Returning to the Eidolon, I decided it was time to consult Monsieur Valdemar. Ligeia, however, had gone ashore to make a few purchases. So I obtained from Captain Guy a duplicate key to Valdemar's suite, deciding to employ my own cumbersome mesmeric abilities rather than wait. I invited Peters to join me, but he begged off, pleading primitive superstition. Actually, the reason I'd invited him was because my own feelings on the matter were still not that far removed from the same state and I'd wanted company. Helas! as they say in Paris.
I lit a few extra candles and raised the upper portion of the lid to the wine crate-cum-casket. Focussing my attention on the center of my body, I raised the energy and let it flow to my hands. The candles flickered. The armoire in the corner creaked. I made the first pass and a series of rapping sounds occurred within the wall to my left. I felt the energy extend, pass into Valdemar. The chair in the corner of the room lurched forward. There came the obligatory moan, and seconds later his eyes opened.
Things did not stop there, however. Next, he sat up.
"Easy. Take it easy, Valdemar," I said.
"What have you done to me?" he asked.
"Just the usual," I replied, "to bring you within reach of a few questions."
"Where is Ligeia?"
"I'm not certain, and I was in something of a hurry. So I decided to go ahead on my own."
"Oh my! Oh my!" he announced. "I see now—what has occurred."
"Tell me. Please."
"Her presence served to dampen somewhat—that otherworldly energy of yours. Without her—it went wild. I am animate once more—but still not living!"
He raised his hand slowly. One eye (the right) descended to regard it. The other remained blank.
"This is terrible," he observed, fixing me then with a baleful glare.
"I'll reverse the process in just a minute—as Ligeia taught me—if you'll answer a couple of questions. I haven't interfered with that ability, have I?"
"I still see as I saw," he said, bringing his hands slowly together.
"I think I should be heading for Toledo. Do you see anything in this regard?"
"I see us heading for Toledo, yes."
"That's all you see?"
"There is an intersection there with Annie. I can tell you nothing else."
"I'm inclined to take that as a good sign," I said.
He began rubbing his hands slowly. Then he raised them and felt his face.
"What can you tell me of Poe?" I asked.
"I do not understand the question. It is very general."
"Sorry. What is he doing right now?"
" 'Now' is a meaningless term. Your worlds move on different time tracks."
"Projecting forward along his," I said, "from the time of our exchange, for the same period of time that I have spent here, what can you tell me concerning his situation in life and his state of mind?"
"I understand," he said, crossing his arms and feeling his shoulders. "He still does not realize what has occurred. He gives signs of doubting his own sanity. He would like to start a magazine of his own, but can find no one interested in funding it. He seems to be depressed."
"I would like to talk to Poe. Could you bring him here if I provided more mesmeric energy?"
"No. That is beyond me."
"Could you send me there?"
"No."
"What about Annie's kingdom by the sea? Could you arrange for us to meet there?"
"I don't think so, but let me— No."
"Could you just send him a message? I want to assure him that I am real, that Annie is real, that he is not mad."
"I might be able to, but I do not know what form it will take."
"Try."
He slumped suddenly and fell back, hands coming to rest upon his breast.
"It is done," he announced slowly.
"Was it successful?"
"Yes."
"Can you tell now what form it took?"
"No. Let me rest... ."
I reversed the pattern of my passes, withdrawing the energy I had extended. The rapping came again, in all of the walls as well as the ceiling. The chair slid toward me, then toppled to its side. Valdemar let out a particularly piteous moan, then his eyes closed and the casket slammed itself shut.
I extinguished the candles and went to make travel arrangements.
Edgar Allan Poe's sleep was troubled. He woke early and tried unsuccessfully to recollect what he had dreamt. Finally, he rose and dressed himself. The sky was just growing pale to the east, and he opened the front door and stepped outside to consider the dawning.
He beheld a miniature castle sparkling in the front yard. He moved toward it and it dissolved. There was only a heap of sand when he reached the spot it had occupied.
Some trick of the light perhaps... .
VI
She walked barefoot on the beach. It was a still, starless night. The sea itself glowed faintly, however, sufficient to provide what small illumination she required.
She walked in a circle, passing near the water and away from it. She could not remember why she did this, but she did remember that it was important. So she continued.
At one point a black cat hurried past her, at another a pit opened at the center of her circle. Flames leapt about it now, and a bright blade passed among them. She continued walking. Why was she doing this? It was important, that was why. Oh, yes.
A man lay prone beside the pit. Yes. He must be made to look into it. That's right. Easily done. Advance the flames. Yes. See him move?
She moved faster. And what does he behold? The horror. Of course. What he sees is—
She screamed and the sea rose up, reaching for the flames, the man, the pit—
She threw her hands wide and the fabric of space was torn. She stepped through the opening.
I opened my eyes to the steady jouncing of the coach, and the black cat stared back at me from the shadowy corner of the seat opposite. I watched it for perhaps ten seconds as my senses returned to me, and then I realized that I beheld Peters' wig which had slipped from his head as he dozed across the way.
I rubbed my eyes, sat up, and sought the water bottle. I drew the blanket upward from my lap to cover my chest as well. I took a drink, and then another.
We had been traveling in a series of hired coaches, pulled by relays of horses, for the better part of November. The Pyrenees had been awful and Navarre had been bleak. Just when I was beginning to obtain the rudiments of French I had to start all over again with Spanish. Peters again had the advantage of me, from times spent in Mexico, but as he explained, "It's all gutter Spanish, Eddie. No selfrespecting caballero 'ud want to hear it in public—and believe me, they're all self-respecting.
"In public," he added.
Now I saw burnt fields, burnt houses, wooden crosses. The unmistakable ravages of war lay all about us.
We had recently begun experiencing delays and other difficulties because of the conflict, but timely guidance from Valdemar and a good supply of gold coin kept us going. As a soldier, I was both fascinated and appalled. The Spanish had come up with a new word for the form of warfare by means of which they continued to resist the French—guerrilla. It involved hit and run skirmishing, ambushes, attacks behind the enemy lines. The Spaniards refused to stand and fight a pitched battle, and it was working against the French now as it had earlier in the century. It was costing the French too much. It was wearing them down.
I turned my gaze away from the depressing landscape. A little later the coach was suddenly jounced and our pace increased. I heard an annoyed "Rawk!" from among the overhead baggage and Grip fluttered down to pick at Peters' wig. The bird had apparently grown tired of Dupin's tutelage and fled from his house on the occasion of our last visit, appearing in the rigging of the Eidolon at quayside and greeting me with a cheerful "Vingt francs pour la nuit, monsieur" when I came topside following my interview with Valdemar.
Grip obviously wanted our attention because he did not approve of the driving. He always acted this way when Emerson seized the reins and drove the horses to a frenzied pace. The driver was loath to dispute matters with the simian, and what normally followed was that Ligeia was called upon to calm the horses mesmerically. Then Peters had to recover the reins from the ape and scold him a bit.