The Black Throne

"No," I answered. "I understand the situation. But I've enjoyed my service, in the main, and I don't want to end it looking like a deserter. I want to write a letter to my Commanding Officer, requesting leave and explaining how I've serious personal matters to attend to."

He appeared to ponder it for a moment, then smiled again.

"Very well," he said. "Compose your letter and I will take it with me when I go ashore and see that it is delivered. Of course you must sign it 'Edgar Allan Poe.' "

"I didn't think of that—" I began.

"On the other hand, I can speak to a senator of my acquaintance and arrange for your immediate discharge."

"Perhaps that would be preferable... ."

"Settled then. I'll have the papers waiting for you at Arnheim when you return with the good news."

He winked and returned to his writing. I paced, sorting my thoughts. After a time, I cleared my throat.

He glanced up again. "Yes?" he asked.

"Where are my quarters to be?" I inquired.

"Why, right here, this stateroom," he responded, "as soon as I vacate the place." He blotted his letter, folded it, put it aside. "And that will be very soon," he added.

I fingered my shirtfront. I was wearing civilian garments fit for rambling in the wilds, and looking the part.

"Pity I've no chance to obtain a change of clothes," I remarked. "Feels strange to be taking off on something like this with just what I have on my back."

"Rummage through the sea chests," he said, with a gesture which took in a big one at the foot of the bunk, another in a corner, and a large armoire across the room. "They've all ma

So I did, and as I was about it he inquired, "You're a Master Sergeant, I believe?"

"Yes," I replied.

"So you've had more than one tour of duty?"

"Yes."

"Ever do any time in the cavalry?"

"I did."

"Then you know how to use a saber."

Memories of sweaty saber drills—stamping and cutting under an afternoon sun—returned in detail.

"Yes," I replied. "The guard makes a good knuckle-duster."

He squinted, as if trying to decide whether I were making some sort of joke. Actually, I was, though I was also speaking the truth.

"A good weapon," he said at last, "for its silence—however you use it. I just wanted you to know that Captain Guy has many in his armory, in case you've a desire to practice with one."

"Thanks."

I studied him. Finally, I could not resist asking, "Ever use one yourself?"

"Oh, yes," he replied, "in my younger days, in the Caribbean."

"What part?"

"All over, aboard ships," he answered.

"I thought you'd a tendency to seasickness."

"Not so much in those days," he said.

"What sort of ships?" I could not resist asking.

"Oh, merchantmen, of course," he replied, as if awakening from a reverie and realizing the line of my questioning. "Merchantmen, naturally."

"I guess a little practice wouldn't hurt," I said then.

Was that twitch to his left eye something of a wink? For a moment I covered it with an eyepatch, grew him a black beard and wrapped a red bandana around his skull. I tried to see him that way perhaps forty years ago, swinging a cutlass. I wondered... .

"Good idea," he said.

I turned up several trousers and shirts of medium to high quality, as well as two jackets, one light and one dark, which looked as if they would serve me. The russet shirt and black trousers I tried fit well, and I decided to keep them on.

"Well enough done," Ellison observed, glancing my way as he put his signature to the last of the letters.

"I'll show you my hidden safe, where we'll file these. Then I'll introduce you to Miss Ligeia before I take my leave."

"Very good, sir," I replied.

And these things were done. Thus did I make the acquaintance of Seabright Ellison, master of the Domain of Arnheim.

He wrote, as the fog crept up to the window, pressed against it: I have spoken of Memories that haunt us during our Youth. They sometimes even pursue us into our Manhood:—assume gradually less and less indefinite shapes:—now and then speak to us with low voices... .

A wind stirred the fog, a slice of moon found its way through the parting. He thought ahead to the end.

III

I walked, and Lord! the sand shifted beneath my feet to the point where I stumbled and fell several times. Through the thickest of fogs the sea roared like Leviathan a-dying, slapping intermittently with the force of a hurricane, tearing chunks of the shoreline away and swallowing them in its agony. Once I learned its direction I scrambled for higher ground, and the beach was eaten behind me as I climbed.

Grasping at shrub, root, and rock, sliding back, catching hold again, I pulled myself at length above its reach, achieving, however, as I did so, a region where the winds swelled and howled their answer back to the sea-beast below. And Lord! the tumult of the elements' divorcement! Earth, air, and water strove, then fled one another in heartbeat pulses! And then as I raised myself those final feet—a gout of fire fell the welkin's course to fry a tree before me, last element joined in ghastly image cast upon my streaming eyes. I lifted my arm in moment shield, and when I let it fall, the tree smoked and flickered in the wind, and the figure of a man stood, almost unconcerned, nearby, staring past me toward the raging, invisible sea, dark cloak flapping.

I rose into a crouched position, shielding my face with my arm, and I moved in his direction.

"Allan!" I cried, recognizing him as I drew near; and then I added, "Poe!"

He inclined his head slightly in my direction, something like a wistful smile occurring as he responded.

"Perry. Good of you to stop by. I knew, somehow, that you would."

I came up beside him, his cloak striking me about the right thigh and hip.

"What the hell's going on?" I asked.

"It is but the perishing of the Earth, dear Perry," he replied.

"I do not understand."

"The Art-scarred surface of the Earth is purified as the physical power of a word is withdrawn from its atmosphere," he said. "The passions of the most turbulent and unhallowed of hearts are unleashed. A

welter of unfulfilled dreams dies about us."

I brushed my hair from my eyes. The tree crackled at our back, lighting the fog most balefully. The seas boomed like thunder.

"The memory of past joy—is it not present sorrow?" Poe went on.

"Well—could be," I replied. Seeing him more clearly now, I realized that he—who had always seemed of an age with me—appeared considerably older, his face more heavily lined than my own, dark pouches beneath his eyes. It was almost as if we viewed each other from different times in our respective lives. "The thought of future joy," I suggested, "might sort of balance things out. Isn't that the meaning of hope?"

He considered me for several seconds and then he shook his head and sighed.

"Hope?" he repeated. "That word, too, has been withdrawn from the atmosphere, the ether, the land.

Things fall apart, dear Perry. For all that, you are looking remarkably fit."

"Allan ..." I began.

"Let it be 'Poe,' " he said, "between us."

"Damn it then, Poe!" I cried. "Just what is it you are talking about? I truly do not understand you!"

"The beloved spirit is departed," he answered. "In this absence the shell of our world crumbles. She is gone, my other self. Alas! most evil of all evil days! That which pervaded this place pervades no longer—and you know the name as well as I.

"A