Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe (17 page)

Anita smiled and rose, following her new friend off down the path.
 
She was not always this lucky.
 
This trip she'd met Anita, Edgar, Grimm, and even young Tom, all of whom were supportive.
 
More often than not, when her ability was brought to light, or she made the mistake of mentioning it, she drew only dark stares and furtive wards against the evil eye.
 
It was a solitary road she traveled, and, like the art itself, the lack of companionship could be debilitating.

Sometimes it was even dangerous for her if she let her guard down.
 
She'd seen a hint of it in the attitude of Barnes, the tavern keeper.
 
If too many more odd things happened while she remained at the hotel, she would not only become unwelcome, but might be run off, or worse.
 
They were a superstitious lot near the Great Dismal Swamp, and she did not want to provoke them.

They crossed a nearly open field, entered a tunnel of trees and broke through a moment later into a longer open stretch.
 
In the distance, Lenore saw the glitter of water.
 
The shore was skirted in brush, and though there were trees all the way to the lake's edge, or nearly, they thinned out the closer they approached.
 
Farther back from the water, tall pines nearly blotted the sky.
 
Those closer in were mostly cypress and willows, as if the lake formed a great bowl that stretched up and beyond its banks to the very uppermost branches of the surrounding forest.

By the water, the cypress trees were squat and oddly shaped.
 
The roots formed small armies, tiny men or monks in robes, dragons and creatures crawling up and out of the bog.
 
The willows dangled their trailing limbs to blow gently in the breeze.
 
Frogs leaped from their perches to splash heavily in the water as the two approached, and at the base of one tree a dark water snake glared at them in open threat.
 
Anita steered clear and worked her way right along the back.
 
Lenore followed, taking it all in, trying to keep sketches in her mind to preserve the experience later.
 
There was so much.
 
She could have studied the cypress roots alone for hours.

They worked their way out around a patch of heavier brush, and as they turned back toward the shore, Lenore saw it.
 
Caught in mid-leap, about five yards back from the shoreline, the deer was magnificent.
 
The tree was a gnarled mess of cypress knots, moss, and mud, but the image was so clear that a small child would have seen it.
 
There were shadowed holes where the eyes should be, the head was actually turned back to watch over its shoulder – the antlers rose majestic and alert.
 
Trapped.
 
It was a moment stolen from time, and as she stared at it, Lenore felt the reality draining from her world.

She backed away slowly.
 
It felt as if the animal called to her, pleaded with her, as if it had dreamed of the day she would come and how she would set it free.
 
Lenore shook her head.

"Not yet," she said.
 
"Not now."

Anita had stopped, and, concerned, laid a hand on Lenore's shoulder.
 
It startled her, and broke the spell.
 
She backed away more rapidly, caught her foot on a fallen tree branch, and fell back, sitting abruptly in the loamy soil.

Anita cried out and hurried to help her up, but by the time she reacted, Lenore was laughing.
 
It was absurd.
 
She felt – and knew she looked – ridiculous.
 
She'd known the deer would be there, and she'd anticipated her reaction.
 
What she had not anticipated was its strength.
 
The deer was a very old spirit, and still powerful.
 
Its desire to be free had nearly overpowered her resolve.

"Are you okay?" Anita asked.

Lenore closed her eyes, ordered her thoughts, and nodded.

"It just took me by surprise.
 
It's magnificent."

Anita glanced over at the tree.
 
She saw the deer, of course, but Lenore knew that was where it ended, or, if the girl had some of the sight, it was nothing in comparison to what her overly-sensitive mind had picked up.

"I'll draw him later," Lenore said.
 
"Tonight, maybe, or tomorrow.
 
I've seen him – it's enough.
 
I could never forget that sight.
 
He almost makes you want to look back, as he is, as if whoever was hunting him was still out there, ready to track, and kill…"

"You are an amazing woman," Anita said.
 
"I have been here many times since I was a girl.
 
I have sat almost in his shade, around a fire with my brothers, frying the fish we'd caught during the day, laughing without a care.
 
Now you come here – just the one time – and I see a completely different thing.
 
I see a tragedy.
 
I feel…pain.
 
I have never sensed these things from the tree before.
 
There really was a deer?
 
A stag?"

Lenore nodded.

"A very long time ago, unless I've read him wrong.
 
There is something more, too.
 
Something…powerful.
 
How many deer do you suppose were hunted on the shore of this lake?"

"Hundreds?
 
Surely thousands.
 
Why?"

"How many were able to turn themselves into a cypress tree and stand watch on the shore of the lake for generations?"

Anita turned back again and really studied the tree.
 
She walked over, ran her hand over what would have been the animal's flanks.
 
She shivered and stepped back.

"I see," she said.
 
"Oh my God, I have been blind, I…"

"It is okay," Lenore said.
 
She struggled to her feet, straightened her bags, and took Anita by the arm.
 
"We have to go on.
 
What we are about to do is more important still.
 
We will not forget.
 
I will not forget.
 
He will be free again."

Anita nodded, but didn't speak.
 
She turned, and very deliberately, she started off down the bank of Lake Drummond.
 
