The Black Throne

"Let's not wake the poor fellow up now," I said. "Let him get his rest. I'll come back later."

"No," she answered. "He's doing just fine. It takes him a while to—pull himself together. That's all."

There followed a terrible moan.

" ... And I hate to put an invalid under such a strain," I added.

"Nonsense!" she replied. "It's good for him. Keeps up his interest in life."

Again, the moan.

I edged a trifle nearer, as my eyes were begi

"Are you sure ... ?" I began.

"Of course," she responded. "He's always a little out of sorts when I rouse him. Just a matter of mood."

"Sounds the way I feel before I have my coffee," I said. "Perhaps we should send for some breakfast for him."

"Oh! Ooh!" he moaned. "I am dead!"

"No, he's not much for food or drink," she replied. "Come around now, Monsieur. There's a gentleman here I'd like you to meet."

"Please! Just—let me—go ..." came a raspy, distant voice. "Let me die."

"The more time you waste arguing, Monsieur, the longer it takes," she stated.

"Very well," he said then. "What is it—that you want?"

"I wish to introduce Mr. Edgar Perry, who is now in charge of our expedition."

"Expedition ..." he said softly.

" ... In pursuit of Messers Goodfellow, Templeton, and Griswold, who have kidnapped the woman known as A

"I see her," he said, "ablaze—like a crystal chandelier—before us. She is not of this world. They use her.

They use her—to follow—another. Let me die."

"Von Kempelen," I said.

"Yes. But I know not—where they—are headed—because—it is not clear—where he is headed—yet.

Let me die."

"We do not need that information now," I said, an extraordinary thought occurring to me and causing me to begin sidling to my right. "Tell me what you can of the co

"You are—somehow—the same—person," he said.

"How can that be?" I asked.

"Crossover," he said. "Poor Poe—will—never know. Never to find what is sought—through hollow lands—and hilly lands."

"Why not?"

"Let me rest!"

"Tell me!"

"I know not. Only A

One more step to the right, then I turned and kicked open the door. Daylight spilled through from Ligeia's own quarters, catching the lady in mid-gesture above an opened casket, within which lay a frightfully pale individual whose white whiskers stood in violent contrast to the blackness of his hair.

His eyes were opened but the pupils rolled upward. His face was twisted, lips drawn back, teeth bared.

His tongue, slightly protruding, appeared to be black.

"Good Lord!" I said. "The man is dead!"

"Yes and no," she observed. "He's an unusual case."

She gestured slowly and his eyes closed. She shut the lid.

"But then, we all have our problems," she added. "Would you care for some tea or hashish?"

"Have you got anything stronger?" I answered, as she took my arm.

"Certainement," she replied, and I cast a backward glance as we departed, surprised to note that the casket when closed possessed the shape and size of a large crate of wine-bottles, even to the point of bearing labels, producing the impression of a doublebox of Chateau-Margaux, of the antelope brand, violet seal.

She steered me toward a comfortable-looking chair, saw me seated in it. Closing the co

She returned after a few moments with a tall tumbler of muddy, greenish liquid, bits of leaves and other matter floating on its surface.

"Looks like swamp water," I said, accepting it.

"Tastes like swamp water, too," I added, after a small sip.

"It is an herbal tonic," she explained. "Very relaxing."

I thought about it, then took another sip.

"Valdemar is—indeed—dead?" I said after a time.

"Yes," she replied, "but he tends to forget. Each time he remembers it becomes somewhat stressful."

"When, how did he die?"

She shrugged.

"Months, years, before we came aboard," she said. "Long before I found him."

I cast my gaze about her quarters, hung with bright tapestries, strewn with animal skins and oriental rugs. There were dark wood figurines I guessed to be African, decorated with copper wire and bright beads. A pair of Toledo blades hung upon one wall. There was a Turkish water pipe beside the huge, silk-curtained bed. The aroma of some exotic incense hung heavy in the air. It reminded me somewhat of a Gypsy caravan where I had once paid to have my palm read by a heavily rouged lady who, I felt, was somewhat overimaginative on my behalf. Yet there was something more to this ensemble than to that one. Peters had been right. I could almost see the ghostlands at her back.

"What is it that makes Valdemar special?" I asked.

"I gather he was part of an experiment in mesmerism," she explained, "on his deathbed. He is frozen at the exact point of transition between life and death. Because of this, he enjoys a unique perspective on events. It does require a particularly skilled mesmerist to deal with him, however, as he keeps trying to slip away into the darkness."

"And you are obviously a specialist in this regard."

She nodded.

"Where I come from the phenomenon is somewhat controversial," I said.

"Here it is a fact of life."

"I believe I felt it somewhat—twice now—in your presence."

"That is quite possible," she said. "Finish your tonic and I'll show you what it's like."

I gulped what remained, set the glass aside.

"That stuff didn't do much for me," I observed.

"It's quite mild," she replied.

"I thought you said it was a potent brew."

"No, you asked for something strong. That will be the treatment." She raised her hands. They seemed to sparkle. Once again, I felt the warm pulse, the faint tingling. "The tonic is but a preliminary."

"What will the treatment do for me?"

"I am not absolutely certain," she said, "in your case. What would you like it to do?"

"I'd just like to escape from myself for a time."

She smiled, extended her hands, lowered them. It was like being suddenly splashed by a very warm wave. I leaned back in my chair and let the feeling run through me. She was on Ellison's payroll, and she knew I was important to him. She gestured again and I attempted to relax fully, letting the feeling wash through me. Nothing the Gypsy'd done had felt like this.

While her first several passes were exhilarating, I realized after a short while, that they were also somewhat numbing. There was a distancing effect between my body and my consciousness. Then I realized that my thinking had grown sluggish. But it was coupled with such euphoria that I did not resist the lethargy.

Her hands drifted slowly past me.

"I am going to cause you to relax very deeply," she said. "When you awaken you should feel entirely refreshed."

I was about to respond, but then it did not seem worth the effort. Her hands passed me again and I was hardly aware of my body any longer. Except for my eyes. It seemed an awful lot of trouble, keeping my eyes open. I let them close. I felt the shadows of her hands go by once more. And then I was departing—soaring, bright white, drifting, turning to snow, falling... .

... Suddenly, my head felt fu