The Black Throne Read online

  Captain Guy welcomed me, saluting my health with a minuscule glass of wine. The kitchen mate who served us departed as soon as everything had been laid out and dispensed before us.

  "Mister Perry," he said, refilling the glasses, "I have decided to give you a tour of the vessel immediately following our meal."

  "Why, thank you, sir. You don't have to—"

  "My pleasure entirely, I assure you. Mr. Ellison tells me that you will have no problem providing us with travel information as we go along."

  "Yes," I agreed, as he began eating. When he glanced up at me suddenly, I added, "Hopefully, there will be no complications on that front."

  "And you have made the acquaintance of the mysterious Monsieur Valdemar?"

  "I have."

  "The man is some sort of master calculator, is he not?"

  "I am not certain," I answered. "The matter did not come up during our conversation."

  "Oh," the captain observed. "I simply assumed he worked with abstruse formulas to keep track of the other vessel's progress."

  I shook my head.

  "No," I said, beginning to eat.

  "Mister Ellison conferred with him for some time before his departure," he observed. "He informed me afterwards that our destination lay in southern Europe. He said further that you would provide us with more detailed information as it was required."

  "I shall," I replied.

  "Is there anything Monsieur Valdemar requires of us?"

  "Not that I'm aware of."

  "He has had no meals sent to his room."

  "Special diet, I believe. Ligeia takes care of his needs."

  "I see. Let me know if they want anything, will you?"

  "Of course."

  "A very interesting man. He must have a strange story to tell."

  "I'm sure he does, though I'm yet to hear it."

  We ate for a time in silence, then he asked, "Any idea at what point you might have further sailing instructions for me?"

  "When will you need them?"

  "Not for some time yet."

  "Let me know when you do, and if I haven't already gotten them, I'll get them."

  He smiled faintly then and turned the conversation to matters nautical and meteorological. Afterwards, he kept his word and I got the tour.

  * * *

  That night I watched a storm for a long while. It rumbled and spit fires on its way up from the south. I stood under a God's plenty of stars in a clear sky, there on the main deck. The storm came striding across the water like some bright giant insect. A cool breeze preceded it, and shortly the waves grew higher, their splashings against the hull more forceful. A little later and the ship was rocking, the breeze punctuated by gusts, the banging of the thunder much nearer at hand. The stars were drowned in a pool of spilled ink and the face of the deep was illuminated by countless flashes. I wondered whether it was storming on that other world, where poor Poe wrote or edited, his depressed alcohol metabolism in this place serving him ill in that. There came a blinding flash from directly overhead, followed immediately by a clap of thunder. Then a hard rain pelted the deck, and I scurried for the stair, half drenched before I reached it.

  In the days that followed I maintained my resolve, visiting with Valdemar in the morning. Ligeia would open his wine-crate casket, and, secrecy no longer necessary in my case, a few tapers or an oil lamp would illuminate the scene, casting flickering shadows across the man's waxen features. The lady would exercise her art, performing mesmeric passes above him until he moaned, sighed, wailed, or barked, signaling the fact that we had his attention once again. Usually, on these occasions, I would feel the energies, also, as if water were somehow flowing through my body. Then we would exchange greetings:

  "For the love of God, let me go! I am dead, do you hear? Have you no compassion? Release me!"

  "What will the weather be like today?" I asked.

  "Sunny. Winds out of the southwest. Thirty knots. Light midafternoon showers. Oh, oh, the agony!"

  "A little rain never hurt anybody," Legeia observed. "Have you narrowed the range of Von Kempelen's flight yet?"

  "France or Spain. I can say no more at this time. I turn, I freeze, torn 'twixt the bournes of spirit and matter!"

  "What became of the Kingdom of the Netherlands? You'd mentioned it the last time I asked."

  "That probability has diminished. I say to you that I am dead!"

  "I'm not feeling too well myself this morning. Are Griswold, Templeton, and Goodfellow aware that we pursue them?"

  "Indeed they are. Oh! Oh! Oh!"

  "Have they formed any plans yet which might bring us to distress?"

  "I deem it likely, though I cannot tell you their thinking. They have taken no action yet which might cause you harm."

  His lower jaw fell, revealing his long yellow teeth and his swollen and blackened tongue.

  "Quick! Quick! Put me to sleep or waken me! Quick, I say! I say to you that I am dead!"

  "Sleep well then," Ligeia said, passing her hands above him and closing the lid.

  Other times, we discussed different matters:

  "Good morning, Monsieur Valdemar," she said. "And how are you today?"

  "Oh! The agony ... !"

  "I was wondering about this business of alternative worlds," I said. "I get the impression there are many, many such, each slightly—or, perhaps, greatly—different from the others."

  "Nor are you incorrect. Spare me, I beg! Let me live! Or die! But no more of this twilight horror!"

  "I was wondering, too, how the transportation of an individual from one such world to another might be effected."

  "First, it requires locating extremely similar individuals on disparate worlds who possess a—kind of resonance—with each other—"

  "How could one possibly locate such people?"

  "One would employ a special detector. Please ..."

  "Describe this detector."

