Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe (10 page)

Grimm had changed.
 
She knew that she could not draw the raven; she had to recreate the crow.
 
She had to drop back under the control of a broken glamour and bring back what she'd helped to shatter.
 
She tried to relax, but her fingers gripped the pencil so tightly her knuckles whitened and she feared the shaft of the pencil would break, sending the tip skittering across the page.
 
She controlled it.

No one in the room made a sound.
 
Anita stood back, breathless.
 
Edgar waited, the silent bird held in the open palms of his hand, as if offering a benediction.
 
Tom just stared, wide-eyed, uncertain what he'd been drawn into but aware enough to play his part and do nothing to spoil the moment.

The world grew still.
 
It is possible that it was simply the gravity of the moment and the depth of their concentration, joined in a single wish – a single work – but all four would swear to the end of their days that something closed around them, something that prevented the world from realizing something remarkable was happening, while at the same time helping them hold onto the spirit they fought for, the inexplicably intelligent and powerful spirit of a bird – a single small, dark bird.

Lenore worked quickly and with abandon.
 
She spent no time staring at the page, or worrying at details.
 
She knew them, or she did not, but it was a race against time, her gift against entropy and the slowly leaking energy she had to contain.
 
The feathers returned.
 
The glistening quality, darkening where strong, avian legs began, the shape of the woman's face, blanked from the center of the original image, disappeared.
 
She thought about the morning.
 
She though how happy she'd been, drawing the bird for the sheer joy of drawing, drawing it so she could show what she'd done to Edgar – possibly even to Grimm – who knew what the bird saw, or felt, or appreciated?

She remembered how the sun had wound through the trees and played across the window.
 
She let the memory of the scent of hot coffee, bacon, and hot bread return to her.
 
She heard voices, though no one around her spoke, and she drew.
 
Her hand flew across the page, returning lines, shading, highlights and subtle background shading.
 
As she worked she forgot, even, to breathe.
 
There was not much to do.
 
It was such a small yet complicated task, a one-shot succeed or fail moment in time.

It seemed to her that it took an age to complete the work.
 
She threw the pencil over her shoulder to distance it from the page.
 
She pushed away from the table and stood, staring down at what she'd recreated.
 
The image of the bird and the girl stood, staring at her from the windowsill with beady, knowing eyes.
 
Just for an instant she was certain she saw herself reflected in those dark, glossy surfaces.

And then it was gone.
 
All of it.
 
The energy drained from the room.
 
The walls seemed to draw in on them, shrinking the space where they stood.
 
The light returned to that of late morning.
 
She looked around the room.
 
The others blinked and stared, as if waking from a shared dream.

It took only seconds to re-focus on Edgar.
 
She walked over slowly and raised her hands beneath his.
 
He stared down at the bird he held intently.
 
There was no emotion in that gaze, no animation at all.
 
His concentration was intense.
 
Moments later, Anita and Tom both stepped close as well, joining their hands beneath the still body.
 
They held their thoughts and kept their voices silent.

And then, with a shudder that nearly stopped their hearts, the bird grew stiff, stretched its wings, and very suddenly opened its eyes.
 
They stared, and Grimm stared back.
 
Then, with a shift so quick they could barely follow the motion the raven stood in the center of Edgar's palm.
 
It turned so that it met each of their gazes in turn, then spun slowly and glanced up at Edgar.
 
Without warning, or ceremony, it let out a raucous cry and shook, sending a cloud of feathers and fluff into the air to float around them like a cloud.

Edgar's expression, so taut and unreadable seconds before, melted to a bright, delighted smile.

"Is he…" Lenore asked.

She knew Edgar would understand what she meant.
 
It was one thing that the bird lived, but the question remained whether or not the two of them would retain their connection.
 
None of them understood that bond – not really.
 
Even Edgar, who was a part of it, had stumbled into it.
 
Only the bird seemed unperturbed.
 
It squawked again and hopped from Edgar's hand to perch on his shoulder, turning to face the room.
 
Then, without warning, and very clearly, the bird bowed.

Edgar laughed.

"I could not have put it more eloquently, old friend," he said.
 
"It's going to take some getting used to, this new look of yours, but I think it suits you."

Grimm ruffled his wings and began preening.
 
Edgar turned to Lenore.

"Thank you.
 
I don't know what I would have done…"

"There is no need for thanks," she said.
 
"I can no more turn from the tasks appointed to me, I think, than you."

"I don't mean to speak out of turn," Anita said, "but – the girl?
 
The princess, if that is who was trapped – where did she go?"

"Princess?" Tom said.
 
"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Poe, but I sure would like to know what's going on here, and what kind of trouble I've gotten into.
 
I'll already be late getting back to the tavern, but…"

Edgar turned to him.

"Why did you come?" he asked.
 
"I mean, if you didn't know that Grimm was in trouble, but you came about 'my bird,' what drew you here?"

"He saved me," Tom said.
 
"I mean, the bigger bird, the other…"

"It is one and the same," Edgar said.
 
