The Black Throne

Montresor turned away from him then and stood back from the door. He gestured.

"Come in—all of you—then. This way. We must convey it below."

We entered and he secured the door. Peters and I followed him. Ligeia, Emerson, and Grip followed us.

Fortunato stumped and staggered along even farther to the rear, alternately cursing, singing, and muttering about Luchesi's stupidity. Just your typical Friday night in a plague-ridden city.

Montresor led us down a curving stone stair to his vast cellar. Oddly, pitch-soaked torches and large candles blazed in numerous niches and holders. It seemed an unusual extravagance in such a sequestered portion of the house.

At last Peters and I reached the bottom and deposited the box, at Montresor's direction, in a subterranean passage which seemed to lead off into a species of catacomb. I was particularly anxious to go farther, for it seemed likely that the tu

There were skulls and other human bones visible in the nitre-encrusted walls, and the shadows flitted like dark fingers across them. Cobwebs hung like fishing nets at every irregularity, and the rustling sounds of retreating vermin brought to mind the ordeal in Toledo which still troubled my slumbers.

Montresor saw the direction of my gaze and smiled.

"This place was once the burial ground for the abbey," he said, with a gesture to the grisly remains.

"That was back in the days before Prince Prospero's father had driven out the monks and taken the property for himself."

We transported the crate to a position near the wall which he had indicated, and there we set it down.

"There is some co

He did not reply, but—to my surprise—turned away. I had half-expected him to pry open the crate at once, to gloat over his acquisition. Instead, he took a few paces away from us, and I could see that his attention was on Fortunato. Fortunato had seated himself on a bony ledge, and I now noted that he was studying Ligeia's tall and slender figure, her curling raven hair, with an expression most simply described as lust.

Montresor muttered something about drink which the son of an actress might well recognize, " 'Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance ... makes him stand to, and not stand to ... and, giving him the lie, leaves him.' "

I did not applaud, however, as he did an about-face, as I was shifting my attention to Ligeia who was ignoring the drunken jester entirely.

Our host drew nearer, touched my arm lightly and steered me a few paces off to the side.

"Are you, my good fellow, still seeking entrance to the abbey?" he asked.

I bowed. That the gesture had in it more of mockery than of humility seemed only in character, no doubt.

"It is our profoundest wish, sir," I replied.

"Then let me show you. There is indeed a tu

"Sealed!" I said. "Then how are we to get through?"

"It is simple enough," he explained. "I will give you tools—hammers, a prying bar. Stout fellows such as yourselves will have no difficulty getting through that thin wall at the far end of the passage. You will then find yourselves in the remotest corner of one of the abbey's storerooms. But—and this is important—you will seal up that wall again, as soon as you have broken out. And then you must hide your tools, put them down one of the many wells within the abbey's cellars. Otherwise the prince may discover the tu

Montresor broke off here, and with a swift movement of his foot flattened and smeared a scurrying beetle on the stone floor. For a moment, we considered the result in thoughtful silence.

"The prince," he concluded, "fears one thing only. And that is the Red Death."

And so we agreed to Montresor's plan. The only problem was Valdemar. He would have to be left behind. I could hardly speak openly of this difficulty with my companions while Montresor was within earshot. But Ligeia perceived the difficulty at once. With a dramatic flourish of her cloak she turned to me suddenly.

"Edgar, I have given this more thought," she a

Was there once, or was there still, I suddenly wondered, some special tie between these two—Ligeia and Valdemar—which did not depend upon mesmerism? Odd thought. I was uncertain where it had come from or why it seemed possibly appropriate.

Montresor stared at her as if he were about to argue. But we were a formidable group, obviously strong and somewhat reckless. He elected to remain silent.

A snore reached us from Fortunato's direction. He had passed out, slumped on his stone ledge.

Peters eyed him, then advanced and took his cap and bells and tried them on. The sleeper stirred but did not wake as Peters stripped him of his motley jacket, too. Montresor watched but said nothing.

Peters and I took up the torch and tools. Then—Emerson following—we entered the dark tu

The passage was low, crooked, overgrown with spiderwebs. Plainly, it had not been used in many years.

We had not gone far before a bend in the passage took us out of sight of the two watching figures, Ligeia and Montresor, and the slumped form of Fortunato in his white linen. A hundred paces and I knew Ligeia was on the stair, Grip upon her shoulder, on her way to a distant bedroom, leaving the others to their own devices. I could almost hear Grip repeating his wine-drinkers' joke.

He paced the decks of an ancient vessel, knees shaky, joints aching. Occasionally, he groped among his navigational instruments of tarnished brass and greening bronze. Mumbling to himself, he would go topside to take readings, polar mists drifting above the waters, ice floes sliding by. His ancient crew lurched about him and strange birds called from overhead. At times it seemed that someone attempted to address him in words mumbled and low, catching at his sleeve, pursuing him on his rounds. But always, when he turned, the figure would flit away, fade. The words never came quite clear. He would return to his cabin then, to rummage and reflect... .

Poe awoke in a cold sweat, hands trembling. There had been so many dreams, some of them utterly terrible—such as that of the pit and the pendulum—and while this lacked the horror of that one or the grotesqueries of the encounter with King Pest and his court, it bore an intolerable element of loss and abandonment. He massaged his damp temples.

... As if he had sailed beyond human ken, he reflected, past all normal commerce of thought and feeling. And yet must he go on, against the winds and the tides of change and becoming. Lost, lost.