"Expedition ..." he said softly.
" ... In pursuit of Messers Goodfellow, Templeton, and Griswold, who have kidnapped the woman known as Annie."
"I see her," he said, "ablaze—like a crystal chandelier—before us. She is not of this world. They use her.
They use her—to follow—another. Let me die."
"Von Kempelen," I said.
"Yes. But I know not—where they—are headed—because—it is not clear—where he is headed—yet.
Let me die."
"We do not need that information now," I said, an extraordinary thought occurring to me and causing me to begin sidling to my right. "Tell me what you can of the connection between Edgar Allan Poe and myself."
"You are—somehow—the same—person," he said.
"How can that be?" I asked.
"Crossover," he said. "Poor Poe—will—never know. Never to find what is sought—through hollow lands—and hilly lands."
"Why not?"
"Let me rest!"
"Tell me!"
"I know not. Only Annie—knows! I am dead!"
One more step to the right, then I turned and kicked open the door. Daylight spilled through from Ligeia's own quarters, catching the lady in mid-gesture above an opened casket, within which lay a frightfully pale individual whose white whiskers stood in violent contrast to the blackness of his hair.
His eyes were opened but the pupils rolled upward. His face was twisted, lips drawn back, teeth bared.
His tongue, slightly protruding, appeared to be black.
"Good Lord!" I said. "The man is dead!"
"Yes and no," she observed. "He's an unusual case."
She gestured slowly and his eyes closed. She shut the lid.
"But then, we all have our problems," she added. "Would you care for some tea or hashish?"
"Have you got anything stronger?" I answered, as she took my arm.
"Certainement," she replied, and I cast a backward glance as we departed, surprised to note that the casket when closed possessed the shape and size of a large crate of wine-bottles, even to the point of bearing labels, producing the impression of a doublebox of Chateau-Margaux, of the antelope brand, violet seal.
She steered me toward a comfortable-looking chair, saw me seated in it. Closing the connecting door, she repaired to the far end of her stateroom, where she opened a cabinet. Shortly thereafter, I heard the cool clinking sounds of glass upon glass and the splashing of liquids.
She returned after a few moments with a tall tumbler of muddy, greenish liquid, bits of leaves and other matter floating on its surface.
"Looks like swamp water," I said, accepting it.
"Tastes like swamp water, too," I added, after a small sip.
"It is an herbal tonic," she explained. "Very relaxing."
I thought about it, then took another sip.
"Valdemar is—indeed—dead?" I said after a time.
"Yes," she replied, "but he tends to forget. Each time he remembers it becomes somewhat stressful."
"When, how did he die?"
She shrugged.
"Months, years, before we came aboard," she said. "Long before I found him."
I cast my gaze about her quarters, hung with bright tapestries, strewn with animal skins and oriental rugs. There were dark wood figurines I guessed to be African, decorated with copper wire and bright beads. A pair of Toledo blades hung upon one wall. There was a Turkish water pipe beside the huge, silk-curtained bed. The aroma of some exotic incense hung heavy in the air. It reminded me somewhat of a Gypsy caravan where I had once paid to have my palm read by a heavily rouged lady who, I felt, was somewhat overimaginative on my behalf. Yet there was something more to this ensemble than to that one. Peters had been right. I could almost see the ghostlands at her back.
"What is it that makes Valdemar special?" I asked.
"I gather he was part of an experiment in mesmerism," she explained, "on his deathbed. He is frozen at the exact point of transition between life and death. Because of this, he enjoys a unique perspective on events. It does require a particularly skilled mesmerist to deal with him, however, as he keeps trying to slip away into the darkness."
"And you are obviously a specialist in this regard."
She nodded.
"Where I come from the phenomenon is somewhat controversial," I said.
"Here it is a fact of life."
"I believe I felt it somewhat—twice now—in your presence."
"That is quite possible," she said. "Finish your tonic and I'll show you what it's like."
I gulped what remained, set the glass aside.
"That stuff didn't do much for me," I observed.
"It's quite mild," she replied.
"I thought you said it was a potent brew."
"No, you asked for something strong. That will be the treatment." She raised her hands. They seemed to sparkle. Once again, I felt the warm pulse, the faint tingling. "The tonic is but a preliminary."
"What will the treatment do for me?"
"I am not absolutely certain," she said, "in your case. What would you like it to do?"
"I'd just like to escape from myself for a time."
She smiled, extended her hands, lowered them. It was like being suddenly splashed by a very warm wave. I leaned back in my chair and let the feeling run through me. She was on Ellison's payroll, and she knew I was important to him. She gestured again and I attempted to relax fully, letting the feeling wash through me. Nothing the Gypsy'd done had felt like this.
While her first several passes were exhilarating, I realized after a short while, that they were also somewhat numbing. There was a distancing effect between my body and my consciousness. Then I realized that my thinking had grown sluggish. But it was coupled with such euphoria that I did not resist the lethargy.
Her hands drifted slowly past me.
"I am going to cause you to relax very deeply," she said. "When you awaken you should feel entirely refreshed."
I was about to respond, but then it did not seem worth the effort. Her hands passed me again and I was hardly aware of my body any longer. Except for my eyes. It seemed an awful lot of trouble, keeping my eyes open. I let them close. I felt the shadows of her hands go by once more. And then I was departing—soaring, bright white, drifting, turning to snow, falling... .
... Suddenly, my head felt funny, my stomach worse. I raised my hands to massage my temples. I opened my eyes. I lay in bed, propped by pillows. A threadbare blanket covered me from the waist down. As I lowered my hands they trembled slightly. I listened to the sound of a catbird from somewhere beyond the window. Looking about, I saw that I occupied a small and rather shabby room.
What was happening? I could not recall how I had come to this place ...
There was a note on the bedside table. I picked it up. It was addressed to Poe. Even more puzzled, I read it, hoping for some clue as to what was happening: Richmond, Sept. 29, 1835
Dear Edgar,—Would that it were in my power to unbosom myself to you, in language such as I could on the present occasion, wish myself master of. I cannot do it—and therefore must be content to speak to you in my plain way.
That you are sincere in all your promises, I firmly believe. But, Edgar, when you once again tread these streets, I have my fears that your resolves would fall through,—and that you would again sip the juice, even till it stole away your senses. Rely on your own strength, and you are gone! Look to your Maker for help, and you are safe!
How much I regretted parting with you, is unknown to anyone on this earth, except myself. I was attached to you—and am still,—and willingly would I say return, if I did not dread the hour of separation very shortly again.
If you could make yourself contented to take up your quarters in my family, or in any other private family where liquor is not used, I should think there were hopes of you.—But, if you go to a tavern, or to any other place where it is used at table, you are not safe. I speak from experience.
You have fine talents, Edgar,—and you ought to have them respected as well as yourself.
Learn to respect yourself, and you will very soon find that you are respected. Separate yourself from the bottle, and bottle companions, forever!