Nevermore: A Novel of Love, Loss, & Edgar Allan Poe Page 10

  The Lake of the Dismal Swamp

  "They made her a grave too cold and damp

  For a soul so warm and true;

  And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,

  Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,

  She paddles her white canoe.

  And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,

  And her paddle I soon shall hear;

  Long and moving our life shall be

  And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,

  When the footstep of death is near."

  Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, --

  His path was rugged and sore,

  Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,

  Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,

  And man never trod before.

  And when on the earth he sank to sleep,

  If slumber his eyelids knew,

  He lay where the deadly vine doth weep

  Its venomous tear, and nightly steep

  The flesh with blistering dew!

  And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake,

  And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,

  Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,

  "Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake,

  And the white canoe of my dear?"

  He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright

  Quick over its surface play'd, --

  "Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"

  And the dim shore echo'd for many a night

  The name of the death-cold maid.

  Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,

  Which carried him off from the shore;

  Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark,

  The wind was high and the clouds were dark,

  And the boat return'd no more.

  But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,

  This lover and maid so true

  Are seen at the hour of midnight damp

  To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp,

  And paddle their white canoe!

  "Pretty," Tom said. "I've heard the story, but never the song. Heck, I didn't think folks up north really thought about us much down here. Like you, they travel through, sometimes they stay long enough to fish, or hunt, or gather some stories to tell while drinking around their fire. Lake Drummond – she's a big one, dark, deep, and filled with secrets. So my Pa says. There's trees there that look like soldiers, animals, men and women. Nearly every one of them has a story attached if you dig far enough and ask among the old ones.

  "Come harvest time, they have a festival down by Old Mill. There's a tree they pulled out of the swamp and turned it into a sort of pole. At the top, the branches are twisted like the antlers on a stag. At the festival, there's a feast. After the food's been served, they send us young'uns home. I don't know what happens on the night of Harvest Festival, but I know there's a fire, a big one, and I've heard my ma say it's the only time ol' Nettie comes out of the swamp. Not sure I even want to know what it's about, though I know I will. This year I'm old enough. Might even be chosen Harvest Lord."

  "Sounds like a great honor," Edgar said gravely. Secretly, he wondered if he should worry for the boy. He was familiar with similar ceremonies around the world, but had not really been aware they still took place in America. In many, the Harvest Lord became a sacrifice.

  "Pa was Harvest Lord when he was my age," Tom said. "He never talks about it much. I've tried to get him to tell me what happened, but every time I ask he gets this look in his eye. I just let it go."

  Edgar breathed an inner sigh of relief and smiled. The events of the last few days were getting to him, and he was seeing dark magic in everything around him.

  They broke through the trees then, and the low, shake-shingled roof of a cabin came into sight. Wisps of mist rolled around the base of a short raised porch. The windows were dark and shuttered. Nothing moved anywhere nearby. As they crossed the last clearing and started up to the porch, Edgar realized that he was exhausted. He wasn't used to this sort of activity, and though it had only been "a couple of miles" he felt as if he'd been walking all day.

  He scanned the trees, and, as if waiting for them to notice, Grimm circled down out of the upper branches and landed on the porch rail. The old bird cocked its head to one side and watched them with what appeared to be either complete boredom, or deep concentration. Edgar let out a short laugh and lowered his pack to the wood floor of the porch.

  "It's good to see you too, old friend," he said. "We'll get settled here, and then, I suppose I will get my pens, and my paper, and a candle, and sit here on this porch pouring dreams onto paper through my pen until this Nettie either appears or does not."

  "I'll set up our bedrolls," Tom said. "I can get a fire going and fix something to eat."

  Edgar stretched and nodded. "That, my young friend, is the best offer I've had in a year. I have to start getting out more. I should not be this tired."

  Tom disappeared inside, and Edgar stood, staring out into the swamp, listening to the birds, and insects and all the odd sounds so alien to his life and his world.

  "We have passed the veil," he said. Grimm hopped to the surface of an old, hand-built table. Edgar squatted, dug through his pack and found the small bag of corn. He pulled out a handful and sprinkled it on the table. Then, with a heavy sigh, he sank back into one of the two rough, straight-backed chairs. It was still early afternoon – and he wondered how long he'd have to wait before he had company.