  "A person who is neither living nor dead—but partakes of both—may be directed to extend his awareness—in this fashion—"

  "That sounds suspiciously like a description of yourself."

  "It is."

  "Are you trying to say that you were party to our world-switching?"

  "No. I served only to locate the requisite individuals."

  "You found Poe, Annie, and myself for Griswold and company?"

  "I did."

  "How?"

  "It may not be described. Only experienced. Please ..."

  "Put him back to sleep, lady."

  And then, again, on a gray, blustery day when the sea wore whitecaps and the decks did surprising things beneath our feet:

  "Good morning, Monsieur Valdemar. How goes the world with you?"

  "Pray unbind my spirit, lady, and consign these mortal remains to the deep."

  "Mr. Perry has something he wants to ask you."

  "I'll only be a minute, Valdemar, but something you said the other day has had me thinking. If the Griswold crew used you to locate us, what did they use to cause our transfer—physically—from one world to the other?"

  "A person of considerable power was needed—one who could be used to create a kind of meta-place—a common ground—where the three of you might meet... ."

  "Annie? You found us, and Annie was induced to perform the transfer?"

  "Just so. If you would, dear sir—"

  "I have no further questions at this time."

  Ligeia waved her hands.

  "Have a good day, Monsieur."

  The ship pitched as she shut his lid, and it fell to with a crash.

  "Would you care for some tea, or an herbal drink?" she inquired.

  "I believe I would."

  And the following day:

  "A good morning to you, Monsieur Valdemar."

  "If pity be not foreign to thy soul—"

  "Good to hear you speaking so clearly. Edgar has something else he wants to ask you."

  "Yes," I said. "I do not understand how Annie could have been ind
uced to perform the exchanges to which you referred, a matter which worked to her own detriment."

  "She was caused to do so by Dr. Templeton—a skilled mesmerist."

  "I still do not understand. If her own ability in this area is so great, how could a lesser practitioner control her? And if he were actually stronger, what did they need her for?"

  "His abilities are as a candle to the celestial orb when compared with hers. Yet he could influence her by reaching her at a vulnerable time—her childhood."

  "How—could he do that?"

  "Once she had been located the detector could be employed to transmit Dr. Templeton's mesmeric energies to the desired point on her lifeline."

  "You were used to focus his energies on her?"

  "That is correct."

  "Time itself is no barrier to your sentience?"

  "Time is space—or spaces—among the worlds. And pasts are easier than futures."

  I felt myself swaying, and this time it was not the vessel. I put out my hand to lean upon the bier, slipped, and struck his shoulder. It was as rigid as wood.

  "There is nothing to be gained by striking a dead man," he observed.

  "It was an accident," I said. "Sorry."

  My mind was filled with images of happy children at play; and even as I framed the complicated question I could foresee his one-word reply:

  "Are you telling me that Dr. Templeton, working through you, caused Annie to create conditions which influenced the lives of the three of us toward the point where this exchange became possible?"

  "Yes."

  "Three lives have been manipulated because of the greed of these men."

  There was no reply, but I realized I had not actually asked a question.

  "All to bring Annie here at this time to track the gold-maker and his secret?"

  "For now," he replied, "she is such a tool."

  "What do you mean 'for now'?"

  "They need a lot of money soon. So Annie is—for the moment—a tool. Later—she will have other uses."

  "What uses?"

  "Her power is to be stripped—from her personality—to serve as an ingredient—in a Great Work."

  "What then becomes of her personality?"

  "It is—sacrificed."

  "You cannot be serious."

  "I cannot be otherwise," he replied. "Sir! I repeat! There is nothing to be gained in striking a dead man!

  Release me!"

  "Go to hell!"

  "This is a state of mind with which I am not unfamiliar."

  I felt Ligeia's hand upon my arm.

  "Come away," she said.

  I realized by degrees that I had dragged the man halfway out of his casket and was shaking him. Ligeia's other hand passed down my spine and I felt a warm current sweep through me. I let Valdemar fall back into his box.

  "Yes," I said. "Yes."

  She turned him off and led me away.

  Yet was I back again the following days, for his answers seemed always to breed fresh questions:

  "Bonjour, Monsieur Valdemar."

  "Lady, I speak to you as one racked in the House of Pain—"

  "Then I'm sure you'll welcome a little distraction. Eddie has a few more questions for you."

  "Yes," I said. "It did not occur to me to ask earlier, but how did your—uh—remains come into the possession of Mr. Ellison when they had been in the custody of Griswold for all of this business you've been describing?"

  "Mr. Peters and Emerson managed to spirit me away one night recently."

  "Does Griswold know that we have you?"

  "Yes."

  "And he made no effort to recover you?"

  "He no longer needed me once he had Annie."

  "She can do anything you can?"

  "She lacks my unique perspective—but she can satisfy his special needs for astral intelligence."

  "How did he ever find a person in your condition, to begin with?"

  "In good health and normal spirits."

  "I do not understand."

  "You asked how he found me."

  "Then what changed you?"

  "He did."

  "Oh. You mean ..."

  "He brought me to the point of death, then suspended me here."

  "I'm sorry. I did not understand fully."

  "Then release me. Let me die."

  "I can't. We need you."

