"Is it that you wish to see Monsieur Valdemar now ... ?" she asked, as if inviting me to complete the sentence on a different note.
"I would," I replied.
"Very well," she said, gesturing toward the door to my left, which came between hers and my own.
"Wait by that door."
With that, she withdrew into her stateroom and closed its door. I heard a bolt or bar fall or slide into place.
So I did as she'd ordered, walking to the next door and waiting there. Several minutes passed, and then abruptly, the door was opened for me. It stood perhaps a foot ajar, and I could detect nothing but blackness within.
"Come in," I heard her say.
"Uh— I can't see a thing," I said.
"That's all right," she replied. "Just do as I say."
Reflecting that Ellison had enjoined me to trust her, I took two steps on the oblique, sufficient to carry me past the door's edge into the dark interior. The door closed immediately, I heard the snick of a bolt, and I stood stock-still.
"Mightn't we have a little light?" I asked. "I don't know which way to move."
Immediately, I felt my hand taken.
"I will lead you," she said softly. "Monsieur Valdemar's condition is such that the light bothers him considerably."
"Even a small candle?" I asked.
"Even a small candle."
She led me back and to my right. After several paces, she squeezed my hand and placed her other hand upon my chest. "Halt," she said; then, when I did, "That's just fine. Stay there."
She released me, moved a few paces away. Shortly, I heard a creaking sound as of a door being opened, from somewhere before me. There followed a total silence, and after several minutes of it I cleared my throat. She ignored this, so I finally asked, "Is everything all right?"
"Of course," she said. "Be patient. It takes a little time to establish rapport."
I could not tell what she was doing, though I detected the rustling of movement. Then I felt the peculiar tingling sensation which I immediately recalled from the previous evening. And I became aware of a faint line of light to my right. Of course, the connecting door between her suite and this one—it was not entirely closed. Then came the murmurs. She was speaking very softly.
"Let's not wake the poor fellow up now," I said. "Let him get his rest. I'll come back later."
"No," she answered. "He's doing just fine. It takes him a while to—pull himself together. That's all."
There followed a terrible moan.
" ... And I hate to put an invalid under such a strain," I added.
"Nonsense!" she replied. "It's good for him. Keeps up his interest in life."
Again, the moan.
I edged a trifle nearer, as my eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness and I was hoping to discern something of interest beyond the movements of her arms over the dark object upon the bed. Again, I felt the vibratory sensation. Before I could remark upon it, however, the moan came again, followed by a distant "No! No! ... Let me be. Please! I beseech you!"
"Are you sure ... ?" I began.
"Of course," she responded. "He's always a little out of sorts when I rouse him. Just a matter of mood."
"Sounds the way I feel before I have my coffee," I said. "Perhaps we should send for some breakfast for him."
"Oh! Ooh!" he moaned. "I am dead!"
"No, he's not much for food or drink," she replied. "Come around now, Monsieur. There's a gentleman here I'd like you to meet."
"Please! Just—let me—go ..." came a raspy, distant voice. "Let me die."
"The more time you waste arguing, Monsieur, the longer it takes," she stated.
"Very well," he said then. "What is it—that you want?"
"I wish to introduce Mr. Edgar Perry, who is now in charge of our expedition."
"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.