  He closed his eyes, and in moments had dropped into a light doze. Ignoring him, Grimm pecked happily at the corn.

  Chapter Nine

  When Lenore and Anita set off into the swamp, Barnes took them across on the raft himself. He had a supply barge due that afternoon and needed to have the water and the dock clear.

  "Your friend left early this morning," he said, poling across the waterway with quick, sure pressure on a tall, straight pole. He kept his eyes on the far bank and spoke matter-of-factly. "I thought the two of you might take off together."

  "Mr. Poe has his mystery to solve," Lenore said. She had her bag over her shoulder, her drawing pad and a small easel. Her eyes were bright, and she stared into the trees ahead, as if she might pierce them and find what she sought without delay. "And I have mine. I have come a long way…"

  Barnes didn't answer. He poled steadily, and within moments the raft bumped into the far bank. He held it steady.

  "You'll have to jump ashore," he said. "I don't have time to pull up farther."

  Lenore didn't hesitate. She perched on the edge of the raft, steadied herself, and leaped. She landed lightly on the bank and turned, holding out a hand to steady Anita, who followed her gracefully. Barnes tossed over the bag that Anita had brought with her – food and water and a few essentials for the day. They didn't plan to be gone more than that. The tree she sought was a couple of hours away, if they walked steadily. It would take her another couple to do her drawing, or, if it became too involved, the sketches she'd use to do the drawing that evening. They did not plan on being out overnight.

  "You'll send someone across for us when we return?" she said.

  Barnes glanced up at a tree behind her and to her right. She followed his gaze. On a lower branch, a large brass bell hung.

  "We'll send someone. You ring if you need us."

  Barnes pushed off, crossed the barge, laid his pole on the deck and began pulling the raft back across, hand over hand, by the mooring line. The small craft slipped sideways just slightly in the slow current, but that was fine. He intended to bring it in along the bank, rather than mooring to the dock, to make room for the supply barge and other traffic.

  Lenore and Anita watched him for a moment, and then, turning with purpose, Lenore studied the three paths leading off into the swamp.

  "To the right," Anita said.

  The right path was the clearest, and obviously most traveled. It was wider than the others too, as if there might have been horse or cart travel alon
g it.

  "A lot of people go to the lake," Anita explained, shouldering her bag and starting forward. The fishing is good, and for hunters, the water draws the animals close. The path is clear all the way in, but once we get there, we have to travel a ways along the bank to reach the lady. We will pass the deer tree on our way."

  Lenore had heard of the deer tree. She knew that when she saw it, she would feel compelled to draw it, so she'd planned ahead. She intended to do a quick sketch and embed the image in her mind, but to continue on to her destination. If the stories were true, the deer had already been there a very long time…a bit more would not hurt. The woman was a different story altogether.

  The path was beautiful. The air was fresh, if a little humid. Butterflies flickered across the trail in their erratic dances, birds soared overhead and cried out, some mournful, others cheerful and bright. The voices of more types of frogs and insects than she could have imagined caromed off the trees. She listened for the sharp caw of a raven, but it never came. They were on their own, and no matter how close she now felt to Edgar, their paths had diverged.

  Anita paused after about an hour, and the two shared a quick snack, a bit of cheese and bread, and a sip of good, fresh water. Lenore wished she could stay longer, draw the trees, and the wildlife. Her art had become so caught up in the dreams and images that she often felt drained, and the only way she'd found to regain her strength and focus was work that involved nothing more than her mind and her pencils, or pens, or paint. That was how the picture of Grimm was supposed to have worked. She'd only meant to draw the portrait as a gift to Edgar. Instead of granting her a mental and creative reprieve, the experience had drained her, leaving her with the sensation that her heart, and her mind, were a void, darkening and widening with every line or shade she created.

  When this was over, she knew she'd have to find time away from it. Away from the visions and the art, away from the trapped souls and everyone who knew that she could see them. Even sitting in a city and drawing caricatures of passersby for change would be better than withering away to nothing.

  "It's not too much farther, lady," Anita said, rising. "If we hurry, we'll get there just as the sun is at its highest, and the light is best."

  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."