Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe (12 page)

"I believe I could find her," he said.
 
"Or, more precisely, I know that Grimm could find her.
 
I don't know what would happen if I did, but I feel – somehow – as if it's something I have to do."

"What in the world are you talking about?" Lenore asked.
 
"You know nothing of the swamp, and it appears to me that if you manage to get too close, what's likely to happen is you'll be shot.
 
You are a handsome man, Edgar, but you will be much less so with an arrow protruding from your heart."

"You are forgetting about the girl," he said.
 
"You freed her, Grimm carried her.
 
I won't abandon her to some crazy woman in the swamp without at least trying to save her."

"What if she doesn't need saving?" Lenore said.
 
"What if this Nettie knows what has happened, and knows what to do, and all you manage is to interfere?"

"You'd really be content not knowing?
 
This is not as simple as one of my stories, or one of your drawings.
 
There are powers stretching out through time.
 
There are tales within tales, and powers within powers.
 
It's like walking the roads of a dream within a dream.
 
I can't just let it go.
 
It's begun, and that's how it is with stories. There is a beginning, conflict, and an ending.
 
I'm afraid I'd go mad without knowing all three."

As Edgar talked, the boy, Tom, had worked his way closer across the room.
 
He pretended to sweep the floor, but he'd been eavesdropping, and he already knew more than most.

"I can guide you," he said.

He stood, red faced, expecting to be silenced, or sent on his way. Instead, Edgar turned and regarded him seriously.

"You've been in there?" he asked.

"I fish in there, and I've hunted with my pa, and my uncle," Tom said.
 
"I can take you in, and I know the old stories.
 
I know where to take you – where she might show up.
 
If you find her…that's probably as far as I go."

Edgar nodded.
 
"I will need to see something from your father, and from the tavern keeper, showing that you are allowed," Edgar said.
 
"You may tell them that we are going hunting, which is true.
 
If I find Nettie, you are released with full pay."

Tom could barely contain his excitement.

"I believe," Edgar said, "that you'd better get back to your work, if you want a favorable decision from the bar keep.
 
He's watching you, and he is not smiling."

Tom turned and hurried away, swiping the broom randomly at the floorboards.

"You really mean to do this?" Lenore asked.

"I do.
 
I had hoped that you…"

"I cannot," she said.
 
"I would, if I was free to, but I have my own quest – my own nightmares and demons to exorcise.
 
I did not come here randomly, as you guessed.
 
Tomorrow before you leave, I will tell you – but at that point, I'm afraid, we must part ways, at least for a time."

Edgar smiled, but there was little humor in it.

"It seems I am always parting from someone," he said.
 
"But this one time, I will allow myself the hope that when our tasks are complete, our paths will cross again.
 
It would give me hope, and that is something I am too often without."

Lenore smiled.

"Let's finish these drinks, split up, and see if we can get any more information," she said.
 
"I think we've had about enough adventure for one day."

Edgar nodded.

At the table next to theirs, the veterinarian who'd patched up the unfortunate Mr. Nixon sat with a large mug of ale.
 
He'd pulled away from the others, and seemed lost in thought.

Edgar walked over.

"Good for that man you were here," he said.
 
"He might easily have bled out from a simple wound without proper care."

The doctor looked up, momentarily confused as he was pulled from his thoughts.

"Oh, thank you," he said softly.
 
"I'm certain someone would have helped him.
 
There are military men here, and more than a few of them have encountered injuries much more serious without a doctor's aide."

"Still," Edgar said, sliding into the chair opposite the man, "I believe he was lucky, if there is such a thing.
 
My name is Edgar, Edgar Poe."

"Simons – Brentley Simons.
 
It was a brave thing you did, pulling him out of the water as you did.
 
How did you know they would not come back and turn you into a human pincushion as well?"

"Honestly?" Edgar said.
 
"I did not know.
 
I merely acted, and I am sure, had I not done so, that another would have acted in my stead.
 
I almost didn't chance it.
 
All I could think of, after the arrows stopped flying, was that everyone had run back to the tavern and forgotten he was there.
 
I heard him cry out when he was hit."

Simons nodded.
 
"The thing I cannot fathom," he said, "is why.
 
I was here at this very table when it all started.
 
A man came in from the docks, very excited.
 
He'd seen a woman, floating in the water.
 
She was naked, and he didn't know what to do.
 
That –I believe – is the crux of the matter.
 
If he'd simply pulled her out when he found her, none of the rest of it would have happened at all, and we might have some answers instead of a mystery."

"The locals seem to know something of our bow-hunting strangers," Edgar said.
 
"When they realized who was out there, they disappeared like smoke."

"I wondered about that.
 
It was a tense, dangerous moment, but their reaction seemed out of proportion.
 
I followed along, but I believe, if they'd stayed, I'd have done that too.
 
I was caught up in the crowd."

They fell silent for a moment, sipping their drinks.
 
Then Simons spoke again.

"You know," he said, "that was an odd wound.
 
I mean, I'm not used to treating men, and I've only removed arrows from dogs, and one cow.
 
Hunter claimed he thought it was a deer – owner claimed the hunter was drunk.
 
