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

by David Niall Wilson

  Her voice had choked up at this last. Edgar slowly poured a little more of the moonshine into each of their glasses. He lifted his, and was about to ask another question, when it hit him like a stone to the head.

  “My God,” he said. “Lenore.”

  He didn’t say another word, but as if his thoughts were nothing more than a book lying open on the table before her, Nettie gasped, and her eyes went wide.

  “She will set her free,” Edgar said. “She will not know what she is doing, but she will be compelled. She was drawn here by visions and by dreams.”

  “You have to stop her,” Nettie said. “I will protect the girl. I can still handle the dark one, now that I know she’s coming, but she will be more powerful. If she is reaching through my spell to draw others to the swamp, hiding their intent and their power from me, she has learned, and gathered her strength. You must be careful, and you must be swift. If you don’t stop her I can still protect the girl – perhaps, I can protect you. The other – Lenore you called her? She will be lost.”

  The door behind Edgar swung open slightly, and Edgar turned. In that instant – the second his gaze did not fall directly upon her – Nettie disappeared. The bottle and what remained of its contents had also vanished.

  “Gods,” Edgar cursed. He rose, nearly toppling the table in his haste.

  “We must leave,” he said to Tom, who’d stepped confusedly onto the porch. “We must go now, and swiftly. I have to reach the banks of Lake Drummond."

  Chapter Eleven

  Lenore had never felt such intensity while working on a drawing. She should have been done hours before. Normally, she would have settled for a fraction of the detail she'd already included, and still, even as she expanded the lines and shading, her pencil darted back to something that was not quite perfect, inserted a line here, or a shadow there that could be rendered with more clarity.

  Anita had been back to check on her three times, but she had never even glanced up from her work. She felt the intrusion, and the shadow that crossed over the paper, but she could not draw herself from the trance the drawing had created. The lighting shifted as the sun rose to its zenith and dropped toward the horizon, but she did not falter. Though the shadows shifted, her memory supplied the details, and she drew, though her fingers were on the verge of cramping, and she feared if she gripped the pencil any tighter, it would shatter.

  She knew that something was wrong, or, at least that something was different. When she had released spirits in the past, it had been a detached, very personal act. This was an entirely new experience. It had been her will that pressed her to the task, her stamina and talent against fatigue and time. She felt the shell of the tree crumbling as she drew, felt tendrils of thought working their way out to meld with her own. Whoever, or whatever, was trapped was taking an active part in the escape, and she didn't know if she approved, or if she should be fighting with every ounce of her strength, pushing the pencil to fail in its task, dragging herself up and away to run and run and never look back. In the end, it did not matter what she thought; she did what she had come there to do. She drew, and her mind was filled with the image. It was all she could do to maintain surface control of her senses, and her actions.

  She was beginning to pick up leaked thoughts and memories from the woman trapped in the tree. It was a wild rush of emotion. Hatred, pain, regret, frustration, and behind every bit of it an overwhelming aura of power and strength of will. Lenore tried to create a mental shield against it. She distracted herself by trying to insert other images, faces, remembering the words to Edgar's story as he'd told it.

  That proved a mistake. As the words of the Brothers Grimm's The Raven wove into her thoughts, the trapped woman gripped them and twisted them savagely. The castle shifted from the storybook vision Lenore had constructed in her imagination to a stern, Gothic structure that almost seemed carved into the cliff side of a mountain. A road wound down from the keep toward a village below, obscured in wispy clouds of fog and shadows. There was a light in one tower window, and almost as if she'd been flung at it, the image enlarged and focused so rapidly it caused a sharp spike of pain.

  She stared in through an open slit in a heavily curtained window. The hall beyond that window was large. There were squat, thick thrones set at either end of a long table that ran the length of the room. A man, presumably a king, or a lord, sat at the head of the table. Across the long expanse, a cold, haughty woman with thin, severe features sat – his queen? Behind, and to the left of the king, another figure stood. She was tall, slender, and very dark. Her hair, her eyes, even the robes she wore blended tightly to the shadows.

  Lenore heard no voices, but the vision grew clearer with each passing second. The man finished his meal and rose. He waved to the shadows. The dark woman stepped forward, and then, from the opposite side, two men in uniform appeared, bearing weapons and armor. The lord held his arms out, and they dressed him for war, quickly and efficiently.

  At the other end of the table, the woman sat staring in obvious disapproval. The dark woman leaned forward and whispered something to the lord, who nodded. Fully girded in chain mail, a great sword tucked into the scabbard at his side, he turned toward the woman at the far end of the table, who rose stiffly and approached. He reached out a hand, now gauntleted, and she placed hers upon it.

  Sound slowly faded into the growing clarity of the vision. As if from very far away, or down an echoing corridor, Lenore heard him speak.

  "I will return before the winter is upon us. The borders must be defended. In my absence, your word shall be law."

  The woman nodded.

  "You will – or course – take council where it is proper. Estrella has been my eyes and ears in the village, and is a wise advisor. Trust her."

  Again, the woman nodded, but as she did, she sent a glance toward Estrella that, had it been a solid blow, would have shattered her like glass.

