"Zach – he was my dad's brother. He fought with the infantry when the states split up. He was killed, tryin' to get a friend of his off a battlefield. They found his pack, and they brought it home to Pa. No one has used it since, and we figured – well – I told them about Jebediah Nixon. They figure – a hero's pack…"
"I'm no hero," Edgar said. He studied the pack more carefully. "I will treasure this, and we will get it back to your father in one piece. It's almost like you read my mind. I was going through my things, trying to figure a way to travel in the swamp with my bag."
Tom grinned. "I'm going down to the tavern. I have to show Will the ropes, and I'll see about getting the supplies we're going to need, what I didn't bring at least. We should be ready to go in about half an hour."
"I'll change, and get packed, then," Edgar said.
"There's a flannel shirt there, too," Tom said. "It's pretty warm by day, but at night, it can get darned cool. I have our bedrolls out front. Wasn't able to get a tent but I got a tarp, and I know how to rig it, if we need it. We should be able to spend the night in the shack I know – a place Nettie might come."
"I'm glad you're coming along, Tom," Edgar said. "I'd be lost out there."
Grimm chose that moment to float down from the top of the doorframe, circle the room, and land directly atop the pile of clothing on the floor. He glanced up at Edgar, and let out a soft squawk.
Tom glanced down at the bird, shook his head, and smiled.
"I think you were already in pretty good hands," he said. "Thing is, a bird would have had a heck of a time totin' these bags, and I'm not sure he can pitch a tent. I reckon I'll earn my money."
He turned and left the room, and Edgar carried the bundle of clothing and supplies to his bed. He stripped and changed into what Tom had brought him. The overalls were a little loose. His slender frame didn't carry a lot of muscle. The boots were snug and a near perfect fit, and the shirt – while it smelled of burned tobacco and lye soap, was a good fit as well. He snugged his belt around the center of the overalls and turned to the pack. He tucked in his books, his paper, quills and ink, and left the flask on the table. He really did want to refill it – he had the feeling it was going to come in handy.
There was rope, a knife, a bundle of dried meat, and a few other items already in the bag. The last item he stowed made him smile. It was a small bag of corn, carefully bundled and tied with a bit of string. He turned to Grimm and shook it at the bird.
"The boy is grateful," old friend, "as am I. At least one of us will eat well on this journey."
Grimm paced in a circle, then hopped up and glided to the table. He eyed the flask, as if watching his reflection in the polished metal, and then settled back to wait. Outside the window, the sun had risen higher, leaking through the uppermost branches of the trees.
"A good day for an adventure," he said to no one in particular.
He opened the door, and Grimm hopped to the sill, and then out, beating his wings mightily and soaring up and over the trees toward the swamp.
"I will see you on the trail," Edgar said.
There was no answer. Grimm wheeled up and over the trees, and was gone.
Edgar felt a little bit ridiculous stepping into the tavern, dressed in his borrowed clothing, with the pack slung over his shoulder, but no one paid much attention. In truth, he looked less out of place than when he wore his own clothing, blending in with the lumbermen and travelers. Tom was waiting near the bar. He had several small bundles at his feet, and he was deep in conversation with the bartender, Barnes.
Edgar scanned the room but there was no sign of either Lenore, or Anita. He didn't know if he was relieved, or disappointed. He decided on the former and stepped up to the bar.
"Good morning, Mr. Poe," Barnes said. "I understand you are trusting this young ruffian to lead you off into the swamp."
Edgar smiled.
"He's a good boy, and he tells me he knows the way."
"If anyone here knows, it's him," Barnes said. "If you are really searching for Nettie, though, no amount of savvy will do the trick. You're going to need an edge."
Edgar cocked his head to the side quizzically.
"Whiskey," Tom said. "You've got your flask, but that's for you. You'll want a small bottle for her. That's what the old 'uns say, anyway. You want her help, you go to the old hunting shack, and you bring her something to drink."
