He turned to the window and waved toward the swamp. "The Great Dismal Swamp is not named idly, Mr. Poe. Those who know it well are few and far between. It's not a good place for a casual stroll, or even a well-planned expedition by those who don't belong. If the bears, wolves, or snakes don't kill you, those with secrets worth dying for most surely will. If I were you, I'd get back to your pretty lady friend, and enjoy the rest of your stay. With a bit of luck, the excitement has passed."
"I suppose you're right," Edgar said. He drained his glass.
"In any case, I don't think anything else will be happening tonight. Enjoy your beer, doctor, and perhaps our paths will cross again."
"At the very least, over breakfast," Simons said.
He rose, and they shook hands, and then, with a quick nod, Edgar returned to where Lenore had resumed her seat.
"That was interesting," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "You first."
"The good doctor – his name, by the way, is Simons, informs me that the shot that did not kill Mr. Nixon, or maim him, was either a miracle, or miraculously accurate. He leans away from divine intervention."
"That's the impression I got from the bartender," she said. "He knows of this old woman, and her 'minions' – as he calls them. She's been out there in the swamp as long as he remembers, and he claims to have heard tales about her from his father, and even his grandfather. The way he tells it, she's not a killer – but everyone here is afraid of her. Dark powers. Dark rituals. Deals with the devil. You name it, someone around here believes it of her."
“So, they won’t be sending out a search party, then,” Edgar said.
“Not likely. A year from now, they’ll still be telling the story, embellished and turned into something fanciful, but the only time lawmen show up here is to try and keep the body count down. They don’t cross the waterway into the swamp without a very good reason, and apparently an unknown naked woman being hauled off by a swamp witch is not considered that important.”
“I must admit,” Edgar said, “that I find this less strange than most would, and more intriguing. My own road often edges up against the shadows, and I’ve seen some strange things. Grimm has shown me others. This would barely register, except…”
“I know,” Lenore said. “The woman. It’s too strange to be a coincidence. And the others…if we’re right – if what I think we are both imagining is true – how did they know? How did they make their way to that shoreline at exactly the right moment to carry her off? What do they know?”
“That,” Edgar said, “is what I intend to find out. I don’t have many days before I must turn toward home, but I will spend them, I believe, climbing through the swamp like a fool with a young boy and an old bird for a guide.”
“It’s like you said before,” Lenore said. Her voice was soft, and her eyes were open wide, as if seeing something he could not. “It’s like walking through a dream, within a dream. What if you don’t come back?”
“You will have to find me, trapped in the branches of one of the old, dark trees,” he said. “You will draw me, a handsome likeness, I would hope, and you will set me free.”
Very suddenly, both their eyes filled with tears. Edgar rose and turned away.
"I have to go," he said. "I have to find Grimm, and I have to rest, and prepare myself."
Lenore reached out and laid a hand on his arm. He placed his own over it.
"If I don't go now, we may both miss our destinies," he said.
She pulled her hand free.
"Be well, Edgar," she said. "I hope that you find her – and I hope you solve your mystery. If you find Nettie – I hope she can help you save Virginia."
"You never told me your quest," he said.
"I'm tracking a dream," she said. "I had a vision – a woman trapped in this swamp, near the waterway. Her spirit is bound in a tree, not like the spirits I usually free, but something more powerful – more lasting. It's as if she's calling out to me."
Edgar stood very still.
"A woman," he said. "Trapped. I am beginning to feel as if we are not the gifted, or the cursed. What we are is pieces in some grand game – a dark game, with no good endings. This woman – do you know who trapped her – or why?"
Lenore shook her head. "I know that she has been there for a very long time. I could almost draw what I saw from memory, but there are tiny details that are elusive. I might capture them – or I might not. One thing I have learned is that I never get a second chance. Once I have drawn a thing, and then changed it, the link is broken. I have the talent to recreate the art, but not the magic – if that's what it is."
"So you are going to try and find the tree," he said.
"I won't have to try very hard," she said. "When I asked about it, I learned that there is a local legend. In the swamp, there is a large lake – Lake Drummond. On the shore of that lake, there is an old willow tree. The willow tree is so much in the shape of a woman that there have been legends about it since before white men came to the Carolinas. When I told them I'd like to draw her, I was given a map."
"You need a guide," Edgar said.
"I know. I will find one. I was hoping that Anita might know where the tree is located, or that she knows someone who will take me. It's not the same kind of dangerous journey you are planning. The tree, and the lake, are visited regularly by hunters and fishermen. There are trails."
"Bears can use trails," Edgar said. "It's only marginally safer."
"Bears don't use bows and arrows," she said. Then she smiled.
"I'll make you a bargain. You go on your search, and I will go on mine. I suspect I will be finished first. Whichever of us returns to this place before the other will wait. Before you return to your wife, and your work, and before I move on to whatever comes next, we will share stories one last time. And a drink."
Edgar smiled.
"I would like that very much. You have a bargain, lady. I will find you here among the lost souls, trapped women, and birds. I find that my own state has improved, if only slightly. Where I was once likely to travel in the presence of a murder of crows, I find I will only be burdened by an unkindness of ravens. It gives me heart."
