Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe

by David Niall Wilson

  Lenore nodded. She heard the words, but was already falling into the vision, and away. The easel rested between her knees, and her sketchpad was propped on it, open to a fresh page. She reached for a pencil, pressed it to the paper, and began to draw.

  Chapter Ten

  The afternoon passed quietly. Edgar felt as if he should be doing something, anything, but despite questioning Tom from every angle he could think of, he found no way through what was to come other than meeting Nettie, and no way to find Nettie other than to follow the stories he'd heard, and the odd ritual that lay ahead.

  It should have seemed silly, sitting at a rustic table in the middle of a swamp, wearing another man's clothing, waiting with a bottle of homemade moonshine for an old woman who he believed could lead him to the lost princess from a fairy tale, who, by the way had been traveling with him for more than a decade in a raven disguised as a crow. Even he couldn't see a way to spin it into a story anyone would believe. Except that it was true.

  The deeper the shadows grew, the deeper the chill that gripped his heart. Goosebumps stood out on his skin, and his brow felt clammy. He wanted to drink from his flask, but felt somehow that it would be wrong, that it might taint what was to come. He even looked longingly at the corn whiskey once or twice, wondering if sharing in the offering would compromise it.

  Tom had retired to the cabin. He'd started a fire, burning low, but enough to light the interior. Surprisingly, the boy knew how to read, and when he'd seen the copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales, his face had lit up so brightly that, reluctant as he was to let the volume out of his hands at this point, Edgar had been unable to deny him the use of it. He'd pointed out a couple of his favorites, and handed it over.

  The sun, which had warmed them so thoroughly during the day had hung over the tips of the trees for what seemed an eternity, and then, suddenly, dropped from sight, leaving a lingering reddish glow running down through the branches and underbrush. Everything about this place was slightly off-center from his experience.

  He'd placed the bottle, unstoppered, in the center of the table. To either side of it were the small glasses he always carried along with his flask. The liquid was clear as water, though in the bottle it had had a dirty, yellowish hue, and the small tendrils of sunglow still left to the evening glittered through it, leaving a spot of light on the table that started out round and elongated moment by moment. Edgar watched it, fascinated. He concentrated, wondered how long it would grow before it was too dim to make out, or the light was too low on the horizon to create it. It inched closer, and, just as his sight blurred from the effort of convincing himself it no longer existed, he heard the sound of pouring liquid and sat upright with a start.

  She was old. Her hair hung like silver silk over slender shoulders, and the garment she wore, not really a dress, but more of a tunic, draped loosely over a frame that seemed little more than bone. Her eyes, though, were deep and filled with mirth. She smiled, and, slowly, he regained his breath, and his wits.

  "Brought an old woman a drink, did you?" she said. "Carried it out to me all this way. A fine thing to do. But why have you come, Edgar Poe? Why have you chased shadows into my swamp? There are no stories here. The dreams will not come."

  "I…am not here for stories," Edgar said. "Grimm…the raven…carried a woman."

  "Your familiar?" she said, watching him carefully for a reaction. "Where is your partner? Your guide? He flies by night, where no bird belongs – and he sees things you will never see. Why have you come to me when you are already bonded to such as he?"

  "You know why," Edgar said. He saw that she'd poured two glasses, not just one, and he reached for his.

  "She is safe," the old woman sighed. "I will protect her. Why do you follow?"

  "There is always more to the story," Edgar said. "She did not turn herself into a crow, she was turned. There was another – a dark woman. She stole the girl, and all that was left was clues woven into a fairy tale. I do not know the rest of the story, but I have to believe that just because she has been freed, the telling is not done. If that dark one returned and stole the girl…"

  "She must have had a reason," Nettie said. "And why do you need to know it? Why is this story anything more than a story to you? Why do you care?"