Edgar thought about it. His research was far from the ordinary run of facts, politics, and biographical trivia. There were a great number of stories about witches, spirits, forest magic, and most of them involved one form or another of offering. Here, on the edge of civilization, bordering one of the largest and greatest wild spots left, an offering of whiskey seemed oddly appropriate. He wondered if he'd be asked to sprinkle it on the Earth, or set it aflame in some arcane pattern.
"We certainly don't want to go in unprepared," he said at last. He pulled his flask from the pocket of the coveralls and placed it on the bar. "Fill this, and we'll take a bottle of whatever you feel is appropriate. I'll wrap it in my pack to keep it safe."
Barnes reached beneath the bar and pulled out a small, sealed and stoppered bottle of dubiously colored liquid.
"Corn whiskey," he said. "It's cheaper, and she won't mind. Anything else would cost you more than double. We only get shipments monthly – I can't afford to sell much of the good stock by the bottle."
Edgar nodded. He wrapped the package carefully in a spare pair of socks and tucked it deep into the center of the pack.
"It's sealed good," Barnes said. "Unless you crack it on a rock or something, it will be fine in there. You find Nettie, you tell her I gave it to you. That's on the house. Never spoke with her myself, but I've seen her a time or two. You never know what you might need, though, or who you might want for a friend."
"I will do that," Edgar said. "And when I return, I promise that I will bring a story. I can't promise it will be a happy story, because mine seldom are, but I can promise it will make you think, and that – if I learn anything of your swamp that you do not already know – you'll find it in the words."
"You are a strange man, Mr. Poe."
"So I've been told," Edgar said. "I'd rather be strange than boring. It's a flaw in my character."
Barnes chuckled.
"Have a good trip, Mr. Poe. I'll see you in a few days, God and Nettie willing. I'll buy you a drink."
Edgar nodded, pocketed his flask, and handed the man his payment. He turned and found that Tom had already moved to the back door and was standing rather impatiently, bobbing from one foot to the other. Edgar smiled, because the motion reminded him so much of Grimm.
"Let's get going then," Edgar said. "Lead the way."
Tom turned, and Edgar followed him out the back of the tavern and down the path toward the dock. He knew they had to cross, but was uncertain how it would be accomplished. He hoped they wouldn't have to wade – starting the journey wet to the skin did not appeal to him.
They reached the dock, and Tom clambered down onto the raft without hesitation. Edgar regarded it dubiously, and then followed.
"If we take it to the other side," he said, "how will it be returned? They won't need it until we come back?"
Tom laughed.
"It's like a bridge," he said. "There's a rope tied to it. When we're on the other side, we'll pull it up on the bank. In a little while, Mr. Barnes will send someone down to pull it back before the rope can get caught up on a passing boat."
The simplicity of it struck Edgar, and he laughed.
"It really is a good thing you're here," Edgar said. "I probably would have waded across."
"You'd have to swim." Tom said. "The waterway is very deep. It has to be so that the bigger sailboats can pass through to the locks up in Virginia. With that pack, you'd have drowned.'
They stared at one another for a moment, and then Edgar burst out laughing.
"Just get us to the other side. We have to get on with this journey so
I can find some point at which I can reassert that I am the adult. So far, I'd have died more than once without you – either from the cold, the lack of shoes, or drowning – and I haven’t even set foot in the swamp. I'm beginning to feel as if I'm in a bit over my head."
"Maybe," Tom said, not laughing, "that's why your bird saved me? He sure seems to look out for you."
"That he does," Edgar said. "That he does. And now you have joined him. I'm a fortunate man."
Tom turned, untied them from the dock and pushed off, launching them across the nearly still water toward the far bank. Edgar couldn't help scanning the trees and remembering the arrows, and the large figures who'd flanked the old woman during her brief appearance.
The crossing took only a moment. On the far side, Tom leaped from the boat to the bank and hauled on the rope. Once the corner of the raft had lodged on the bank, Edgar followed, and when they stood side by side on dry ground, he helped to draw the small craft far enough up the bank that it wouldn't slide away in the current.
