The Black Throne

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Edgar Allan Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it. The poet was well known personally or by reputation, in all this country; he had readers in England, and in several of the states of Continental Europe; but he had few or no friends; and the regrets for his death will be suggested principally by the consideration that in him literary art lost one of its most brilliant, but erratic, stars.

New York Daily Tribune

"Ludwig" (Rufus Griswold)

The passage we followed contained a stair which led down to another passageway, running beneath the courtyard. As we rushed through it, Peters moved in a daze of grief and exhaustion. I said nothing at first, simply moving and keeping him in motion till we emerged in the tunnel behind the storeroom where we had originally entered, its way almost totally blocked by a partial collapse of one wall. We finally sidled through via a narrow and very dusty adit.

I was able, at that point, to persuade Peters to discard his jester's costume. After that, we picked up the tools we had left behind on our entering, earlier in the year.

At the town end of the tunnel we discovered that Montresor had walled us in, which of course meant that he had also done it to Fortunato—a deed as grisly as any described in the tales of that master of the macabre, E. T. A. Hoffman, whose stories had filled many a slow hour for me at isolated army posts.

Had we dropped our tools down a well as Montresor had suggested we would have been trapped.

Peters swung his hammer with terrific force. Rather than helping him, I simply stayed out of his way. In a matter of minutes he had knocked a hole through the wall large enough for us to pass through.

Mounting quickly from the cellar we sought about the house. While there was no sign of Montresor, Ligeia responded to my hailing, emerging from an upstairs room, Grip perched upon her shoulder.

"Perry, damn it! Damn it, Perry!" the bird greeted me.

"Are you all right, Ligeia?" I asked.

"I am."

"Valdemar?"

"As always."

"Where's Montresor?"

"Gone away," she answered.

"I've a feeling we should do the same."

"Yes, I've packed a few things."

"I'll fetch your bag."

"It's already downstairs."

"You knew we were coming?"

"I sent Fortunato for you."

"Why?"

"The time was right."

"How will we travel?"

"There is a coach," she said, "beside the stables, out back."

"Then I think we should hitch up a team and head for the border," I said.

"No," she replied, "for Barcelona, and the sea. The Eidolon should be waiting."

"How did that come about?"

"Annie put it into Captain Guy's mind to sail there, quite some time ago."

"How do you know that?"

"I was about to do it myself one day when I realized it had already been done."

"Really," I said. "Is she your—"

"There are no horses left alive in the stables," she continued. "Help me fetch that tapestry down from the wall."

I looked in the direction of her gesture. The tapestry in question involved a man stabbing another man, somewhat to the rear, while an enormous and unusually colored horse stood statue-like in the foreground. I moved a small table near to the wall, mounted it and succeeded in removing the tapestry.

As I was rolling it, I inquired, "Any special reason we need this thing?"

"Yes," she replied.

Peters and I wrestled Valdemar's crate out to the yard, transporting the tapestry along with it. While we were loading Valdemar, I heard the neighing of a horse.

Coming around the side of the coach then was Ligeia, leading a colossal charger. She gave the beast a series of mesmeric passes as they approached.

"Help me hitch him up, Eddie," she said.

My old cavalry instincts surfaced, and I gentled the animal a bit, working him by degrees into a place between the traces. I felt sorry for the brute no matter how strong he might be, taking the place of four regular horses. Of course, we'd be riding without Emerson or our old coachman, and most of our baggage was gone.

Walking about the coach I beheld the tapestry spread upon the cobbles of the courtyard. While the one man was still engaged in stabbing the other, the great horse was missing from the foreground. I didn't even want to think about the meaning of this. I heard a laugh, however, and when I turned I saw Ligeia, hair blowing in the wind, white teeth bared; and for a moment only it seemed that a strange pale light hovered about her, but it retreated into her eyes.

"You, Eddie, shall be coachman," she said.

"I don't even know the way to Barcelona."

She pointed.

"That way," she said. "I'll give you more directions, as you need them."

I opened the door for her and handed her up inside. As I mounted to the driver's board Peters came climbing and settled himself beside me.

"If it's all the same, I'll ride up here with you," he said.

"Good. You can give me a hand with the driving."

I released the brake, shook the reins lightly and the horse began to move. We were going at a smart pace when we left the courtyard. When we struck the road it increased. Shortly, we were moving at an amazing pace. Yet the horse barely seemed to be exerting itself. It was one of the strangest things I'd ever seen. We kept going faster and faster. Soon we were racing along at the fastest pace I'd ever traveled. The countryside was becoming a blur about us.