  "Everything that has mattered in my life has been taken from me," he said, not sure why he told her this. "My wife is dying, and there is nothing that I can do for her. When I came to this place, I sought nothing but a new tale, something I could turn and twist to words, and to money. I could have gone straight through – they are expecting me. She is expecting me. Instead, I came here. And here…"

  "Everything changed," Nettie said. "Yes, I know, everything changes. It's the way of life, of the world. Some things change, some remain the same, some seem to change and others deceive in their semblance of normalcy. You know this. Your words pull the strings in the deepest shadows of men's hearts. You will be remembered, Edgar Allan Poe. You will touch generations. You do not belong in this story."

  "And yet," he said, "I am here, and there is no way out of a story except its ending. You are not the dark one. You are not the sorceress who captured the princess, and so, I wonder why you are here? Why do you protect her? What do you know that I do not know, and how can I trust that she is safe? She has been my companion, though I was unaware, and my dreams took me – Grimm took me – back. I may not have been written into the story when it was first penned, but that story was a diversion, and this – for all appearance to the contrary – is real."

  "Everything we see, or seem," Nettie said softly.

  "Yes," he said. "A dream within a dream."

  "Drink with me, Edgar Poe," Nettie said.

  And without really thinking about it, he did. The liquor was strong. He was used to cheap bar liquor, and watered drinks, but the bite of pure corn whiskey rushed down his throat like fire. The taste was earthy, with a hint of vegetation – a medicinal, chemical aftertaste, and a nearly blinding intensity. He coughed, but held it down, letting it settle and spread. He closed his eyes, fought for control, and as he did the world went dark. There was a sensation like air rushing past him, shifting through his hair and chilling his skin.

  He opened his eyes, and realized he was standing on the edge of the swamp. There was no waterway, but somehow he knew what it was that he saw. It was a similar sensation to the dreams and images he shared with Grimm, but intensified. He took a step forward. The ground felt solid, and the sun was high in the sky, far from setting as he'd seen it do less than an hour before.

  He heard a sound to his right and ducked into the trees. A moment later, three people appeared. One was a woman, tall, with dark hair. There were lines of silver running through it, but he could not determine her age. Her skin was smooth, but very pale. She scanned the trees with distaste.

  Her companions were men. One was old, probably in his forties, and the other much younger. The two stood behind and off to either side, as if waiting for orders. Each carried a large pack, and both were armed with long, sharp blades.

  "Here," she said. "We must enter here. We will have to find shelter, or make it. It will take time."

  The older man nodded.

  "Others may follow," the younger man said. "How far in?"

  The woman tilted her head. She raised her nose and breathed deep. Then she turned.

  "There is a lake," she said. "We will find the shore, and then we'll move inland far enough to remain out of sight. We'll have water, and there will be game. We must not be seen. Not yet."

  "And she will come?" the younger man asked. He lifted his gaze to the trees, scanned the sky and the clouds."

  "She is compelled," the woman said. "Wherever I go, wherever I lead, she cannot help but follow. Do you doubt me?"

  She did not step toward him or raise her voice, but something in her tone caused the man to step back. He dropped suddenly to one knee and lowered his head.

  "No, of course not. We will do as you bid. How far to the lake, lady?
"

  She smiled then, and Edgar had never seen an expression so devoid of humor, or emotion.

  "Two miles, perhaps a little more," she said.

  Then, without a backward glance, she stepped into the line of trees that bordered the swamp and disappeared. The two men hurried to catch up, and moments later, Edgar stood alone, watching the spot where the three had disappeared.

  Then, like a shadow of what had passed, he saw another slight form. It was a girl – a young girl. On her back she carried a quiver of arrows, a bow slung over her shoulder. She moved so quickly and silently that once she'd passed from sight, he had to convince himself she'd been there at all.

  Edgar took a deep breath, and, without considering the consequences, or wasting any thought on where he was, or how he'd come to be there, he followed them into the shadows. He'd come seeking answers – the only questions remaining were where had he come – when had he come – and how would he get back.