"I don't believe you have time now for the entire story, but possibly soon.
 
What do you mean he saved you?"

"There was snake.
 
I had gone out back of the tavern to dump my morning sweepings.
 
I wasn't watching where I was going.
 
We have a pile of wood, and just past that is where we dump the trash.
 
Once a week, I bring the mule and the wagon and carry it off.

"Most days I watch pretty careful around there, being so close to the water and all, but today I wasn't payin' attention.
 
One more step, and I'd have stepped on that thing – water moccasin as big around as a rake handle.
 
It reared up to go for me, and there was a flash – faster than I would have believed possible.
 
That crow grabbed the snake, lifted it up and dropped it back in the trees.
 
Scared the soul out of me."

They all turned to Grimm, but the bird paid no attention to them.
 
It was lost in a fit of grooming, and apparently unconcerned with praise.

"I just came to thank you," Tom said.
 
He fidgeted from one foot to the other, and it was hard to tell if he spoke to Edgar, or to the bird.

"Grimm is a brave and loyal friend," Edgar said solemnly.
 
"He must have taken to you.
 
Possibly it was the corn.
 
In any case, I must ask you a favor, for me, for the ladies, and for Grimm – for that is his name.
 
I don't believe you've been properly introduced.
 
I must ask that you say absolutely nothing of what you've seen and heard here to anyone.
 
You may talk freely to those of us who are present, when you are in private, but no one must know that strange things happened here.
 
They would not understand, and it could go badly for us all."

Tom nodded.
 
"You can count on me sir.
 
I'd best be going.
 
They'll already wonder where I got off to.
 
If you don't mind, though, I'd sure like to hear the story of the princess, if there really is one."

Edgar leaned forward and rumpled the boy's hair.

"You can count on it," he said.
 
"Anyone who knows me will tell you that there is nothing I like better than to share a good story."

Tom shook his head, and ran for the door.
 
He was out and gone seconds later, and they heard the heavy pounding of his feet as he tore up the porch toward the tavern.

"I will be missed, as well," Anita said. "I told them I was going to take my lunch and go for a walk."

"I am willing to bet," Lenore said softly, "you have traveled farther than you intended, even if it was just a story for idle ears.
 
Run on.
 
You can return tonight if you want.
 
We may all have more to talk about – assuming the story has yet to reach its end."

"I sense that it has not," Edgar said.
 
"I believe rest is in order.
 
I could do with a nap, and I am sensing my friend here feels the same.
 
I have no idea how to proceed from this point, but I am now convinced that the proper path will stretch itself out before us.
 
Despite my intentions of coming here to finish up some writing, and yours – whatever they originally entailed – we have been anything but in control of our fates since meeting."

Lenore glanced at her drawing kit, and the drawing of Grimm and at the scattered utensils that had fallen from the table.
 
She nodded.

"You are right, of course." she said.
 
"But you must take this."

She carefully lifted the portrait of the crow from the table.
 
She wrapped it deftly around two fingers and rolled with her thumbs until the portrait was a tube.
 
She reached into her open drawing kit and produced a bit of ribbon, which she wound around the paper and tied in a quick bow.
 
She held it out.

Edgar hesitated, and then took it with a nod.

"Perhaps it is safer this way," he said. "There is power in your art, and no way to truly know how much of it remains in the lines of this image.
 
I will cherish it."

Grimm let out a soft caw and, once again, bowed.

Edgar turned and studied him a moment, then shook his head.

"New roads await," he said.
 
"Another reminder for the weary of heart."

Lenore laughed.

"Will you dine with me this evening?" she said.
 
"I'd like to tell
you
a story.
 
I want you to know why I'm here, and what it is I hope to do.
 
It's been a long time since I had anyone I could confide in without being considered a witch or a crazy woman."

"I'd be delighted," Edgar said. Then, with a quick flourish, he matched Grimm's bow, nearly unseating the bird in the process.
 
"Until this evening."

A moment later, he was gone.
 
Lenore stared at the closed door, and turned her head at a quizzical angle for just a moment, as if trying to figure something out.
 
Then she turned and gathered up her things, packing them carefully away.
 
Whatever might come of the evening, she'd not be drawing again this day.

When her room was straightened she lay back across her bed and put her arm over her eyes to block the late afternoon sun trickling in around the curtains.

As she drifted off to sleep, Anita's words returned to her.

"The princess – if that's who was trapped – where did she go?"

Darkness found her before any answers, and she dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

E
dgar woke to the sound of men shouting.
 
He sat up quickly and tried to orient himself.
 
The sun had nearly disappeared from the sky, tipping the trees beyond his window in deep gold, but supplying little light.
 
The voices sounded again, and he heard a commotion out in back of the building.
 
He rose quickly, straightened his clothing and hair as best he could, and turned toward the door.
 
Then he stopped.

A quick search located Grimm on top of one end of the curtain rod.

"Are you well enough to fly, old friend?" Edgar said.
 
"I could leave you here."

Grimm landed on the table with a thump and glanced at the window.