"This was the first time I've ever seen or heard of it," she said. "That was a very strange man. It was almost as if I'd conjured some dark spirit."
I decided against asking what her experience was in the dark spirit area. I'd had enough excitement for one morning.
"He asked after an Annie," she continued, "and said something about his heartstrings being a lute. If he is not mad he must be a poet. But I wonder now—whether the thing that led to the transfer lies with him or with you."
I shrugged.
"Wait. Did not Monsieur Valdemar say you are somehow the same person?" she asked. "That would explain the metaphysics of it."
"Like all metaphysics, it explains nothing of any practical value," I said. "I am neither mad nor a poet.
My heart is not a musical instrument. I'm just in the wrong world, I think, and so is poor Eddie Poe. I don't know how it came to pass, but the man we're following had something to do with it."
"Rufus Griswold?"
"I believe so. Yes, that's right. You know the man?"
"We met once, in Europe. Years ago. He is dangerous—in some highly specialized ways as well as the ordinary."
"I gather he's some kind of alchemist."
"More than that," she said. "A black magician of some persuasion I do not know."
"Ellison thinks he interfered in some fashion with a relationship between Poe and Annie and myself to produce the present state of affairs, giving him Annie as a guide, displacing us all from our respective worlds."
She spread her hands and met my eyes.
"I do not know," she said. "But I find the idea fascinating. Shall I see whether I can learn more about it?"
"Please."
I rose.
"However ..." she said.
"Yes?"
"I'd like to question Monsieur Valdemar every morning, at about this time," she said. "The routine will be good for him."
"It will?"
"Even the dead need good work habits," she explained. "And I feel that, as head of this expedition, you should be present on these occasions."
"I guess I should," I agreed. "Too bad."
I headed for the door, halted when I reached it.
"Thanks for—everything," I said. "See you at lunch."
She shook her head.
"I take all my meals here," she told me. "But you're welcome to join me sometime."
"Sometime," I said, and I went out. The passageway about me was suddenly filled with white fire.
"Comment?" I heard Ligeia say, as at a great distance, right before her door fell shut.
"This way, Perry," a familiar voice called out. "Please."
It being the voice of the one lady I would walk through fire for, I moved ahead. But even the living can use a little peace and quiet, I reflected, momentarily envious of Valdemar.
IV
... Down the corridor of white fire, like a tunnel of flowing silver or a melting ice cave, rushing, I went.
For Annie called, and it seemed she must be just a bend away. But I turned a corner, I climbed, I turned again, and the brightness flickered—almost pulsing—and she still seemed just as near, but no nearer.
Again, I climbed.
"Annie!" I called out, at length. "Where are you?"
"Where I always am," she answered, her voice suddenly higher-pitched. "On the beach."
"I can't find you. I seem to be lost," I shouted.
Abruptly, the flames parted. For an instant, I was taken back to a long gone day. Nor did it seem unnatural that Annie as a small girl stood beside a pile of brushwood, a gleaming seashell in her hand, a line of troubled ocean visible beyond her right shoulder.
"Annie! What's happened?" I cried.
"It's Eddie," she said, "Edgar Allan... ."
"Poe," I said.
She frowned, then nodded. "Yes," she agreed. "Poe, too. And he's denying us. He is drawing away, and it hurts."
"I don't understand. What can I do?" I asked.
"Talk to him. Tell him we love him. Tell him we're real. Tell him—"
The flames closed again, hiding her from my sight.
"Annie!"
"I can't stay!" I heard her call out, weakly.
"How can I help you?" I cried.
I became aware of a pulsing in my hands, and then the ground began to sway and my shoulders were suddenly straining and the flames were flapping audibly.
"Annie!"
What I took to be the beginning of a response proved only the cry of a bird. But it might well have been a thunderclap for the drastic change it seemed to signal. Immediately, the flames became the flapping canvas of a sail, the throbbing thing in my hands a line leading to the nearby mast. My feet rested upon another line, the rolling of the vessel transmitted to me through it. My height above the deck made me uneasy and I gripped my line more tightly. I have always been bothered somewhat by high places, and a windy—possibly pre-storm—morning at this altitude troubled me considerably.
A clucking sound caused me to look to my left. Emerson swung toward me, anchored himself to the mast, extended his hand and took hold of my arm. Slowly, feeling the beast's strength and coming to trust his intention, I relaxed my grip upon the line and permitted myself to be led toward the mast and down it, finally achieving the surer footing of a wooden crosspiece, where I stood hugging the mast till the worst of the vertigo departed. It had been infinitely more frightening to find myself suddenly in that position than had I made the effort to climb carefully to it. I grunted my thanks to Emerson, who must have realized that I felt safer now, for he released me and moved off. Then I climbed down slowly, troubled by the turns my childhood visions seamed to be taking.
"Mr. Perry," came a familiar voice. "I am impressed by your conscientiousness as head of this expedition. Had I known you wished to inspect the vessel I'd have been only too happy to provide you with a guide—or have conducted your tour myself. I'd no idea a landsman might possess such diligence in nautical matters."
I clasped my hands behind my back to conceal their shaking, and I nodded slowly.
"Why, thank you, Captain Guy," I replied "It was hardly a tour of inspection—more a matter of satisfying my curiosity as to how things were secured above."
He smiled.
"Most prudent. I trust you were satisfied by what you saw?"
"Indeed. I was impressed."
"I was about to send you an invitation, sir, to take your luncheon with me in my quarters at eight bells, so we can get to know each other a bit better and discuss this journey."
"Sounds like a good idea," I agreed. "Thank you. I'll see you then."
I returned to my own cabin for a little cowering and reflection. I sprawled on the big bunk, hands behind my head, gazing abstractedly at the containers of colored liquid on the lab table at the end of the room, musing upon the fact that Valdemar lay just beyond that wall. I thought over the events of the past several days, also, when the tempo of my life had commenced its acceleration. Questions I had been too sleepy, startled, distracted, or confused to articulate began tumbling through my mind. What was the power of the enemy, and where did it reside, for them to have been able to move Poe, Annie, and myself from world to world the way they had? What was Ligeia's strength? And of main importance, to me, why were my experiences with Poe and Annie—which had been casual things spread out over a lifetime—suddenly changing in character, frequency, and intensity? Never having understood their mechanism from the beginning, I was at a loss to understand these new developments. This most recent one, which had left me hanging in the rigging, puzzled me most of all. We had always been of an age in our encounters. Could Time itself be subject to arcane manipulation? And if so, why was it suddenly happening to us?