Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe (16 page)

The Lake of the Dismal Swamp

"They made her a grave too cold and damp

For a soul so warm and true;

And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,

Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,

She paddles her white canoe.

And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,

And her paddle I soon shall hear;

Long and moving our life shall be

And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,

When the footstep of death is near."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, --

His path was rugged and sore,

Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,

Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,

And man never trod before.

And when on the earth he sank to sleep,

If slumber his eyelids knew,

He lay where the deadly vine doth weep

Its venomous tear, and nightly steep

The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake,

And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,

Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,

"Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake,

And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright

Quick over its surface play'd, --

"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"

And the dim shore echo'd for many a night

The name of the death-cold maid.

Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,

Which carried him off from the shore;

Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark,

The wind was high and the clouds were dark,

And the boat return'd no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,

This lover and maid so true

Are seen at the hour of midnight damp

To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp,

And paddle their white canoe!

"Pretty," Tom said.
 
"I've heard the story, but never the song.
 
Heck, I didn't think folks up north really thought about us much down here.
 
Like you, they travel through, sometimes they stay long enough to fish, or hunt, or gather some stories to tell while drinking around their fire.
 
Lake Drummond – she's a big one, dark, deep, and filled with secrets.
 
So my Pa says.
 
There's trees there that look like soldiers, animals, men and women.
 
Nearly every one of them has a story attached if you dig far enough and ask among the old ones.

"Come harvest time, they have a festival down by Old Mill.
 
There's a tree they pulled out of the swamp and turned it into a sort of pole.
 
At the top, the branches are twisted like the antlers on a stag.
 
At the festival, there's a feast.
 
After the food's been served, they send us young'uns home. I don't know what happens on the night of Harvest Festival, but I know there's a fire, a big one, and I've heard my ma say it's the only time ol' Nettie comes out of the swamp.
 
Not sure I even want to know what it's about, though I know I will.
 
This year I'm old enough.
 
Might even be chosen Harvest Lord."

"Sounds like a great honor," Edgar said gravely.
 
Secretly, he wondered if he should worry for the boy.
 
He was familiar with similar ceremonies around the world, but had not really been aware they still took place in America.
 
In many, the Harvest Lord became a sacrifice.

"Pa was Harvest Lord when he was my age," Tom said.
 
"He never talks about it much.
 
I've tried to get him to tell me what happened, but every time I ask he gets this look in his eye.
 
I just let it go."

Edgar breathed an inner sigh of relief and smiled.
 
The events of the last few days were getting to him, and he was seeing dark magic in everything around him.
 

They broke through the trees then, and the low, shake-shingled roof of a cabin came into sight.
 
Wisps of mist rolled around the base of a short raised porch.
 
The windows were dark and shuttered.
 
Nothing moved anywhere nearby.
 
As they crossed the last clearing and started up to the porch, Edgar realized that he was exhausted.
 
He wasn't used to this sort of activity, and though it had only been "a couple of miles" he felt as if he'd been walking all day.

He scanned the trees, and, as if waiting for them to notice, Grimm circled down out of the upper branches and landed on the porch rail.
 
The old bird cocked its head to one side and watched them with what appeared to be either complete boredom, or deep concentration.
 
Edgar let out a short laugh and lowered his pack to the wood floor of the porch.

"It's good to see you too, old friend," he said.
 
"We'll get settled here, and then, I suppose I will get my pens, and my paper, and a candle, and sit here on this porch pouring dreams onto paper through my pen until this Nettie either appears or does not."

"I'll set up our bedrolls," Tom said. "I can get a fire going and fix something to eat."

Edgar stretched and nodded.
 
"That, my young friend, is the best offer I've had in a year.
 
I have to start getting out more.
 
I should not be this tired."

Tom disappeared inside, and Edgar stood, staring out into the swamp, listening to the birds, and insects and all the odd sounds so alien to his life and his world.

"We have passed the veil," he said.
 
Grimm hopped to the surface of an old, hand-built table.
 
Edgar squatted, dug through his pack and found the small bag of corn.
 
He pulled out a handful and sprinkled it on the table.
 
Then, with a heavy sigh, he sank back into one of the two rough, straight-backed chairs.
 
It was still early afternoon – and he wondered how long he'd have to wait before he had company.

He closed his eyes, and in moments had dropped into a light doze.
 
