exploded. The tingling fizzled and advanced. My mouth began to disappear. I tried to swallow. Nothingness.
A new scene, and Poe had returned to the room. The ceiling was stained. I had noticed that before. But I had not noticed that one stain seemed formed as a picture of the Madonna’s head. She was praying, and she was crying. A yellow discoloration marked her tears.
Poe and Jupiter lifted me into a box – no, a coffin. I saw it. I heard them.
“Easy, don’t hurt him.”
“Careful.”
“How long?”
“The drugs should work for six hours.”
“Long enough?”
“They will preserve him as long as they can.”
“We can do no more.”
“Perhaps we have done too much.”
The feel of the wood on my back was rough. There was no cushion, and the crude and uneven pine – yes, I smelled the new resin – pressed against my spine and hips. The back of my head ached where it was forced by its own weight down onto the plank. But the discomfort did not last. Instead, the pressure against bone and nerve became transformed. Hands touched my back and soothed all ache. Hands and fingertips brushed my skin and brought desire to me in waves.
Poe and Jupiter were holding a lid between them. I watched them lift it. I watched as they were eclipsed, and the dim light of the room was shadowed by the wooden thing they moved over me. I may have wondered what the purpose was, but I felt the spectral hands as they soothed and urged me to respond to their seduction.
In an instant, the lid covered the sky above me, and a darkness surrounded me, leavened only by a small crack of gray that my eyes clung to. The pleasure of the hands that had seduced my skin now became a mother’s touch. She stroked my hair and my forehead. My anxiety was subdued by the comfort she offered. The soothing touch of her fingers consumed me.
My concentration was broken by a loud pounding that overwhelmed my ears. My body bounced in the box. Pain returned to my back and my neck as the concussions struck me.
Nails were being put into the lid. Each impact of the hammer on the spikes slammed into my head as if I were the receiving wood of the coffin’s edge.
The bang of a nail.
My spine stabbed by a spear.
The bang of a nail.
My head struck by a club.
The bang of a nail.
My hip crushed by a stone.
The bang of a nail.
The bang of a nail.
The bang of a nail.
A nail sinking into wood.
A nail.
Sinking.
And I felt nothing. There was no pain. There was no hardness beneath me. No hands of comfort on my brow. There was no weight at all. Upwards and downwards was now just a memory. I clung to the gray crack above me. Sinking.
“Careful.”
“Don’t tip the coffin.”
“Careful there, boys.”
“One last step.”
“Coming through.”
“Careful.”
“Shit. My thumb.”
“Put it all the way on.”
“Don’t want the stiff in the street.”
“It’s only a stiff.”
“Bound for Yellot’s.”
“They won’t even mark this poor fucker.”
“No, no marker for the unfortunate poor.”
“Who is it?”
“A stiff. A drinker. A fucking whore. Whoever. It’s a body from Bradshaw’s.”
“That little nigger Johnny paid you?”
“He always does. And always well.”
“Where’s a boy like that get the money?”
“Just drive the wagon.”
“I’m just wondering.”
“If the devil himself pays the pickaninnie, isn’t none of our concern. We’re paid to bury. Don’t you be fucking thinking anything else.”
“Maybe the devil does pay him.”
“Don’t wink at me, you ass. Drive the wagon.”
I had no skin. I had no inside or outside. I could not feel myself. Perhaps there was no corporeal self remaining. I floated inside the coffin. I knew, but I could not feel.
I was engulfed in the resin and sap of the new pine that enclosed me. Sawdust was in my nose, and it was rich with the smell of a grove on dry ground. I smelled sour fear from my own sweat. And there were other perfumes. Through the tiny cracks in the box, tiny currents of air brought them to me. I identified the list – an old horse, men rank with piss and beer, pig shit, fish dead in the basin, slop in the street, rain water mixed with clay, and winter. I could smell the season of my death.
“Sun’s going.”
“We’ll have her in.”
“Better hurry.”
“Smoke your fucking pipe.”
The tobacco was old. The burning was too hot. My eyes watered. The smoke leaked in around me, and I had no muscles to sneeze. It curled into my nostrils and sat like a spent coal.
The gray above me shifted. It dimmed and then brightened. Had a lantern been lit? I could smell dank mud and turned dirt, rich with decay.
“Easy with the rope.”
“She’s light as a feather.”
“Heavy enough. Easy.”
“Hole ain’t very deep.”
“Too much rain. Can’t dig as deep as they’d like.”
“Fuck it.”
“This one his?”
“That’s the word.”
“Fuck it.”
“God damn, the rope’s a muddy mess.”
“Toss it in the wagon. We’ll hang it and knock off the clay when it dries.”
“Give me the other shovel.”
A wet heavy thud hit the lid above me – if it was above. The gray crack vanished, and the smells were gone. Only a chill remained, and it had no odor. The cold had no bouquet. I floated in the frozen, tasteless air.
Black. Black without degrees of black. Only black. Deepest, bottomless, infinite black was around me. I heard the shovels bite and the dirt and mud strike. Then I heard only the mud. Then I heard nothing except my own slow pulse. My eyes strained at the walls of darkness. Total darkness. And in the darkness, my eyes leapt towards every imagined spark or ghost that danced across my motionless, open eyes.
Poe walked across a ceiling upside down.
Molly’s head was thrown back in passion.
Jupiter’s smile was white teeth and red gums.
A river of O’Hanlon’s blood pointed at me.
A black tongue appeared in black air.
Pig’s tusks glowed yellow and snapped at my face.
Chains appeared with glowing rust on heated links.
Green absinthe and golden whiskey filled sparkling crystal.
My wife’s pale face floated in the void.
There was no God to command the light.
The page of the new Genesis was unreadable in the shadows.
No new creation saved the illumination, and it died.
In a moment it died.
As I died.
Or was it an hour?
Time produces no light.
Time passed.
I sensed time and only time – wait – a faint sound.
The sound had no color, no brightness. My eyes were open, but they no longer saw. Not even an imagining could bring an image to my mind. There was only black – only darkness – and a faint sound.
It crawled through the mud and the dirt. It ate the mud and the dirt. Its chitinous jaws began chewing on the pine. It chewed on the box’s walls, and it digested the wood in its gut. I heard the entrails rumble. I heard its anus spit. Then there were two, and I listened as their lips kissed my coffin. I listened as they began to chew. Then there were four. And eight. And a hundred. Then there were a thousand jaws and a million teeth. Chewing. Digesting. They writhed with mortal pangs, and I, speechless, became the goal of their feast. The heroes of the tale were approaching. My ears were full of them.
Imp: Being the Lost Notebooks of Rufus Wilmot Griswold in the Matter of the Death of Edgar Allan Poe Page 25