"They'll come for it shortly," Tom said.
Edgar nodded. He stared across the water back at the dock on the far side and the tavern beyond, as if locking the image in his memory. Then he turned and stared into the trees. He felt as if he'd stepped straight out of one world and into another. Standing on the ground and looking up the length of them, the pine trees felt taller than they'd seemed from the dock. When he finally lowered his gaze, he saw that there were several trails leading off into the swamp. He studied them carefully.
"Which way?" he asked. "And where do they all go? Who has reason to journey into the swamp?"
"There are folks who live back there," Tom said. "Some trap, some hunt and fish, but others – they just don't want to be found. The trail on the left leads back to where there are some cabins, and even an old church. The right trail leads back to the lake. It's a good long hike, fairly clean. We need to take the center trail. It goes straight back in, just to the left of the lake. Mostly hunters use it – some fishermen, but only those who are really serious. It's the trail you'd take if you were going in and not planning on coming out – if you take my meaning. It's the shack we're heading for where most folks say Nettie can be found, if she wants to be."
"If that is supposed to make me feel better," Edgar said, "it has fallen short. I certainly hope that we'll be coming back."
Tom grinned.
"Don't you worry Mr. Poe," he said. "I'll get you there and back again, wherever there turns out to be. If we're looking for Nettie, we only have to go in so far. The shack I mentioned is about two miles in. It's a kind of jumping-off place. From there, a lot of different trails go on in deeper, some toward the lake. There's usually firewood, and if you use it you're expected to replace it before you go. If you sit outside with that bottle, my Pa says Nettie will find you."
“If that doesn’t work,” Edgar said, “at least we’ll have a roof over our heads the first night.”
Tom grinned.
He turned, hefted his pack onto his back, and headed off down the middle path. Edgar followed. After only a short while, the trees rising up on either side, and the heavy, moist air wrapped around them, enhancing the impression Edgar had of walking into the pathways of some other, older world. Edgar studied the plants as they passed, memorized the trees, their leaves, the flowers that lined the trail. He wanted to remember. He didn’t know why, for certain, but he needed to know that it would stick with him – that he’d be able to recall it – possibly to write it down. He wanted to be able to paint the images with his words as clearly as they came to him.
They worked their way in deeper, and the light from the sun dimmed. It trickled down through the leaves and foliage. It dappled the ground with white disks of light that danced with the breeze. There were bird calls, and all around them the sounds of animals told him they were not alone. It was wild, like the country must have been when only the Indians roamed the land. Edgar felt it. The swamp was a very old place, and powerful.
One thing was becoming clearer with every step he took. A mile in the swamp was not the same as a mile on the road. The trail was very rough, not raveled often, and at times barely recognizable. Tom moved forward with confidence, pointing out areas where the footing was uncertain, ditches filled with undergrowth and leaves that might catch an unwary ankle, and at least once a coiled snake sunning itself in what light was available, not a foot from the trail. Once or twice they stopped and waited as the boy listened to rustling in the undergrowth, or strange guttural sounds emanating from the shadows.
The boy kept up a steady rain of chatter that tapped at the edges of Edgar's thoughts without penetrating too deeply. He spoke of family, spread around the state and as far west as the Mississippi. He talked about farming, hunting, fishing, the trees they passed and the animals whose sign he found. Edgar nodded at the proper moments, and shook himself free of his thoughts now and then to ask a question, or point something out, but for the most part his thoughts were far away.
He should have been leaving for home. Virginia waited, and as ill as she was, he did not like losing any time with her – dark as it might be. He half-wished he'd not come on this fool's errand at all, but knew at the same time there was no choice involved. The minute he'd become aware of Grimm's strange cargo – it had fallen on him to find the end of the tale. If he could just have written it, he would have, but Lenore had changed that.
