Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe (26 page)

Once or twice, Anita or Tom joined him.
 
Anita had taken to carrying a small pad of paper with her everywhere she went.
 
He'd seen some of the sketches she was working on, and while they lacked the technical surety of Lenore's work, they were very good and getting better.

Tom was quiet.
 
He'd spent a good deal of time across the water in the swamp.
 
He'd guided a couple of parties trying to find the bear that had 'killed' Lenore, but Edgar knew the truth.
 
He was watching for Nettie, or the deer.
 
He was thinking about the girl with her bow.
 
Edgar suspected that when the time came to choose this year's Harvest Lord, Tom would be doing anything he could to be their first choice.

And finally, rested, and restless, the time had come to depart.
 
The carriage passing through to Virginia would stop early in the morning, and Edgar found himself with one final night in the tavern.

He seated himself early and enjoyed a meal of stew and hot, fresh bread.
 
He didn't ask what was in the stew, and offered a silent prayer that it wasn't venison.
 
As he ate, he watched the trees beyond the window.
 
No faces were evident, and he saw no strange lights or figures.
 
He was almost sorry.

He ordered whiskey, and asked Barnes to leave a bottle at the table.
 
The melancholy was settling around him like a shroud, and he knew sleep would not come soon, or easily.
 

About an hour after dark, the doors opened, and a man walked in that Edgar had never seen.
 
He was a young man, very tall – more than six feet – with long, dark hair pulled back over his shoulder and tied in back.
 
He wore a floor length black coat that gave Edgar a start. Just for a second, he thought it was his – the jacket from his dream.
 
The man's eyes flashed as they caught a glimmer of lamplight, and Edgar would have sworn they glowed a dim violet.

The stranger scanned the room, and when his gaze fell on Edgar, it rested there.
 
The young man smiled, an enigmatic, curious expression, and slowly crossed the room.
 
It wasn't until he had nearly reached the table that Edgar noticed the cat pacing along at his heels.
 
It was a strange animal, spotted, larger than any housecat Edgar had encountered.

The two reached the table. The young man gave an odd bow, and held out a hand.
 
His cat, without hesitation, jumped to one of the chairs near the wall and curled into a ball.

"Good evening," the stranger said.
 
"My name is Donovan.
 
Donovan DeChance.
 
I'm afraid I don't know anyone here, and…I don't know why, but you have an air of familiarity – as if I should know you."

"Edgar.
 
Edgar Poe.
 
I don't believe that we've met, but you are welcome to share my table.
 
It can get busy, and a little rough, depending on the crowd.
 
Your cat seems already to have made herself at home."

"I'll confess that's another reason I felt I had to introduce myself.
 
She isn't generally friendly to strangers."

"Have a seat Mr. DeChance," Edgar said.
 
"Have some whiskey.
 
It's my last night here, and I was feeling a little down.
 
It's been an odd week, and I could use some company."

DeChance made his odd bow again, and sat across the table, facing Edgar.

Then, with a smile that was oddly engaging, he poured them both a drink from the bottle on the table, and leaned back.

"I'm not sure why," he said, "but I have the strangest urge."

"What on earth could that be?" Edgar asked.

"There is something about you," Donovan said slowly, "that tells me you would tell a good story.
 
Something with magic, romance, something different to erase the dust of the road."

Edgar stared at him.
 
Beyond the man's shoulder, a dark, winged form shot past the window, circled back, and came to rest on the sill.
 
Donovan glanced back, nodded, and returned his attention to Edgar.

"In the swamp," Edgar began, "there is a lake.
 
They call it Lake Drummond, and I'm told it has deep, dark secrets to share."

"Told?" Donovan said.

"All stories," Edgar said with a smile, "Begin with a grain of truth; even our dreams."

The stranger sat back and sipped his drink, and Edgar began to talk.
 
The moon had risen to her throne in the center of the night sky and begun to dip to the horizon by the time he'd finished.
 
When he was done, he pulled a folded paper from the pocket of his shirt and handed it across the table.

"That was…remarkable," Donovan said.
 
"What is this?"

"I'll ask you not to read it until I have gone," Edgar said.
 
"It isn't a final copy; I still have work to do.
 
Some truth requires several veils before being revealed to the world.
 
Sometimes even the veil is insufficient."

Donovan did not question this.
 
He tucked the paper into the inside pocket of his jacket, and he stood.

"I am glad to have met you, Edgar Poe," he said.
 
"It was an amazing story, filled, I believe, with more grains of truth than most.
 
It is tragic, and shows a flair for the dramatic sorely lacking in much American literature.
 
I suspect that I will see your name again."

"If you are ever near Philadelphia," Edgar said, "You must look me up.
 
You owe me a drink, after all."

Donovan nodded, and bowed.
 
Edgar, without realizing he had done so, mimicked the gesture, then stared at his companion thoughtfully.

"Have a good journey, Mr. DeChance," he said.
 
"Perhaps when next we meet you'll tell me a story.
 
I believe you must have a bit of the magic about you as well, and I do love a good tale."

Edgar laid a handful of coins on the table, turned, and left the tavern.
 
When he reached his room, he considered sitting and writing, but decided – this once – that he'd told all the stories he needed to tell.
 
He undressed slowly, and prepared for sleep.
 
A rapping on the window announced Grimm's arrival, and he let the bird in.

Then – for the first time in his recent memory – he put the world out of his thoughts and settled back on the bed.
 
He slept without dreams.