  "Is it only the affairs of the court that she advises you on, husband?" the woman asked. Her tone was light – devoid of emotion – but sharp as a blade.

  He glared at her.

  "You will do well to heed my wishes," he said. "Where is Adela? I would say farewell to my daughter."

  "As you wish," the woman said. She turned and left the room.

  Once she had departed, the dark woman stepped forward.

  "She will never abide my council. I should travel with you. I could be ready in under an hour."

  "You cannot. If you did, any suspicions she might have would be lent the weight of truth. I need you here to look after things, to be certain no harm befalls my daughter."

  Estrella's eyes smoldered with frustrated anger.

  "If you leave me with her, she will have her revenge. She is not so frail, or so innocent as you believe. I might be your advisor, but she is queen."

  "You will do as I say," he said. "That is the end to it."

  He turned then, as the queen returned with their daughter. He did not see the bright flash of anger that crossed Estrella's features, he had already dismissed her. In that moment, he only had eyes for the princess.

  Adela was a small wisp of a child with bright blue eyes and hair that shone like braided gold. Behind her, a younger woman followed nervously, as if ready to throw herself to the floor and break the fall should the girl trip. Farther back the queen watched, her expression melting from disdain to hatred to anger, and directed at the back of her husband's head. Then she cast a glance at Estrella, and all indecision left her expression. Nothing but cold, calculated hatred remained.

  The warrior lord dropped to one knee and engulfed his daughter in his arms. He leaned close, tickling her with his whiskers and after a few moments the girl was squirming and laughing. When he stood, he lifted her in a great hug.

  "You will care for your mama while I am away, little one?"

  "Yes, papa," the girl said. Then she giggled again.

  Just for a moment, the hatred the queen directed at Estrella shifted to the girl, now tinged
with jealousy. The king placed his daughter on the floor once more and patted her head, then turned to his wife. He tried to embrace her in the same way, but she stiffened, and though she returned his kiss, there was no emotion behind it. He stared at her a moment longer, then stepped away. Without a backward glance, he turned and strode from the room, the two guards falling in behind him, and only the women, the child's maid, and the little girl remained. The great door slammed with a booming thud.

  No one spoke. The nurse maid gathered the princess into her arms, and backed out of the room. Neither the queen, nor Estrella spoke. After several moments of this, the dark woman bowed, and slipped back into the shadows, leaving the queen alone. When she was certain the others had left, the woman went into a rage. She dashed plates and goblets from the table, sent wine spilling in all directions, screeched like a banshee and finally crumple to a heap on her knees before the throne.

  Then, very slowly, she rose. She composed herself. She left the room, and the image faded. Lenore felt a sudden rush of wind about her, and vertigo nearly caused her to pass out. Raucous cries surrounded her, and she saw the castle far below. Then, without warning, she dove. She tried to close her eyes, but was not in control of the eyes she used. The dive became a long, swooping circle, and then, with suddenness she felt should bring a sharp collision, but felt like a dropping onto a cloud, she stood on two long awkward feet, staring into the dimly lit interior of a different room – this one a tower chamber.

  She had no time to reflect on the shifts in balance or perspective afforded by her sudden change. Within the chamber, she saw the woman, Estrella, and the little girl, Adela – the princess. The former paced the room, glancing anxiously out the windows at the night sky, the latter sitting quietly on the bed playing with a bit of ribbon.

  Estrella crossed the chamber rapidly and pushed on the door to her chamber. It didn't open. She pounded her fists against the huge, solid panels, but they barely even made a sound, and they did not move. Leaving the door, she rushed to the window, directly where Lenore sat watching. She fought to back away, to drop off the ledge and take flight. She did not understand the mechanics of her new form, but felt the instinct of her host kicking in. She could not control it; it sat as if mesmerized, staring in through the window. Estrella's eyes blazed and she threw open the window, reaching blindly into the dark.

  There was a cry from above. Like a ball of darker shadow, another winged form crashed onto the sill. It struck Lenore and she felt herself topple backward off the ledge. At first, there was nothing but rushing air, the sky above spiraled with stars, alight with the cloud-dimmed moon. Then whatever joined her to the bird and the story, the night and the wind failed with an audible SNAP and she was back on the shore of Lake Drummond. She realized that the snap must be the pencil she held, and she gasped glancing at the paper. It was fine. She'd pulled back, as the bird fell. She was no longer pressing the lead to the paper, and the drawing – the first stage was complete. She had the woman, trapped, all the nearly magical detail her talent could draw from lead and paper. All that remained was to set her free.

  Except now it no longer seemed the proper thing to do. Her gift – her art – depended on changing the ending. She knew the story now – several versions of it – but the ending she was capable of providing, that where Estrella walked from the prison that had somehow been used to capture her, frightened Lenore more than anything had ever frightened her. She did not want to be the one to loose such a force on the Earth, or the swamp, her friends, or herself.

  Fairy Tales, it seemed, could have their origin in reality, just like any other fiction. The problem with fairy tales was that they were put together in a formula that called for a great good, and a great evil, and what she had just created – what she intended, despite all her efforts to break free and turn her back on it, or destroy it – was to set that evil free.