  I drew back and looked away. Ligeia returned him to wherever he went between sessions and we blew out his candles.

  "Coffee? Tea?"

  "Yes."

  It was three days before I approached him again. I watched storms come and go, I read some of Ellison's books and fiddled with his fascinating alchemical equipment. I even went to Captain Guy, had him open his armory and provide me with a saber. I commenced my old dismounted drills with the weapon then—at first, in my own room; then later, topside, at odd hours, when the deck was pretty much deserted. I liked working in the open air, I required the exercise, and, as my benefactor had pointed out, it seemed a skill worth resurrecting. And so I stamped and lunged, to Emerson's occasional applause from the rigging.

  Still, these distractions were not sufficient to halt the speculative faculty for long; and Ligeia and I opened his casket once again. The tapers flickered, the mesmeric currents flowed. Shortly, a series of moans signaled our establishment of contact:

  "Good morning, Monsieur Valdemar."

  "Any chance of your letting me die today?" he inquired.

  "Afraid not," I responded. "But I'll try to be brief. First, I've a general question. It wasn't clear to me from what you said the other day whether Annie had been forced to create the bond with Poe and myself."

  "No," he replied. "I had merely to locate a person of her potential who already was party to such a relationship. Then Dr. Templeton caused her to create your kingdom by the sea."

  "The odds, sir, on finding such a bizarre connection must be astronomical."

  "It makes no difference—if one has an infinity of possibilities from which to choose."

  It was not until that moment in my life that I began to appreciate the concept of infinity, a thing which was later to occupy considerable of my thinking. In the meantime, curiosity drove me but a step further:

  "How can the human mind compass infinity?" I asked.

  "The dead can view it from the vantage of eternity," he replied. "Speaking of which—"

  "No. Not now," I said. "I will not discuss the joy of death with you."

  "Eddie?" Ligeia said, accenting the second syllable as was her wont.

  "Yes?" I answered.

  "You have seen me about this business for some small while now, and I have observed you for just as long. You are not as sensitive to drink or to mesmeric influences as one who is native to this world. On the other hand, you have an enormous capacity for both."

  "What are you trying to say?"

  "It would be interesting to teach you the rudiments of the system—to see what comes to pass of it. We might start by having you return Monsieur Valdemar to his rest."

  "I am not certain that I approve—" Valdemar began.

  "Hush!" she said, taking hold of my hands. "What do you know of the subject?"

  "I—"

  Our first gesture silenced him, as I felt the current faintly.

  "Well done," she said. "You really should keep at it."

  I did, and though my efforts over the next few days met with some success they were accompanied by distracting side-effects. That is to say, whenever I would begin to employ animal magnetism as she directed there would come sharp rapping sounds from within the walls, from overhead or underfoot, furniture would be thrown about, and small objects would develop a tendency toward levitation or spontaneous shatterment.

  "I'm going to have to give it up," I said on the third day. "It's simply too messy."

  "It is appropriate for the place you came from," she replied. But perhaps it is hazardous to continue these experiments aboard ship. The ocean is deep."


  So I restrained my animal magnetism and we returned to our former operating procedures. The very next day Valdemar informed us that the field of probability had narrowed. Paris was to be our destination.

  * * *

  ... And the circumstances of his death were as mysterious as events in one of his stories, nor did matters end at that point. He was buried in the Poe family lot in Baltimore's Presbyterian Cemetery. His grave was not marked by name but bore only the number 80 which the sexton had placed there in identification. Several years later, Edgar's cousin Neilson Poe ordered a tombstone for him. It was broken, however, by a freight train which jumped the track into the marble yard where it was being carved. Nobody tried again till it was too late for certainty. The 80 was lost, and time and the vicissitudes had their way with the Poe lot.

  While nobody knows for certain just where the hell his body is, there is now a monument to Edgar Allan Poe; and generally, on the eve of his birthday, he is remembered. A bottle of bourbon may turn up at his tomb, along with a few flowers and an occasional stuffed raven. Baudelaire and a number of his countrymen thought him one hell of a fellow.

  Henry James disagreed, but he always was a bit of a spoilsport. Poe is one of those writers, as someone said, who holds a great special place in literature rather than a great general place.

  It happened this year, too. But he doesn't touch a drop anymore.

  V

  There came a night when my sleep was troubled. I tossed fitfully, drowsing and rousing, and seem to recall at one point hearing the sounds of a November storm. My dreams were a rag-bag of ill-matched people and places, going nowhere. At some unmarked hour the storm faded. I found oblivion for a time and its taste was sweet... .

  I found myself sitting up, listening, searching the shadows, waiting for awareness to catch up with my senses, uncertain as to what it was that had called me awake. It felt as if there were someone present, but moonlight streamed through a porthole and my eyes were entirely dark-adjusted. I saw no one.

  "Who's there?" I asked, and I swung my feet over the side of the bunk, dropped to one knee and fetched out the saber from where I had stowed it beneath. No one responded.

  Then I noted the glow upon the wall, near the apparatus table. Rising, I approached, halting when I realized it to be only the small, metal-framed mirror which hung there. The angle must be such that it was catching that intense moonlight.