She brought a new dimension to the images. Before he'd had dreams, and shared pain with the denizens of shadowy half-realities. Once converted to words and pressed onto paper, they diminished, releasing him. This was different. This time he'd seen the girl's face. He knew that in some way it all related back to the Brothers Grimm, or at least so closely alike to what they'd written that there could be no doubt of a connection. It made him wish for a few moments to discuss the story with those esteemed siblings.
The connection meant that the story that had been started, and the true ending, had never been joined, and he found himself locked in the center of it all, moving toward that truth without care, toward what might happen when he arrived. It was usually not his lot to live the basis for his stories, but only to experience the melancholy and pain. That was another thing that seemed different. For once, he was unconvinced of a bleak outcome. In The Raven, there was a happy ending. In this reality, that ending was skewed, and yet, if he stretched the reality of it enough, the original story might be more of a map – or a key – even a prediction. The young man who fell in love with the princess did not meet her while she was yet a raven, but while she was trapped in an inaccessible prison.
And even while trapped, the princess was able to get out long enough to give her lover all the information he needed to free her. First, she sent him into temptation and bid him resist. In typical human fashion, he did not, and so, she sent him on a quest.
In the end, there were three keys, and Edgar could not help but believe that they were still in some way relevant. A staff – possibly a wand? – that allowed one to open doors. A cloak or some method of becoming invisible to the naked eye, and a magic steed that could cross any land or terrain to reach its objective. Very powerful objects indeed, and for the most part unlikely to exist, but as so many other things in life, these might be but symbols with much simpler, or complex explanations.
He wished he had time to sit and think it through. There might be any number of meanings behind the stick, and in the story to win the horse that enabled the hero to reach his love, he had to use his wits to best three brigands who were quarreling among themselves. It had all the signs of a truly grand puzzle, and the makings of a story unto itself.
The sun had risen directly overhead, and there was more light than there had been. Herons and Cranes abounded, fish jumped in nearby pools and streams, and more than once Edgar was stopped cold by the sound of branches breaking, or some other sound he could not immediately account for. None of it fazed Tom, who continued on down the barely discernible trail as if he were out
for a Sunday stroll. The deeper in they went, the more completely cut off they became from anything familiar or normal.
"This," Edgar said, stepping around the log of a rotted tree that had fallen across the trail, "must be what it was like for the first Europeans to visit here. If I didn't know we'd left scant hours ago from a well-lit tavern, I might convince myself this wilderness stretched forever."
"If you keep going the way we're headed," Tom said, "it might seem that way. The swamp is a big place, and Pa says – for the most part – the interior is unexplored. Things change in here, water shifts, patches of land that you remember from earlier trips are either in a different spot, or plumb gone. There's been men from down Old Mill way walked off into the swamp and was never heard from again. I even heard a fellow say he'd seen a thing in here, like a man, but hairy. I saw an ape in a circus once – sort of like that, he said, but tall like a man. I wouldn’t' want to meet it, whatever it was.
"There's a lake near here, Lake Drummond, where I don’t go unless I have to. Lots of folks fish there, and now and then someone hires a guide just to go in and see the trees. There's a cypress there looks so much like a deer folks say that’s exactly what it is. They claim hunters were chasing it, and it couldn't escape, so it changed itself into a tree and could never find its way back."
Edgar wondered briefly if Lenore would see that tree, and if so, if she would try to set the animal free as she'd done for so many others. He thought the answer was yes, and he had a sudden yearning to see that drawing…and her face.
To clear his thoughts, he said.
"I don't know a lot about your swamp, but I've heard of Lake Drummond. There's another legend associated with it that even a man living as far from here as I do would be familiar with it. They say there's the ghost of an Indian maiden, a girl who died just before she was to be wed, who haunts that place. I have a friend back home, a poet – and a minstrel, of sorts. His name is Thomas, like your own, Thomas Moore. He wrote about that girl, and her lover. I've heard him sing it.
Edgar then began to sing softly. His voice was not a great one, but he could carry a tune, and the memory of the song carried him back to other places, and other times.
Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe Page 9