I drove for several hours, then switched with Peters. The beast which drew us showed no signs of tiring; it still barely seemed even to be running. I drew my cloak tightly about myself and leaned back. The night-smells of spring were all about us. Only the stars stood still. Ligeia shouted another direction, and Peters took us leftward on a fork.

As I dozed, it seemed that it was Poe rather than Peters who sat beside me. But no matter how I addressed him, he refused to answer. Finally, he leapt down onto the horse's back, cut him free of the traces and left me there atop a stranded coach. But that couldn't be right... . I could still feel our movement.

And then it was Annie who sat beside me. I felt her hand upon my arm.

"Perry," she said. "Eddie."

"Annie... . It seemed as if Poe were seated there—just a little while ago. But he ignored me. Then he went away."

"I know. He moves farther and farther off. I cannot hold him to us."

"What of yourself, dear lady? I saw you at the party which turned into a dance of death. But you, Von Kempelen, and Griswold's cronies vanished at some point."

"I could feel the nearness of the doom. The others trust my warnings by now. We fled."

"I wish you had come to me."

"I know. So do I. But we've been through this before. I must not let them seal his exile."

"What of yourself otherwise? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine physically. No plague, no injuries."

"Where are you now?"

"Aboard a boat, heading downstream to the sea. Looking at a flame in a lamp, seeing you. A ship awaits us at the mouth of the stream. It has lain at anchor there for some time, against this emergency."

"What's her name?"

"The Grampus. We shall have boarded her, weighed anchor, and raised sail before you reach your own vessel at Barcelona."

"Where are you headed? I must follow, you know."

"London, to pick up some equipment."

"What sort of equipment?"

"Something Von Kempelen wants."

"For the experiment?"

"Yes."

"And after you've got it?"

"Back to America."

"Where?"

"I'm not certain yet. Somewhere up north, I believe."

"Where in London are you headed?"

"I haven't an address. But... ."

"What?"

"I've a feeling we shall not meet there. Something else looms before you. I see its cloud. That's all."

"A man can only try."

"You've striven harder than most."

"I love you, Annie. Even though it was born of the artifice of a lonely little girl looking for playmates."

"My brushwood boy..." she said, and I felt her hand touch my hair. "I could not have found you had the need and the capacity not been in you, also."

We sat in silence for a time, and then I felt her presence weaken.

"I'm getting tired, Eddie."

"I know. I wish the Red Death had been a little more enterprising when it came to your companions."

"Templeton protected them," she said, "as you and your companion were protected by the remarkable lady who released the force which drives your coach."

I wanted her to stay with me forever, but I bade her good night. Then the real dreams came on—burning bodies hanging from a chandelier, people screaming, a bleeding ape, a walking corpse... .

"Damn it Eddie damn it Eddie damn it Eddie."

I opened my eyes. Grip was perched on my shoulder, calling my attention to a luscious show of pinks and oranges which had begun in the east.

"I'll take over now, Peters," I said. "You rest."

He passed me the reins and nodded. Grip moved over to his shoulder.

"Damn it Peters damn it Peters damn it Peters... ."

We passed many neglected farms, their fields blooming with a spring growth of weeds. We paused at one point and gathered food from the cellar and store house of a farm whose owners had either died of the plague or fled the country. Our nameless steed seemed barely winded, and when I placed my hand upon him he did not feel heated. The only change I noted in him from his first appearance back at Montresor's home was a certain odd, rumpled quality to his hair and mane, as of a garment losing its hem, in the first stages of unravelment.

We rode on, Ligeia directing us to a road that followed a river downstream. It took us through a region of dark tarns and bleak woodlands. Once more—possibly twice—during this phase of our journey I thought that I felt Poe's presence. But it was gone quickly, without communication.

That afternoon we came to a hill—overlooking Barcelona, so Ligeia informed me. I had come to enjoy our unnatural speed, to the point where I wished there were time simply to ride that magnificent beast for pleasure. He was looking more and more tattered, however—large chunks of his hair blowing away with almost every pace, every breeze.

Grip came flying back from what appeared to be a harbor area.

"Damn it Guy damn it Guy damn it Guy," he announced brightly.

I heaved a heavy sigh.

"I think he's spotted the Eidolon," I said loudly.

"Follow him," Ligeia directed, and I did.

We made our way down into the town. The streets were largely deserted, though I could hear sounds of activity at either hand, and I could see people through the windows of shops and residences. There were a few on the streets, also, hurrying, and they tended to converse over a distance. I'd a feeling the worst of it could have passed here, leaving no one in a hurry to resume face-to-face sociability.