I think maybe it was a bit of both.
 
The thing is, I did study anatomy, and I read the journals.
 
I guess what I'm saying is that, in a pinch, I wouldn't be a bad man to have around in an emergency."

"I believe we could get Mr. Nixon to vouch for you," Edgar said.

Simons chuckled.

"The point is," he said, "while Mr. Nixon is a lucky man, it had little if anything to do with me, and everything to do with how, and where the arrow struck.
 
Nearly a miracle, I'd say."

"Why?"

"Did you get a good look at the arrow?
 
The tip was hand made from jagged bits of metal.
 
Looked as if it had been pounded into shape, and then honed like a razor.
 
It's a wicked piece of work, and not designed to wound.
 
In fact, half an inch higher, and it would have severed his Axillary artery.
 
There is no way you could have gotten him ashore in time, had that happened.
 
He'd have bled to death in moments.
 
A little more to the side, and there could have been irreparable damage to the bones and muscle of the shoulder.
 
If we were in a city, they might have saved full use of the arm, but out here?"

Simons shrugged and took a long drag from his beer.

"What I'm saying is, that shot was either a miracle, or absolutely perfect.
 
It caused him to release the woman, who, by the way, gave him a nasty bite on his forearm for his troubles, but it did not cause any permanent damage."

"You don't think it's a miracle?"

"Did you get a good look at Mr. Nixon, Edgar?
 
I'm not much of a church-goer, but from what I know of miracles, they are generally reserved for God-fearing folk.
 
Unless I'm missing something, I'm going with perfect shot.
 
Whoever that was out there in the woods, they didn't come here to kill anyone."

"Then what?"

Simons shrugged.

"I guess we'll never know the answer to that.
 
As far as I can tell, no women have gone missing around here.
 
No carriages have arrived since the one that brought you.
 
She could have swum here from somewhere on the Virginia side, or been dumped off a passing boat.
 
Without knowing who that woman is, it's a matter of simple mathematics.
 
We don't have enough variables to solve for why."

"A mystery, then," Edgar said.
 
"I'm no stranger to those.
 
Unfortunately, I am used to creating them in my head, and writing them down.
 
I'm afraid my real-world detective skills are untested."

"A pity," Simons said, "But I'm not sure what there is to learn here.
 
Whoever those people were, and whoever that woman was, they're gone now.
 
That's some of the wildest land in this great country."

He turned to the window and waved toward the swamp. "The Great Dismal Swamp is not named idly, Mr. Poe.
 
Those who know it well are few and far between.
 
It's not a good place for a casual stroll, or even a well-planned expedition by those who don't belong.
 
If the bears, wolves, or snakes don't kill you, those with secrets worth dying for most surely will.
 
If I were you, I'd get back to your pretty lady friend, and enjoy the rest of your stay.
 
With a bit of luck, the excitement has passed."

"I suppose you're right," Edgar said.
 
He drained his glass.

"In any case, I don't think anything else will be happening tonight.
 
Enjoy your beer, doctor, and perhaps our paths will cross again."

"At the very least, over breakfast," Simons said.

He rose, and they shook hands, and then, with a quick nod, Edgar returned to where Lenore had resumed her seat.

"That was interesting," he said.

She raised an eyebrow.
 
"You first."

"The good doctor – his name, by the way, is Simons, informs me that the shot that did
not
kill Mr. Nixon, or maim him, was either a miracle, or miraculously accurate. He leans away from divine intervention."

"That's the impression I got from the bartender," she said.
 
"He knows of this old woman, and her 'minions' – as he calls them.
 
She's been out there in the swamp as long as he remembers, and he claims to have heard tales about her from his father, and even his grandfather.
 
The way he tells it, she's not a killer – but everyone here is afraid of her.
 
Dark powers.
 
Dark rituals.
 
Deals with the devil.
 
You name it, someone around here believes it of her."

“So, they won’t be sending out a search party, then,” Edgar said.

“Not likely.
 
A year from now, they’ll still be telling the story, embellished and turned into something fanciful, but the only time lawmen show up here is to try and keep the body count down.
 
They don’t cross the waterway into the swamp without a very good reason, and apparently an unknown naked woman being hauled off by a swamp witch is not considered that important.”

“I must admit,” Edgar said, “that I find this less strange than most would, and more intriguing.
 
My own road often edges up against the shadows, and I’ve seen some strange things.
 
Grimm has shown me others.
 
This would barely register, except…”

“I know,” Lenore said.
 
“The woman.
 
It’s too strange to be a coincidence.
 
And the others…if we’re right – if what I think we are both imagining is true – how did they know?
 
How did they make their way to that shoreline at exactly the right moment to carry her off?
 
What do they know?”

“That,” Edgar said, “is what I intend to find out.
 
I don’t have many days before I must turn toward home, but I will spend them, I believe, climbing through the swamp like a fool with a young boy and an old bird for a guide.”

“It’s like you said before,” Lenore said.
 
Her voice was soft, and her eyes were open wide, as if seeing something he could not.
 
“It’s like walking through a dream, within a dream.
 
What if you don’t come back?”