Ignoring him, Grimm pecked happily at the corn.

W
hen Lenore and Anita set off into the swamp, Barnes took them across on the raft himself.
 
He had a supply barge due that afternoon and needed to have the water and the dock clear.

"Your friend left early this morning," he said, poling across the waterway with quick, sure pressure on a tall, straight pole.
 
He kept his eyes on the far bank and spoke matter-of-factly.
 
"I thought the two of you might take off together."

"Mr. Poe has his mystery to solve," Lenore said.
 
She had her bag over her shoulder, her drawing pad and a small easel.
 
Her eyes were bright, and she stared into the trees ahead, as if she might pierce them and find what she sought without delay.
 
"And I have mine.
 
I have come a long way…"

Barnes didn't answer.
 
He poled steadily, and within moments the raft bumped into the far bank.
 
He held it steady.

"You'll have to jump ashore," he said.
 
"I don't have time to pull up farther."

Lenore didn't hesitate.
 
She perched on the edge of the raft, steadied herself, and leaped.
 
She landed lightly on the bank and turned, holding out a hand to steady Anita, who followed her gracefully.
 
Barnes tossed over the bag that Anita had brought with her – food and water and a few essentials for the day.
 
They didn't plan to be gone more than that.
 
The tree she sought was a couple of hours away, if they walked steadily.
 
It would take her another couple to do her drawing, or, if it became too involved, the sketches she'd use to do the drawing that evening.
 
They did not plan on being out overnight.

"You'll send someone across for us when we return?" she said.

Barnes glanced up at a tree behind her and to her right.
 
She followed his gaze.
 
On a lower branch, a large brass bell hung.

"We'll send someone.
 
You ring if you need us."

Barnes pushed off, crossed the barge, laid his pole on the deck and began pulling the raft back across, hand over hand, by the mooring line.
 
The small craft slipped sideways just slightly in the slow current, but that was fine.
 
He intended to bring it in along the bank, rather than mooring to the dock, to make room for the supply barge and other traffic.

Lenore and Anita watched him for a moment, and then, turning with purpose, Lenore studied the three paths leading off into the swamp.

"To the right," Anita said.

The right path was the clearest, and obviously most traveled.
 
It was wider than the others too, as if there might have been horse or cart travel along it.

"A lot of people go to the lake," Anita explained, shouldering her bag and starting forward.
 
The fishing is good, and for hunters, the water draws the animals close.
 
The path is clear all the way in, but once we get there, we have to travel a ways along the bank to reach the lady.
 
We will pass the deer tree on our way."

Lenore had heard of the deer tree.
 
She knew that when she saw it, she would feel compelled to draw it, so she'd planned ahead.
 
She intended to do a quick sketch and embed the image in her mind, but to continue on to her destination.
 
If the stories were true, the deer had already been there a very long time…a bit more would not hurt.
 
The woman was a different story altogether.

The path was beautiful.
 
The air was fresh, if a little humid.
 
Butterflies flickered across the trail in their erratic dances, birds soared overhead and cried out, some mournful, others cheerful and bright.
 
The voices of more types of frogs and insects than she could have imagined caromed off the trees.
 
She listened for the sharp caw of a raven, but it never came.
 
They were on their own, and no matter how close she now felt to Edgar, their paths had diverged.

Anita paused after about an hour, and the two shared a quick snack, a bit of cheese and bread, and a sip of good, fresh water.
 
Lenore wished she could stay longer, draw the trees, and the wildlife.
 
Her art had become so caught up in the dreams and images that she often felt drained, and the only way she'd found to regain her strength and focus was work that involved nothing more than her mind and her pencils, or pens, or paint.
 
That was how the picture of Grimm was supposed to have worked.
 
She'd only meant to draw the portrait as a gift to Edgar.
 
Instead of granting her a mental and creative reprieve, the experience had drained her, leaving her with the sensation that her heart, and her mind, were a void, darkening and widening with every line or shade she created.

When this was over, she knew she'd have to find time away from it.
 
Away from the visions and the art, away from the trapped souls and everyone who knew that she could see them.
 
Even sitting in a city and drawing caricatures of passersby for change would be better than withering away to nothing.

"It's not too much farther, lady," Anita said, rising.
 
"If we hurry, we'll get there just as the sun is at its highest, and the light is best."