We continued to rise at a rapid rate, the thunder from the Earth's polar aperture finally beginning to diminish. Ligeia insisted on cleaning my lacerated palms thoroughly, then dressing them with heavy bandages. Fortunately, she had been able to provision our gondola considerably while Peters and I were occupied with our late captain.
Our wish was to return to Europe, or at least to some other civilized land. But we soon discovered that we had very little control over our course. At least, we were being borne northward by steady winds. We found that we could control our altitude to a great degree, by throwing over ballast or releasing gas, thus managing to maintain a sequence of favorable winds. But it was hard to tell directions.
Valdemar curled up on the floor, Ligeia covered him with a tarpaulin, and he became a general-purpose piece of furniture. Ligeia would sit and meditate upon him for hours at a time. Peters used him as a pillow; I, an ottoman.
There can be too much of excitement, too much of sensation. Our first day airborne was an affectless thing. We were psychically drained from all that we had experienced of late, from all that we continued to experience. As my feelings had been for a time following my ordeal at the hands of the Inquisition, as well as that maddening other-worldly journey aboard the Discovery, or the morning after Prince Prospero's party on the night of the Red Death, so now I knew the distancing of fatigue within a consciousness too stimulated for slumber and a consequent sense of the unreality of my present surroundings—akin, I suppose, to that of a late-night reader's, of some fantastical romance, with the difference that I could not escape by closing the book. (While this comparison may not be unique, little has been made of that reader's own prisonerhood within my life—so to speak—and the special solace for us both that the glory of language with its bright procession of tellings preceded the spurious consolations of philosophy by an age, as demonstrated in the fact that none misses sleep for philosophy.)
And my mind in this state is wont to divagate, eyes go unfocussed, body wisdoms rise to swamp all thinking.
The second and the third day were of the same order, though reality came scratching at the door more and more often, and we ate and we talked again and Grip granted us an occasional obscenity from basket rim or cable.
We maintained our swift, high-altitude northering for the better part of a week. I tried to discover whether it might be June, July, or August and neither Peters nor Ligeia was certain. And it seemed mean to rouse Valdemar on such a small matter.
So we sailed on, landing only once the following week on a tropical isle in a valley of many-colored grasses. We took this chance only because the one thing we were low on was water, and this colorful spot with its River of Silence come out of some hill by a route obscure and lonely, also bore numerous pot-holes and fissures, whence volcanic gases rose. After we had drunk our fill and loaded every container we possessed to its limit we were able to reinflate the balloon at one of these openings.
So we ascended again, rising till we picked up another strong wind of what seemed a northerly persuasion. Soon our course took us above a heavy cloud cover. And this went on, and on, and on.
We discussed descending to take our bearings but argued ourselves out of it, in that we were unlikely to sight any really familiar landmarks, and we might—in the matter of descending through what could prove massive foggy banks—encounter some mountainous prominence to our detriment.
We even lost track of the days after a time. For so long as our supplies lasted, though, we were determined to continue rather than risk falling short of our hemisphere, our temperate zone.
It was not until the gasbag began to leak and the decision was taken from us that we finally entered the clouds, drifting through them with the distinct feeling that all motion had been suspended—as if we had been imbedded in cotton. The only indication I had as to how long we had been in transit now was that my hands were well-along in their healing.
When we finally emerged from the clouds it was above a green landscape that was not a jungle. Beyond that, we had not the least idea where we were.
We kept on, hoping for some sight of civilization, having stabilized again at a lower altitude. A night passed in this fashion.
Dawn came into the upper atmosphere, though the Earth was still in darkness when we descended upon it. The sounds and smells and—after a small while—the sights were all hearteningly familiar. A brief reconnoiter along a rural roadway showed me a sign at a crossroad saying richmond 10 mi.
We deflated our balloon the rest of the way and concealed it in a wood. Valdemar being slow and unsteady on his feet, we were unable to travel very well. So, leaving Ligeia with him in the wood, Peters and I set out in search of some sort of vehicle in which we might transport him.
After having hiked a mile or two we heard the sounds of voices. Changing our course slightly in that direction we came shortly to a metal gateway which stood slightly open. A portly man who stood within bade us enter. He shook our hands as we did so, introducing himself as Mr. Maillard. He was a finelooking gentleman of the old school, well-dressed, well-mannered, dignified. At his back, however, strolled a number of peculiarly garbed individuals—that is to say, they were accoutered in the costumes of many periods and many lands—including a woman who paused periodically to flap her arms and announce "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" in a surprisingly deep voice.
"We'd like to rent or borrow a cart, a wagon, a wheelbarrow, a coach," I said. "Might that be possible, sir?"
"I believe so," Maillard replied, "though I'm not the one you should talk to in this regard. Come with me to the main building and we'll find someone in the office to help you."
We followed him in the direction of a large old mansion house, and on the way were accosted by a man walking on all fours who rubbed up against our legs and purred. After he had departed in pursuit of a rabbit, I said, "Sir, we are not from this area, and while I have my suspicious I must inquire as to the nature of this—institution."
He smiled.
"As you have guessed," he reported, "it is an asylum for the insane. Dr. Tarr and Professor Fether established it here some years ago after leaving France, where they had developed radical experimental treatments for patients of this sort."
We mounted to the old house and entered there. Mr. Maillard left us in a large, once-elegant living room, now somewhat shabby, saying he would locate someone concerning the cart and send him to us.
Peters and I collapsed onto the slightly worn furniture.
"Hard to believe we're back, Eddie," he said. "Be sure an' find out what month it is 'fore we leave."
"The month, sir, is September," said a small man largely submerged in a dark chair in a dark corner, off to our right.
"Beg pardon," I said. "We didn't notice you there."
He chuckled.
"It has its advantages," he observed. He rose then and bowed, a silver-haired and goateed individual, bright blue eyes enlarged through heavy spectacles. "Dr. Augustus Bedloe, at your service."
"Ah, you are a member of the staff."
"No. As a matter of fact, I am a patient here."
"I'm sorry... ."
"No need. I am not demented, if that is what you fear."
"I—do not understand."
"Might I inquire as to your professions?"
"I am Edgar Perry, U. S. Army, retired," I stated, extending my hand. "My friend is Dirk Peters, First Mate of the Eidolon."
He clasped our hands and shook them.
"Merely attempting to ascertain whether you were in any fashion associated with the courts or law enforcement establishments. I am pleased that you are not."
"Always glad to please." I glanced at Peters, who shrugged.
"I am actually one of the only two sane persons in this institution," Dr. Bedloe announced.
"Of course," I agreed.
"I am serious, sir, and I speak only for your own benefit—to warn you."