  The journey passed in a flash, much more quickly than he knew that it should have, as time took another sidestep from whatever reality he'd been dropped into. He saw the three pass along the shore of a lake. He knew it must be Lake Drummond – there was no other so large in The Great Dismal Swamp. He was tempted to study the shore in search of the deer he’d heard of, or to watch the waves for sign of the Indian maiden’s canoe. He did neither. He watched the woman, who was turning in a slow circle on the bank, as if momentarily confused. Finally she stopped and pointed, and the three set off toward the trees. Edgar was just about to slip out of his shadows and follow when the woman stopped short.

  Facing her, just inside the trees, but clearly visible, stood Nettie. At least, the woman who stood there appeared to be Nettie. She leaned on a tall staff, and was flanked by a young girl. Edgar could not tell if it was the same girl with the bow and arrow, but she was certainly very similar.

  The dark woman held out her hands to either side to prevent her companions from moving. She stood very still as Nettie stepped from the trees, stopped, and planted the staff in the soft earth. She regarded the intruders with a mixture of curiosity and distrust.

  "What do you want here?" Nettie asked. She didn't seem to speak loudly, but her voice carried. To Edgar it sounded as if she were standing just behind him, out of sight. It made his skin prickle.

  The dark woman took another step closer to Nettie. She stopped and smiled her empty smile.

  "I have come a long way," she said. "I seek asylum. There are men following me, and I cannot let them catch me, so I have come here, to the swamp, to hide, and to rest."

  Nettie cocked her head to the side, as if listening to a voice. She scowled, and then, unsmiling, returned her gaze to the dark woman.

  "Who are you," she said. "Tell me true, and tell me all, or you will not be welcome here."

  "They call me Estrella," the dark woman said. She took another slow step forward. She made no particular move that would indicate aggression, but Nettie stood suddenly taller, hands gripping the staff tightly.

  "And as for my story," she said. "I have told you all that there is to tell. I have powerful enemies, and they will track me, if they can. I have run as far, and as fast as I was able. This is a place, I am told, where one can come, and hide, and possibly start over."

  "Folks come here to hide," Nettie said. "Others come here to die, or be forgotten. Swamp is mostly a one-way trip. You will draw others, and still more after that. I will ask you one more time; tell me why you have come."

  Estrella dropped her arms. She looked tired – defeated. Her shoulders slumped, but Edgar saw, at the same time, that a long, slender blade slipped from her sleeve into the palm of her hand. A second later, she was moving forward.

  "Kill them," she cried, and the two men who accompanied her, blades drawn, darted toward the trees.

  Nettie stood her ground, unperturbed. The girl dropped back a step, drew her bow, notched an arrow and let it fly so quickly that the older man was stumbling backward, the arrow protruding from his forehead, before he'd taken a full step. The younger man was quicker. He dodged to the right, dropped low to the ground, and scuttled forward, his sword held before him.

  Estrella ran with the speed and grace of a much younger woman. As she moved, she seemed to grow. Her dress spread out like a gauzy cloud, like wings. She lost definition, shifted, and took on the aspect of a great bird.

  Nettie stood her ground.

  The girl flickered through the trees, stopped, spun, and shot. The young man swung his blade up, but he was too late. The arrow caught him in the throat, and he spun, falling back and away.

  Estrella paid no heed. She had risen as she moved, spread and darkened, and with a cry like that of a great predatory owl, she dove. Edgar watched in horror. Nettie stood very still, and he saw, though he was too far away to hear any words, that her lips were moving. There was an odd, yellowish glow seeping along the ground at her feet. It rose to the trees behind her in a rush, and circled her in a sphere of brilliant light.

  Edgar couldn't tell if that light was meant as some arcane weapon, or a shield against attack. It was clear that whatever it was, Estrella was not impressed. She dove like a dark streak. She struck the light, and it bowed, held, and she screamed again, pressing her attack.

  Nettie smiled. She slipped out of the light just as Estrella burst through. For an instant, Edgar saw nothing at all. The light was so bright it nearly blinded him, and it spread, like a match dropping into a keg of kerosene. There was no sound. It was more of a sudden lack of sound. Air, leaves, branches – energy – all of it was sucked into the point where Nettie had stood.