  She fought it. Before she could complete the ritual, she would have to unbind the image of the woman from that of the tree. She knew she had only one shot at it, and that if she could manage to mar the work, or destroy it, the moment would pass. It angered her to be drawn in, for her abilities to be shanghaied by some ancient evil that saw her only as a tool, or a key.

  She heard a cry, far away and very high in the sky. She managed to turn her gaze from her drawing for a moment, but it was too dark to make out anything overhead.

  "Lady?"

  Anita had come close.

  "I have to – finish," Lenore said, fighting each word, but unable to prevent herself. "We'll need to make a fire – get some light."

  "We did not pack everything we need to camp," Anita said. "We have a little food, and some water…"

  "The fire," Lenore said. "We'll be fine."

  Anita stared at her for a long moment. Lenore silently hoped the girl would see the terror in her eyes, feel the change that had come over her and realize that something had gone wrong. If she had help – if she could somehow destroy, or ruin her work, there might be a chance to escape, to warn Edgar…and the girl.

  Then Anita nodded, and turned away. As their joined gaze broke, Lenore prayed the girl would hear the soft pop as she did, and would turn back, but instead, Anita knelt, grabbed several pieces of driftwood, and began to build a fire.

  Lenore turned back to the paper, dropped the broken pencil, and reached to her bag for her eraser. She listened, but, the raven's cry did not repeat.

  Chapter Twelve

  Edgar tried to tell Tom what had happened, mixed up with bits and pieces of the original Grimm brothers Fairy Tale and the new version from his vision, but it came out in an unintelligible jumble, so he settled for galvanizing the boy into action. He had no idea how to get to the lake from where they were, whether they'd have to backtrack to the waterway and take the other path, but he knew they had to hurry. The sun was gone, and had been for some time. If Lenore started drawing the minute she got to the tree, it was probably already too late, but they had a connection, and he still felt it – so he believed that it was not.

  He heard Grimm cry out from far above, and he glanced up. The bird banked and circled, sliced down through the trees and landed on the porch railing. There was none of the restless shuffling, or irritated cocking of the head in the creature's demeanor. It met Edgar's gaze with an intensity that seemed to sear into his brain.

  Tom banged out the door with their packs, hurriedly re-filled with all that had been emptied from them, and Edgar slung his over his shoulder.

  "Where do we go?" he asked. "Can we get to the lake from here?"

  "Sure," Tom said. "Folks who use this cabin come here to hunt and fish. We're not far, and I've walked there before, but I never done it in the dark."

  Edgar nodded.

  "Start us in the right direction," he said. "We have Grimm – he can watch to keep us on the trail. We have to hurry. We have to get there before she finishes. "

  "Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Poe," Tom said, "but it's dark out now. How could she still be drawing?"

  Edgar glanced down, thought about it, and then turned his gaze back to the swamp."

  "I have spent the greater part of my adult life writing by lamplight or candle flame. If the work is not finished, she is still working on it, and we have to get there before it's complete. I have the distinct impression that if we wait until she is finished we'll know soon enough."

  "We'll come out around the shore from her," Tom said, shouldering his pack and jumping down from the porch. "Maybe they'll have a fire to lead us when we get closer. What do we do when we find her?"

  "I have no idea," Edgar said.

  Tom turned and started off toward the swamp. Edgar squared his shoulders and followed. Grimm, without a sound, glided up to land on Edgar's shoulder, gripping the collar of his jacket.

  The trail they followed was not as wide, or as well-used as the one they'd followed from the waterway. Gnarled roots snaked across the ground, fallen branches blocked the way. Edgar started slowly, having a hard time keeping Tom
in sight, but as they progressed, he sensed something odd in their surroundings, something comforting and protective.

  Though the ground was uneven, vines seemed to slither out of the way. Branches bent up or out – even holes and small ditches appeared to smooth as they passed. He sped his steps, and in a moment, though it brought a stitch to his side, and his heart to a hammering beat, he was running. Tom somehow sensed the right pace. He pushed, but not too hard, and he never got out of range, or left Edgar behind.

  It only took a few steps of the jostling lurching run to send Grimm airborne. The old bird shot straight up until he cleared the tops of the trees, and then leveled off, pointing like the arrow on a compass to show where the path led. It wasn't necessary. Even parts of the path so choked with recent growth they would've needed a machete to clear them crumbled and fell away before them.

  Though he had been more exhausted than he could ever remember being a short hour before, Edgar found that his pale, sedentary body performed beyond its limits. He'd have sworn, and would do so repeatedly at later dates, that he was feeding off of some energy source leaking up from the swamp through his feet. He felt years younger, and despite the weight of his pack, picked up speed the closer they drew to the lake.

  He felt the nearness of the place as well. His senses were heightened by whatever aid Nettie was providing. It brought him close to the state where did his best writing, where the stories became part of him, the dreams molded themselves to reality, and he poured it all back onto paper to cleanse his mind. This night, it was not just a story – but the swamp itself.

  There was no cleansing this. He sensed the lake ahead. He also sensed the presence of several others. One, he was certain, was Lenore. She drew him with warmth and life, but also with anger and fear, and again, he sped his steps.