We turned a corner and much of our horse's tail was whipped away by a sudden gust of wind. Only a single strand remained where it had depended. When we were nearly to the bottom of the long slope we had been descending, one of his ears vanished, along with much of his mane. Turning upon a welltended road which followed the waterfront, I was amazed to see that the animal's hindquarters appeared to be narrowing visibly with every few steps that he took. Looking downward, I was puzzled to see that he was treading upon what appeared to be a long strand of his own hair, a thing which seemed to emerge continuously from his own person. Looking back, I saw that it extended behind us back to the most recent corner we had turned.

I was about to petition Ligeia for advice, when a barrel came rolling down a hilly sidestreet, escaped from a pair of men who were loading a cart up that way.

For the first time, our steed was distracted. As if aware of his diminished condition, he turned his frayed head in the direction of the oncoming barrel. For the first (and last) time, also, he uttered a strange sound—a half-neighed bellow, which sounded as if it rolled and echoed its way to us from a great distance, off peaks and down mountain passes. Suddenly then, he was galloping. Whatever force it was that had moved him at supernatural velocities earlier, it came over him once again. Ships, piers, waterfront buildings became a blur. And the horse before me began to dissolve. Soon he was the size of a Shetland pony, though much more irregular in outline. Yet his strength held, despite the diminishment in stature; and we rushed through the harbor at a terrible pace. Soon it was as if a large dog drew our coach, a small one, an unwinding shadow. Then, realizing its plight, the shrunken creature reared, emitting a small, trumpet-like note. The coach passed over it. I looked back and all that I saw was a piece of string lying in the street. I drew hard upon the brake, but it did not slow us. Peters reached over then and pushed my hand away. He drew back upon the lever meant to restrain a wheel. Feet braced against the board, he pulled. His shirtsleeve was torn by his expanding biceps and a smell of smoke rose from below. But we began to slow.

It was fortunate that traffic was very light. We halted near to a stack of crates, piers to our left, gray gulls swooping and calling. Peters released his grip by degrees, raised his arm slowly then and pointed.

"There be the Eidolon, Eddie. The beasty did a good job o' gettin' us where we was goin'."

As we were climbing to the ground, I overheard Ligeia mutter, "Pax vobiscum, Metzengerstein."

Later, as Peters and I were unloading Valdemar and a few other items, and crewmen were coming in our direction from the ship to assist in their transport, I happened to glance skyward. My gaze was taken by a cloud formed in the distinct colossal figure of a horse, of an unnatural color.

I told Captain Guy to set sail immediately for England, and that I would brief him as soon as we were underway as to the exact state of our affairs. The three of us ate a quick light meal while we were casting off, and I quaffed a brandy afterwards which caused everyone who passed to stare as if waiting for me to fall over. Then I headed back to my cabin where I washed the dust of the road from me. Afterward, I made the mistake of stretching out on the bed for a moment.

I was awakened by a terrible pitching and rolling of the vessel. I finally stirred myself, drew on my garments and went topside briefly. I watched the storm and the flow of shipped waves but a few moments. Then I returned below and managed to locate Peters. I had slept for over twelve hours, he told me, though the storm had begun but recently.

Bad weather dogged us out of the Mediterranean, and when we attempted a northward course to England a fresh storm descended upon us, of greater ferocity than anything encountered earlier. Since no headway could be made we simply prepared to ride it out. We were blown far out to sea, however, and it was three days before the storm let up. When it did, considerable pumping and repair was in order.

Whatever evil genius might rule this section of the sea, it seemed to have taken a particular dislike to ourselves. For no sooner had the Eidolon been restored to full serviceability than another storm broke upon us, driving us farther south. And this was the worst, by far, of them all, to that point. It bore us without letup into the Tropic of Cancer, equator-wards.

"This storm ..." Ligeia said to me on the morning of the seventh day.

"Yes?" I said.

"It seems to be ending now."

I reached out to knock on a wooden railing. "Thank God!" I added. "Sailors really do have it worse than soldiers. I'm ready to believe it now."

"Don't. Not yet," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure this storm was natural."

"Oh?"

"Just at the end here, just for a moment, I thought I felt her fatigue, allowing a slight slippage of control where personality might show through."

"Go slow," I said. "I'm not at my best."

"I believe they have Annie drugged again," she stated, "and that she was the motive force behind this storm. But a week—even with drugs and mesmerism—was about as much as she could manage. After all, they don't want to hurt her permanently. She has greater uses than simply brushing us out of the way."