  Vines rose from the ground and whipped across that space. Trees bent double, their uppermost branches digging in like roots, and all the while the growing mass of light and vegetation contracted. A moment later, Edgar noticed that Nettie stood off to the side. She leaned easily on her staff, and she watched. The girl was back at her side. He glanced to where the two men had fallen. At first he saw nothing, and then he saw that there were raised mounds, strands of vines, tree roots, and weaving undergrowth. The mounds moved in a ponderous, relentless motion toward the trees.

  Edgar shifted his concentration back to Nettie. The glowing mass had dimmed some, but he didn't think it was because the power had lessened, or even that the light had lost intensity. It was the swamp. It closed in over the top, formed a pulsing orb of green and darkness. There was a final scream. It was primal, filled with rage. As the light was fully encased, the sound was choked, until at last all Edgar saw was Nettie, an old woman leaning on a staff, the trees, and a snarled mass of undergrowth.

  Nettie turned then, and stared straight at the point where he stood. His heart hammered, and sweat broke out on his brow, but she did not speak, or move toward him. Instead, unbelievably, she winked. Then she turned back and slapped the staff smartly against the vines and trees before her.

  At first nothing happened. Then, like the splitting of an eggshell, a crack ran down the sides of the mound. It shivered, shook, and then huge clumps of it crumbled and fell away. Nettie stepped back. The outer shell dropped from the mound like sand pouring through an hourglass. When it was finished, Edgar caught his breath.

  There was an old, gnarled cypress tree standing where Nettie had been scant moments before. There was no sign of the sorceress, Estrella, but the tree had a distinctly human shape. As he studied it, he saw the outline of her hair in the trailing vines, her outstretched arms, as if still diving forward to attack.

  Edgar stepped from the trees then. He couldn’t help himself. He started walking forward, and Nettie turned to meet his gaze. As he walked his sight blurred, and the world tilted. Dizziness stole his balance, and he toppled forward. He tried to raise his arms to stop his fall, but he felt heavy and sluggish. He closed his eyes and turned his head, readying himself for the pain of impact. It never came.

  He raised his head and sat up straight.

  The night had deepened. Someone had lit a candle, and the flame f
lickered, sending shadows dancing over the old wood porch. The light flickered over the glass of the moonshine bottle. The level of clear liquid had dropped considerably.

  He turned then, expecting to find the chair across from him empty, but Nettie sat watching him with her eyes bright and inquisitive.

  Edgar poured another small drink, trusting that it was not the liquor that had caused his vision. He tossed it back and closed his eyes for a moment before speaking.

  “You captured her – in a tree.”

  It wasn’t a question. He had heard the story of the woman and the tree, Lake Drummond, the trapped spirits that were so familiar to Lenore. This was only an extension of the knowledge he'd gained over the past few days.

  “How long?”

  “You do not want to know that answer,” Nettie said. “If I told you, there would be too many more questions. What is important is that I knew why she had come. She would have lured the girl – and she would have stolen her youth, and her royal blood. If all had gone as she’d planned, she would have returned to rule in a land far from this place, killing, damning, and destroying all who got in her way. I read her – I judged her. This is my place. She should not have come.”

  “And now?” Edgar asked. “Surely her chance to rule has passed? The girl is safe?”

  “As long as that dark one is trapped,” Nettie said, “the girl is safe. Time has a way of bending and folding. I do not know what might happen if she were allowed to complete her spell. It does not matter – she is trapped.”

  Edgar tried to clear his thoughts. Something was bothering him. To buy time, he asked. “What about the deer? Did you trap the deer as well?”

  He saw a flicker of emotion pass over Nettie’s eyes then. Pain? Regret?

  “No,” she said simply. “He is an old…companion of mine. You will understand – you with your fine old bird. He drew too near to her – to my spell. She somehow found the power to twist what I had wrought, and she captured him. I cannot release him without setting her free. He would not want it.”