Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe (2 page)

A breeze blew in through the open window, and she shivered.

The face she was working on was that of an older man.
 
He had a sharp, beak of a nose and deep-set shadowed eyes.
 
The expression on his face might have been surprise, or dismay.
 
His hair was formed of strands of gray cloud blended with small twigs and wisps of fog as she carefully entered the details.

There were others.
 
She'd counted five in all, just in that one glimpse of the swamp.
 
She thought she could probably sit right here, at this window, and work for years without capturing them all.
 
How many lives lay buried in the peat moss and murky water?
 
How many had died, or been killed beside the long stretch of the Intercoastal Waterway?
 
She tilted her head and listened.
 
The breeze seemed to carry voices from far away, the sound of firing guns, the screams of the lost and dying.

She worked a woman's features into a knotted joint in one of the tree’s branches.
 
The face was proud.
 
Her lip curled down slightly at the edge, not so much in a frown, as in determination.
 
Purpose.
 
From the strong cheekbones and distinctive lines of the woman's nose, Lenore sensed she'd been an Indian. How had she come here, soul trapped fluttering up through the sticky fingers of the ancient trees?

Around her, the sounds of revelry, arguments of drunken, belligerent men, clink of glasses, full and empty, and the sound of a lone guitar in a far corner surrounded her.
 
She felt cut off – isolated in some odd way from everyone, and everything but the paper beneath her fingers.
 
Now and then she paused, reached out for her glass, and sipped her wine.

No one troubled her and that in and of itself, was odd.
 
A woman – an
attractive
woman – alone in a place like the Halfway House was an oddity.
 
She should have been a target.
 
She was not.
 
A few men glanced her way, but something about her – the way she bent over her work, the intensity of her focus – kept them away.
 
She worked steadily, and one by one, the others drifted out the doors, some to rooms, others to wander about with bottles and thoughts of their own.
 
Eventually, there were only a few small groups, talking quietly, the bartender, and the girl.

There was nothing more she could do.
 
She had drawn an eerily accurate recreation of the trees over the waterway, and of the five faces she'd found trapped in their branches.
 
She sensed things about them but knew little. She did not need to know. She knew that she had to set them free, to allow them to move on to the next level.
 
Something had bound them – some power, or some part of themselves they were unwilling to release.
 
They did not belong, and though she knew that most of the world either ignored, or did not sense these things at all – she did.
 
All those trapped, helpless beings weighed on her spirit like stones.
 
She was fine until she saw them, but once that happened, she was bound to set them free.
 
It was her gift – her curse?
 
Sometimes the two were too closely aligned to be differentiated.

She rose, drained the last of the wine in her cup, and gathered her pencils.
 
She tucked the drawing into the pocket of a leather portfolio, careful not to smudge it.
 
Soon, it would not matter, but until she'd had a chance to finish her work, it was crucial that nothing be disturbed.

The girl, who had been busy wiping the spilled remnants of ale, wine, and the night from the various tables and the surface of the bar, wandered slowly over.

"I'm in the corner room," Lenore said, smiling.
 
"The one farthest in on the Carolina side."

The girl nodded.
 
She glanced over at the bartender, then turned back.

"I will come as soon as I can."
 
She glanced down at the portfolio.
 
"You have finished?"

Lenore nodded, but only slightly.
 
"I have finished the basic drawing, yes."

"He was a bad man," the girl said.
 
"A very bad man.
 
I have never seen him there – in the trees – before tonight.
 
I don't like that he watches."

"After tonight, he will not," Lenore said, reaching to lay her hand on the girl's shoulder.
 
"But I'd love to know who he is – who he was.
 
I seldom know the faces I've drawn.
 
You saw him – in my drawing, and in the trees.
 
Most see nothing but branches."

"I will come soon," the girl said, turning and hurrying back toward the bar.

Lenore watched her go, frowned slightly, and then turned.
 
She had to exit through the front door and follow a long porch along the side of the building where it turned from the saloon in the center to a line of rooms on the Carolina side.
 
There were similar rooms on the Virginia side, but her business was in the swamp, and the corner room gave her a better view of what lay beyond.

As she made her way to her room, she heard the steady drum of hooves.
 
She stopped, and turned.
 
A carriage had come into view, winding in from the main road that stretched between the states.
 
It was dark, pulled by a pair of even darker horses.
 
She stood still and watched as it came to a halt.
 
Something moved far above, and she glanced up in time to see a dark shape flash across the pale face of the moon.
 
A bird?
 
At night?

She glanced back to the carriage to see it pulling away into the night.
 
A single figure stood, his bag in one hand.
 
He glanced her way, nodded, and then turned toward the main door of the saloon.
 
He was thin, with dark hair and eyes.
 
It was hard to make his features out in the darkness, but somehow she saw into those eyes.
 
They were filled with an odd, melancholy sadness.
 
As he passed inside, it seemed as if his shadow remained, just for a moment, outlined in silvery light.
 