Lenore rose then, and embraced him quickly, then, before it could turn to anything more, or the moment be broken irrevocably, Edgar stepped back and turned for the door. As he walked out into the night, he did not look back.
Moments later, glancing at the bartender to be certain he wasn't seen, Tom rushed out after him. Lenore watched the empty doorway for a long time. She was nearly certain, when the two were out of sight, that she heard the flutter of dark wings on the night wind. She tried to smile, but it was cut short as a shiver suddenly transited her spine.
Chapter Seven
Tom caught up with Edgar before he reached the doors to his room. Edgar heard the footsteps, and turned.
"I'm gonna need some things from home," Tom said. "If we're going into the swamp, we can't just walk in empty handed."
"Will you be ready tomorrow?" Edgar asked.
Tom nodded. "Sure. I just have to tell Mr. Barnes – the bartender. I got a cousin Will who can come in and take my place for a couple days. You got any older clothes? A gun? A pack? We may be in there overnight."
"I'm afraid I only came prepared for a road trip," Edgar said.
"You and my pa, you're about the same size," Tom said. "If you was to send him some money…"
Edgar chuckled. "If you think your father won't mind equipping me properly, I would be grateful," he said. "I have no desire to perish of foolishness, and I have the feeling wandering into a place as wild as this unprepared would be exactly that. Would ten dollars suffice?"
Tome's eyes widened. "He'd sell you a set of clothes for that," the boy grinned. "You leave it to me. I'll be back here at by dawn."
"You can make it a little later, if you don't mind," Edgar said. "It's been a long day, and I suspect I'm going to need extra rest."
"I have to be back anyway," To
m said. "I'll have to show Will what to do. Should I bring more corn?"
Wings beat powerfully above them, and a dark speck dropped from the sky, spreading its wings and slowing to land on the ground a few feet away with a heavy thump.
Edgar turned and studied the raven. If it had been a robin, or a goldfinch, he knew that he'd recognize his old companion. He did not know how, but he was grateful for the knowing, and for the bird's presence.
"What say you, Grimm?" he asked. "More corn, or will you hunt The Great Dismal Swamp?"
The bird waddled over to them, lifting one foot at a time in an awkward shuffle. He turned his head first to Edgar, and then to Tom, then, with a quick squawk, pecked suddenly at the ground, kicking up dust.
"Corn it is," Edgar said.
"It's really him, isn't it?" Tom said. His eyes were wide. "I mean, the crow."
"None other," Edgar said.
Tom glanced up at him.
"You're not like anyone around here," he said. "We farm, fish, and hunt. We know secrets, and usually keep them. My pa told me about the old witch in the swamp, and about how important the festivals are – how they keep the land fertile – help us grow.
"But it's different. We live here by the swamp, and there are a lot of strange things in there – old things we don't understand. I don't know how to say it – not bein' good with words – but you seem to walk in a different world. I'm just tryin' to say, thank you for taking me along. Thank you for trusting me. If you'd not paid me a nickel, but asked me to go – I'd've done it. I just wouldn't be able to come here every day, sweep the floors, and see those trees out back without wondering what I'd missed."
Edgar ruffled the boy's hair.
"I hope you are still of such a positive mind about it when all is said and done," he said. "I have no idea what we will find out there. Grimm knows, or at least, I believe he does, but our link is tenuous at best. We share visions from time to time. If I need him, he always seems to be there. I'm not sure that I have ever really returned the favor."
"He was there for me, too," Tom said. "With that snake."
"So he was. Either you have a bit of the connection yourself, or you have a part to play in all of this – something he knows, that we do not. We are bound to the earth by fate, and by gravity, so we will have to plod along and follow what clues are available. I suspect, since we've been drawn into all of this without any concern for whether we wanted to be – there is no reason to believe we'll be able to get out of whatever has hold of us until it's over."
"You think we're…meant to find her?" Tom said. "Like…"
"Destiny." Edgar said. "Exactly like that, I'm afraid. In for a penny…"
"In for a pound," Tom said.
He frowned, shook his head, and when he looked back up at Edgar, he was grinning.
"That works for me, Mr. Poe. I'll see you in the morning."
"Until then. And Tom?"
"Yes sir?"
"Call me Edgar. I think we're well past the Mr. Poe stage."
Tom nodded, turned, and hurried back toward the bar. Edgar opened the door to his room and stood aside. Grimm hopped up and glided through the entrance. Edgar followed, closing and locking it behind him.
Lenore left the tavern shortly after Edgar. As it turned out, when she'd asked the bartender, Barnes, about the tree, the man had actually suggested that Anita show her the way. The girl was familiar with the area, and he'd noticed that the two of them had hit it off.
"A lot of strange things have been happening around her," Barnes said. Most of them started when you came in drawing those pictures. The rest seem to follow your friend, Mr. Poe. I know Jebediah is grateful for the saving of his life – and that counts for something – but I'm thinking the sooner you finish your work and make your way out of here, the sooner things will get back to the normal run of things. Duels, thieves slipping across the border, old Virginia men trying to marry their young cousins. You know – normal problems."
