The Black Throne

"Was it successful?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell now what form it took?"

"No. Let me rest... ."

I reversed the pattern of my passes, withdrawing the energy I had extended. The rapping came again, in all of the walls as well as the ceiling. The chair slid toward me, then toppled to its side. Valdemar let out a particularly piteous moan, then his eyes closed and the casket slammed itself shut.

I extinguished the candles and went to make travel arrangements.

Edgar Allan Poe's sleep was troubled. He woke early and tried unsuccessfully to recollect what he had dreamt. Finally, he rose and dressed himself. The sky was just growing pale to the east, and he opened the front door and stepped outside to consider the dawning.

He beheld a miniature castle sparkling in the front yard. He moved toward it and it dissolved. There was only a heap of sand when he reached the spot it had occupied.

Some trick of the light perhaps... .

VI

She walked barefoot on the beach. It was a still, starless night. The sea itself glowed faintly, however, sufficient to provide what small illumination she required.

She walked in a circle, passing near the water and away from it. She could not remember why she did this, but she did remember that it was important. So she continued.

At one point a black cat hurried past her, at another a pit opened at the center of her circle. Flames leapt about it now, and a bright blade passed among them. She continued walking. Why was she doing this? It was important, that was why. Oh, yes.

A man lay prone beside the pit. Yes. He must be made to look into it. That's right. Easily done. Advance the flames. Yes. See him move?

She moved faster. And what does he behold? The horror. Of course. What he sees is—

She screamed and the sea rose up, reaching for the flames, the man, the pit—

She threw her hands wide and the fabric of space was torn. She stepped through the opening.

I opened my eyes to the steady jouncing of the coach, and the black cat stared back at me from the shadowy corner of the seat opposite. I watched it for perhaps ten seconds as my senses returned to me, and then I realized that I beheld Peters' wig which had slipped from his head as he dozed across the way.

I rubbed my eyes, sat up, and sought the water bottle. I drew the blanket upward from my lap to cover my chest as well. I took a drink, and then another.

We had been traveling in a series of hired coaches, pulled by relays of horses, for the better part of November. The Pyrenees had been awful and Navarre had been bleak. Just when I was begi

"In public," he added.

Now I saw burnt fields, burnt houses, wooden crosses. The unmistakable ravages of war lay all about us.

We had recently begun experiencing delays and other difficulties because of the conflict, but timely guidance from Valdemar and a good supply of gold coin kept us going. As a soldier, I was both fascinated and appalled. The Spanish had come up with a new word for the form of warfare by means of which they continued to resist the French—guerrilla. It involved hit and run skirmishing, ambushes, attacks behind the enemy lines. The Spaniards refused to stand and fight a pitched battle, and it was working against the French now as it had earlier in the century. It was costing the French too much. It was wearing them down.

I turned my gaze away from the depressing landscape. A little later the coach was suddenly jounced and our pace increased. I heard an a

Grip obviously wanted our attention because he did not approve of the driving. He always acted this way when Emerson seized the reins and drove the horses to a frenzied pace. The driver was loath to dispute matters with the simian, and what normally followed was that Ligeia was called upon to calm the horses mesmerically. Then Peters had to recover the reins from the ape and scold him a bit.

"Hey now, Grip! Give it back!" I heard him suddenly cry, and some sort of tussle ensued involving the hairpiece. This caused Ligeia to stir at my side and raise her head, taking a weight off my shoulder.

She yawned delicately and said, "Is he at it again?"

I nodded.

We were careening from side to side as well as bouncing when she stretched. Peters tickled the bird under his beak with one of his inhumanly thick fingers and composed his features into a frightful grimace which on anyone else would have been a slight smile.

"'At's a good Gripper," he said. "Let 'er go for Uncle Petey."

Grip saw fit to comply, and Peters immediately restored the wig to his pate, careless of the position it fell to occupy. Ligeia rose, leaning against the inside wall of the coach, parted the heavy drape on that side, hung out the window and gestured. Immediately, we began to slow.

"Might toss in a couple of heavy ones for Emerson," I muttered.

She winked back at me and leaned even farther. I caught hold of her about the waist. A half-minute later she signaled for me to help her return to her seat.

"My turn," Peters said, rising to his feet.

"Not necessary," she responded. "He has surrendered the reins to the driver."

"That ain't like him," Peters observed.

She shrugged.

"L'e

"Oh, sure," Peters said, and he seated himself. After a time he began playing with Grip again. "Say

'Nevermore!' " he coaxed. "That's wot the ge

"Amontillado!" the sable creature screamed. And again: "Amontillado!" He finished with a burst of maniacal, almost-human laughter, followed by the sound of a cork being drawn from a bottle, this last was repeated many times in quick succession.

"I do believe that's a type of strong drink," Peters observed, squinting at me. "Ain't it?"

"Aye," I replied, my mind wandering ahead.

I wondered exactly what I was to do once we reached Toledo. Valdemar had given us no assurance that Von Kempelen was actually there—only that this was the right trail for me to follow to my ultimate goal of freeing A

"Nevermore," Peters said softly.

"Amontillado," Grip insisted.

The day before we reached Toledo there came a rapping from overhead. In that Emerson lay curled at Peters' feet sleeping soundly (a frequent occurrence these days, with a little help from others), we assumed it was the driver signaling to us. Peters leaned out and hailed him on this account, but the man denied it.

The rapping came again, and Ligeia turned and studied me. "You have not been with the mesmerism making, have you?" she inquired.

"Me? No. Not in a long while," I responded.

"I feel something strange," she said then. Then she was calling out the window to the driver. We began to slow.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Most unusual," she said.

We came to a halt beneath a large tree. She ordered then that Valdemar's wine crate be unstrapped and lowered to the ground. Then she told the driver and his assistant to take a break, somewhere beyond the hill. Peters elected to join them. It was a strange sensation that overtook me then, because I heard the rapping again—from inside the crate.