Lenore fell in behind her, and as they put distance between themselves and the tree, the pressure eased.
 
It was still there, she sensed him still standing – still watching – still calling to her, but it was a dim background noise.
 
The waves slapping on the shoreline, and the cry of the birds overhead broke it apart and stole its clarity until, finally, she was focused on the task ahead once more.

They rounded another copse of trees, and the water curled back in on the land in a small cove.
 
Across that tiny stretch of water, Lenore caught her first glimpse of the woman.
 
She was not old, as she had expected.
 
She was beautiful, and that was strange because in her dreams, the woman she sought blended her wrinkles with the rough bark of the tree, shared the gray of her hair with mist and reflected, silver moonlight.
 
The sensation of immense age had been so clear.

Where the deer had been compelling and powerful, the woman was mesmerizing.
 
The lake, the trees, everything surrounding them disappeared.

"We have to go around the water," Anita said.
 
"You'll be able to see her better from there."

"I can see her just fine," Lenore said.
 
Still, she walked around the bend in the water, ignoring roots and driftwood, oblivious to everything but the tree, and the image of the woman that it held.
 
When she was very near, she glanced around, spotted a large stone sticking out of the ground, and walked to it.
 
She sat, never taking her eyes off of the tree, and began to unpack her bag.

"Are you sure, lady?" Anita said.

"This is perfect," Lenore said.
 
"I just need to set up my easel."

She turned and studied Anita.

"Will you be alright while I work?
 
I may be here for some time and I'll need to concentrate."

Anita nodded.
 
"I think I'm going to go back by the deer," she said.
 
"After that, I may fish.
 
I brought a line.
 
It's been a long time since I was able to visit the lake.
 
I love it here – so quiet and peaceful.
 
Not like the tavern."

Lenore nodded.
 
She heard the words, but was already falling into the vision, and away.
 
The easel rested between her knees, and her sketchpad was propped on it, open to a fresh page.
 
She reached for a pencil, pressed it to the paper, and began to draw.

T
he afternoon passed quietly.
 
Edgar felt as if he should be doing something, anything, but despite questioning Tom from every angle he could think of, he found no way through what was to come other than meeting Nettie, and no way to find Nettie other than to follow the stories he'd heard, and the odd ritual that lay ahead.

It should have seemed silly, sitting at a rustic table in the middle of a swamp, wearing another man's clothing, waiting with a bottle of homemade moonshine for an old woman who he believed could lead him to the lost princess from a fairy tale, who, by the way had been traveling with him for more than a decade in a raven disguised as a crow.
 
Even he couldn't see a way to spin it into a story anyone would believe.
 
Except that it was true.

The deeper the shadows grew, the deeper the chill that gripped his heart.
 
Goosebumps stood out on his skin, and his brow felt clammy.
 
He wanted to drink from his flask, but felt somehow that it would be wrong, that it might taint what was to come.
 
He even looked longingly at the corn whiskey once or twice, wondering if sharing in the offering would compromise it.

Tom had retired to the cabin. He'd started a fire, burning low, but enough to light the interior.
 
Surprisingly, the boy knew how to read, and when he'd seen the copy of
Grimm's Fairy Tales
, his face had lit up so brightly that, reluctant as he was to let the volume out of his hands at this point, Edgar had been unable to deny him the use of it.
 
He'd pointed out a couple of his favorites, and handed it over.

The sun, which had warmed them so thoroughly during the day had hung over the tips of the trees for what seemed an eternity, and then, suddenly, dropped from sight, leaving a lingering reddish glow running down through the branches and underbrush.
 
Everything about this place was slightly off-center from his experience.

He'd placed the bottle, unstoppered, in the center of the table.
 
To either side of it were the small glasses he always carried along with his flask.
 
The liquid was clear as water, though in the bottle it had had a dirty, yellowish hue, and the small tendrils of sunglow still left to the evening glittered through it, leaving a spot of light on the table that started out round and elongated moment by moment.
 
Edgar watched it, fascinated.
 
He concentrated, wondered how long it would grow before it was too dim to make out, or the light was too low on the horizon to create it.
 
It inched closer, and, just as his sight blurred from the effort of convincing himself it no longer existed, he heard the sound of pouring liquid and sat upright with a start.

She was old.
 
Her hair hung like silver silk over slender shoulders, and the garment she wore, not really a dress, but more of a tunic, draped loosely over a frame that seemed little more than bone.
 
Her eyes, though, were deep and filled with mirth.
 
She smiled, and, slowly, he regained his breath, and his wits.

"Brought an old woman a drink, did you?" she said.
 
"Carried it out to me all this way.
 
A fine thing to do.
 
But why have you come, Edgar Poe?
 
Why have you chased shadows into my swamp?
 
There are no stories here.
 
The dreams will not come."

"I…am not here for stories," Edgar said.
 
"Grimm…the raven…carried a woman."

"Your familiar?" she said, watching him carefully for a reaction.
 
"Where is your partner?
 
Your guide?
 
He flies by night, where no bird belongs – and he sees things you will never see.
 
Why have you come to me when you are already bonded to such as he?"