Lenore didn't know if he was joking, serious, or uncertain, but she took him up on the offer of Anita's company.
"I made a promise," she said. "I promised that, when I was done, I'd wait, if Mr. Poe doesn't return before I do. I'll make another…the minute that promise is kept, I'll move on, and leave you to your …normal life."
Barnes went back to polishing his bar.
"I'll hold you to that."
Lenore took her leave then, and returned to her room. She thought that – maybe – she might try to draw again – just for herself – before she slept. Instead of a bird, though, the image that troubled her was very human. Dark hair, darker eyes, and pale skin. And the words. Without any other gift at all they would be enough to make him magic.
Chapter Eight
Despite his warnings to Tom to not come around too early, Edgar woke with the dawn. He had slept long and well, and felt refreshed, despite the adventures of the day before. He'd expected to toss and turn, ending up writing late into the night, but he hadn't even glanced at his quills, or his ink. He'd poured himself two fingers from his flask, readied himself for bed, and brought out his worn copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales. He didn't know what had possessed him to do it, but he'd finished his drink and worked his way through several of the old stories.
They were dark. Every one of them. He knew they'd been written for children, but he couldn't imagine sending a young soul to bed with the images they provided. Others who felt the same had already begun revising the tales, retelling them in watered down versions that hamstrung the storytellers' bite, but allowed the children who heard them to sleep at night without bright lights or screams. He wondered briefly if that was how it always was with magic. It started out vital and potent, and then, over time, as men and women fought to possess it, hide it, steal it, and decipher it, it grew more and more obscure.
The fairy tales were like his own stories, he realized, but his made no pretense of being fairy tales for the naïve, they were a way of exorcising the heavy loneliness of his existence, the frustration of being unable to help his wife, and the dimly glowing, low-burning lamp that was his career. The problems that his protagonists faced, the agony he put them through, served to boost his own spirits, at least to the level of mild melancholy. He knew he should be grateful. He made his living doing what he enjoyed, more or less. He had gifts that others did not share, or even suspect. He had Grimm, and Virginia loved him. Those two things alone should have tipped the balance in his favor and lifted his spirits.
Nothing seemed able to do it. Nothing fully broke through the shadows – only the words gave him even partial respite. When he wrote – and sometimes, if the story was good enough – when he read the words of others, the perpetual weight on his heart lessened. The fairy tales he'd read had lightened his spirits in the same way the dismal, hopeless fates of his protagonists did. In a certain perspective, it improved his state. Things – as they said – could always be worse.
As he waited for Tom, he organized his papers, and found himself agonizing over what to take, and what to leave behind. He couldn’t rid himself of the idea that he was embarking on more than a simple walk in the woods, and that – if not impossible – returning to this place, this room, and whatever he left behind would require more of him than any task he'd ever faced. He would not be able to solve this by writing it into a story.
Somewhere in that swamp, there was a woman. That woman had been traveling with him most of the days of his adult life – trapped inside a companion he felt he needed to discover anew – and now she was alone. Alone, of course, was a relative term in this case. The old woman in the swamp had known the girl was coming, and had spirited her away, but to what end? In the story – The Raven – the Brothers Grimm had attributed the transformation to a sorceress. That sorceress had not lived in a swamp, or even in the Americas. In fact, as was true of most fairy tales, it was written without any degree on detail, or time. What good would it do to read a story meant to frighten, or teach a lesson, if the child knew that it took pla
ce hundreds of miles from their home, and a century before they were born?
There was a knock on the door, and he laid aside his book to open it. Tom staggered in and dropped a large bundle on the floor at Edgar's feet.
"Good morning," Edgar said, staring down at the pile.
"Good morning, Mr. Poe," Tom said. "I think I brought everything we need. I would have brought less, but when my ma and pa found out we were going into the swamp, and why, well, they threw in a few extras. I wish they'd have let me bring the mule, but they need him to pull the cart, and there'd have been no one here to lead him home."
Edgar squatted and poked through the bundle on the floor. He pulled out a pair of coveralls, clean, but very worn. There were boots, and he noted that, though they were not something he would wear into the office back in Pennsylvania, they rose to mid-calf and appeared to be in decent repair.
"Those're Pa's spare work boots," Tom said. "There's snakes in the swamp, and a lot of mud. You wouldn't make it a mile in what you've got. Same with your clothes. No offense, Mr. Poe, but you aren't really equipped for any kind of hiking at all."
"None taken," Edgar said, "and I told you – call me Edgar. I'm grateful to you, and to your family."
He lifted the boots out and found an old canvas pack beneath.
"What's this?"
"I got my own bag," Tom said, turning to show the pack slung over his shoulder. "You'll have to help with some of the food and water, a few other supplies. I figured you might want some of your own things too. That pack should do you good for most everything you've got. We can fill that flask at the tavern, if you like."
Edgar smiled. He hefted the pack and turned it over in his hands. On the flap, tooled into the leather, was the name Zach.
"Who's Zach?" Edgar said. "Won't he be needing this?
Tom glanced at the floor and lowered his voice.
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