Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe (14 page)

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 place 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.

"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
t
he trees, and was gone.

E
dgar 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.