Then it was gone.

Lenore shook her head, turned, and hurried to the door to her room.
 
She fumbled the key from her jacket pocket, jammed it into the lock, and hurried inside.
 
She had no idea why the sight of the man had unnerved her, but it had.
 
And the bird.
 
If she'd woken from a dream, she'd have believed she was meant to set him free…but she was very, very awake, and though her fingers itched to draw – to put his image on paper and tuck it away somewhere safe, she knew she could not.
 
Not now – not yet.
 
There was not much time before dawn, and she still had work to finish – and a story to hear.
 
The stranger, if she ever returned to him, would have to wait.

She lit the oil lamp on the single table in her small room, opened the portfolio, and laid the drawing on the flat surface.
 
There was a small stand nearby, and another bottle of wine rested there.
 
She had two glasses, but had not known at the time why she'd asked for them.
 
Another vision?
 
She poured one for herself, and replaced the cork.

Moments later, there was a soft rap on the door.
 
When she opened it, the girl stood outside, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and looking up and down the long porch as if fearing to be seen.

"Come in," Lenore said.

The girl did so, and Lenore closed the door behind them.

"What shall I call you?" she asked, trying to set the girl at ease.
 
Something had her spooked and it would simply not do to have the girl bolt without spilling her story.

"Anita," the girl said shyly, glancing at Lenore. "I am Anita."

"I'm glad to meet you," Lenore said, "and very curious to hear what you have to say about the man you saw in the trees.
 
I see them all the time, you know.
 
In trees, bushes, sometimes in the water or a stone.
 
It's not very often that I meet another who is aware of them – even less often that I have a chance to hear their stories."

"It is not a good story," Anita said.
 
"He was a very bad man."

Lenore smiled again.
 
"He's not a man any longer, dear, so there is nothing to fear in the telling.
 
Would you like a glass of wine?"

The girl nodded.
 
Lenore poured a second glass from her bottle and handed it over.

"Sit down," she said.
 
"I still have work to do, and I can work as you talk.
 
It will relax me."

"I will tell you," Anita said, perching lightly on the corner of the bed, "but it will not relax you."

"Then it will keep me awake," Lenore said, seating herself at her desk.
 
"You see, I don't just see those who are trapped, I have to undo whatever it is that has them trapped.
 
I won't be finished until I've freed them all."

The girl glanced sharply over, nearly spilling her drink.

"Maybe…maybe it is best if this one stays."

Lenore pulled out her pencils, and a gum eraser.

"We'll leave him for now," she said.
 
"There are four others, and I can only work on one at a time.
 
Tell me your story."

Anita took a sip of her wine, and nodded.
 
"His name is Abraham Thigpen.
 
He died about a year ago but I remember it like today…"

Lenore listened, and worked, rearranging branches, shifting the wood slightly, picking the strong woman's face to release from the pattern first.
 
Anita's voice droned in the background – and she faded into the story, letting it draw her back across the years as she carefully disassembled her drawing, working the faces free.

T
he carriage pulled away, heading back to the main road and on into the plantations of southern Virginia.
 
Edgar watched it for a moment, wishing he were continuing on, and then turned toward the main door of the Halfway House.
 
He'd written ahead for a room, but had not been in Raleigh long enough to wait for a reply.
 
Besides, the Lake Drummond Hotel was not the sort of place that catered to amenities such as reservations.
 
You could let them know you were coming, but there was literally no way of knowing what you'd walk into when you arrived.

The tavern was nearly empty when he stepped inside.
 
There was a young boy sweeping the floor, and behind the bar, an older man with well-combed gray hair and a silver mustache who was placing dried and polished glasses on the shelves.
 
The man turned as Edgar entered.

"We're closed, I'm afraid," he said.

"I'm here for a room?" Edgar said.
 
He stepped forward.
 
"I wrote ahead.
 
I'm hoping you aren't full, as I need to remain for several days, if possible."

The bartender dropped his towel on the bar and smiled.

"Ah," he said.
 
"Mr. Poe.
 
We were expecting you, but I thought you'd arrive tomorrow in the day.
 
We held a room for you, the last empty room available.
 
I was beginning to regret not renting it."

Edgar let out a breath.
 
"Thank you for holding it," he said.
 
"I'm afraid I don't have any way to leave, so I took something of a chance."

"Tom," the bartender called to the boy with the broom. "Show Mr. Poe to his room – it's the one right next to the corner, beside Miss
MacReady's
quarters.
 
And mind you, don't make too much noise.
 
The hour is late, and I imagine she's gone off to sleep."

"Not that one," the boy said.
 
He grinned.
 
"She's up all hours – seen the light from her window on my way home a couple'a times."

The bartender frowned.
 
"Never you mind that," the man said.
 
"Do as you're told.
 
And speaking of home, run off when you're done.
 
I don't want you missing an hour's sleep and playing the slacker come tomorrow."