"Are you sure of this?" I asked.

"No, I'm not," she replied. "Even under the influence her mind is a subtle thing."

There was a lull with a clearing that afternoon. The crew actually cheered on seeing a blue sky for the first time in what seemed ages. More pumping and patching were undertaken. Fortunately, the masts had remained intact.

In a way, I guess, it was good that a lot of work was going on, as the sails had not been run up again when the next storm broke, when they simply would have had to come down again.

And so we rode for a day, and Ligeia assured me that it was a natural storm and not one of Annie's doings. It delivered us to another and yet another took over after that. We were below the equator now, somewhere in the Tropic of Capricorn and still being driven south. Ligeia still felt this was simply a piece of seasonal bad fortune.

Finally, it broke, and the skies stayed clear that day, that night, and on into the next day. All refurbishings were effected, a propitious breeze came upon us. We ran up sail and turned our nose north.

The crew cheered again. The demons had departed. The hour was ours and it was golden. People sang and whistled at their tasks. Hernandez was instructed to produce an extra-fine dinner, which he did.

The good wind held, and the sky was clear as the sun went down. What more could we ask that night when we crawled into bed, more content perhaps than in an age of days?

The next tempest struck like an angel with a fiery sword, and this by far was the worst of them all. I was up, dressed and out on the deck in a trice, for it might well be that every hand were needed, to struggle yet another time against the weather's perversity. This time, several crew members were lost overboard, as well as sail and rigging. Even one mast splintered and went by the board, leaving the Eidolon halfcrippled, though still in no immediate danger of sinking or capsizing. It was fortunate we had been able to complete our latest round of repairs before this one broke.

For many days it persisted. We could no more guess at our position on the sea. But this time there was a different feeling to it. On several occasions I experienced the same sense of communication and division as I had back on the coach during our flight: It was as if Poe were somehow near again—somehow.

And then Ligeia told me, "She walks the night like some dark goddess of old. This is Annie's storm.

Directed at us."

"Not of her own volition surely!"

"She is not their creature out of choice," she replied. "They have succeeded in gaining control of her again."

"Is there nothing you can do? Or Valdemar?"

"Valdemar still suffers his psychic blindness wherever Annie is concerned. As for myself, I have been holding her back as best I could for some time now. I think we should be on the bottom by now, except for the few small victories I have achieved. She has grown incredibly strong."

"Is there nothing that can be done?"

She shook her head.

"We must wait for her to tire again. I cannot attack her directly, but only defend against the attacks she sends. Once she tires, we must head for the nearest shore. Otherwise she'll swamp us, sooner or later."

And so it went, Ligeia shielding us as best she could. The following day I was in the rigging trying to cut loose some tangled lines and shrouds which threatened to take down another mast. Oddly, the altitude bothered me less during the storm than it had on a fine, clear day.

I doubt I could have heard a shout from below, against the awesome scream of the wind. For some reason I glanced downward, however, and I saw a pair of crewmen needlessly exposing themselves to the elements, holding tightly to a stanchion, one of them pointing to starboard. I shifted my gaze in that direction to find myself completely confounded by the vision presented there.

A ghostly vessel came on, plowing through the heavy seas like some sailing juggernaut. St. Elmo's fire danced upon its spars, pale green luminescence against the blackness of cloud, lightning flashes granting its deck occasional fleeting shadows. The craft gave the impression of enormous age, and was built in a style of centuries ago. But it was larger than any ship so designed had a right to be. Most frightening of all was the fact that it bore full sail, in the very teeth of the storm.

Again, I had the momentary impression that Poe was somehow near. And then it seemed that Annie was, also. She was fighting with Templeton, struggling against whatever drug or artifice he had administered.

I knew this because I heard her call my name, sounding as if she had just come out of a deep slumber.

This occurred as the thought crossed my mind that I might hail the approaching vessel. But there was no time.

Annie screamed just as the two ships collided, and it seemed to me that I was hurled bodily into the stranger's rigging by the impact.

At first, I had no doubt that the crash was physical. But later I was to conclude that my transition from one ship to the other had been something of an entirely different nature.

That the universe might endure ... it was required ... that the stars should be gathered into visibility from invisible nebulosity—proceed from nebulosity to consolidation—and so grow gray in giving birth to unspeakably numerous and complex variations of vitalic development ... during the period in which all things were effecting their return into Unity with a velocity accumulating in the inverse proportion of the squares of the distances at which lay the inevitable End.

Eureka, Edgar Allan Poe