Emperor of Gondwanaland (46 page)

But of course all such numinous access had vanished twelve years ago, when the flaring, fleering demon had reared up at him from the pyre of his dreams. Composition of his paltry stories never involved any heavenly hand guiding his pen.

Frost released his madman’s grip on his scalp and looked up at the three faces regarding him. The visages of the Eddys manifested only sincere concern, while Hazel radiated an assured and almost beatific good humor. Had Hazel urged him on then, Frost’s contrary nature would have made him refuse her help. But her serene silence had the desired effect.

Frost’s voice was small but determined. “Show me whatever spirits you can, then.”

The four assembled around the kitchen table, the room illuminated only by a single candle centered on a cracked plate atop the table. Hazel said, “Please join hands.” One of her own sought Frost’s, and he accepted it. Hazel’s small hand was a hot coal melting into the snowbank of his own.

There followed no incantations or mummery, no incense nor convenient distractions that would allow trickery. Hazel simply closed her eyes, while her breathing fell into a deep cadence. Frost felt his own breath slowing to match hers. But then, as if a galvanic current had passed through her, Hazel gave a spastic jerk and her eyes flew open.

And when she spoke, it was with Elinor’s immemorial voice.

“Bob, I fear you are doing poorly without me.”

Frost felt tears leaking from his eyes. He fervently wanted to believe he was actually talking to Elinor’s shade. But a residue of doubt afflicted him.

“Elinor—if it is you, then tell me what gift I gave you when I visited you at school in 1894.”

“I could never forget, Bob. It was that unique little book you had printed. Only two copies ever existed. One for me and one for you.
Twilight
, you titled it.”

Frost felt simultaneously hollowed out and filled with some nameless glowing substance. “Dearest Elinor, yes, yes, it’s true! Since you were taken from me, I have been not a man at all, but just a shambling husk. Oh, why did such a tragedy ever have to befall us?”

Elinor’s voice issuing from Hazel’s lips was calm. “We can’t know such things, Bob, even after death. The universe splits and branches every instant, and whatever path we find ourselves on is our destiny.”

“Are you and—are you and the children happy, Elinor?”

“Yes, Bob, very happy. And I wish I could share our bliss with you. But I suspect that simply talking to me will not accomplish any long-lasting transformation of your heart. After we say goodbye, you’ll begin to waver and doubt the events of this evening. You’ve always been such a skeptic, Bob. Only the things you could touch or handle would convince you entirely. Or, what would be worse, you’ll set me up as some kind of lofty angel, and continue to martyr yourself to my memory. No, Bob, my voice alone cannot offer you the sure path out of your misery. For that, you must seek out the Nevernaught. Goodbye, Bob. I love you.”

“Elinor, don’t go! I love you, too!” Frost jumped up, breaking the handclasp, as if to fly down unseen dimensions after the departing shade.

Hazel blinked then, and spoke in her natural voice. “What happened? Was contact made?”

Muriel recounted what had transpired during the seance. Hazel considered carefully the matter carefully before offering her response.

“I know where the Nevernaught is to be found. Or, at least, where conditions are propitious for a meeting. Robert, will you come with me?”

Frost knuckled his overflowing eyes. “Of course. What choice do I have?”

March 29 dawned lush and welcoming. Birds twittered, pockets of remnant snow hidden on northward slopes gleefully cooperated with the heat toward their own dissolution, and a bustling, grateful, shirt-sleeved humanity reclaimed the sidewalks of East Providence. The winter seemed truly to have fled.

At the Eddys’ early-breakfast table, Frost and Hazel shared the family repast of johnnycakes and bacon. Both visitors had bunked at Second Street after the seance ended. Hazel had bunked with the children, while Frost sprawled across the horsehide sofa, so exhausted by all that had happened as to be oblivious to its protruding springs. Now, considerably rumpled, Frost focused on imbibing his third cup of coffee, as he sought to concentrate his mind. The conversation with Elinor’s ghost, the odd injunction she had laid upon him, the sense of his life teetering on some precipice—all these issues preoccupied him.

Nonetheless, he remained observant enough to take note of Hazel’s attitude and behavior, since so much rested on this stranger’s character. In contrast with Frost’s disheveled state, Hazel appeared as neat, if dowdy, as she had last night. She had enjoyed a hearty breakfast with ladylike gusto, while chatting amiably with the children. Flora seemed particularly taken with her, laughing at her nonsensical chatter. The medium—the witch—seemed an uncomplicated person. But Frost suspected that, like any square yard of simple forest soil, she concealed an entire sophisticated and alien civilization beneath her surface.

At nine-thirty the Eddys began to make ready to attend church. Soon the family and their guests stood at the front gate, ready to go their separate ways.

Hazel patted the heads of the children. A1 and Mel’s normally unruly hair had been brilliantined flat. “Enjoy the services, Muriel. Robert and I are heading for our own sort of natural chapel.”

Clifford tilted back his fedora and clapped Frost on his shoulder. “You’re in good hands, Bob. I expect that when we next see you, you’ll be feeling considerably more chipper.”

In the sober light of day, Frost experienced some doubts about the wisdom of committing himself to the hands of this unknown witch. “Such an outcome of this haring about after spooks would be a welcome surprise. But I’m not counting on it.”

Muriel said, “Robert Frost, such a defeatist attitude is hardly likely to merit success.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed Frost’s stubbly cheek.

Then the Eddys departed.

Frost turned to Hazel. “Exactly where are we heading, to meet this ‘Nevernaught’?”

“Why, Robert, only to someplace you’ve already exhibited an affinity for. The Dark Swamp.”

Frost jolted backward. Hazel’s comment struck deep into his memories, hitting one of the most tumultuous periods in his life.

Shortly after the twenty-year-old Frost had poured out his heart to Elinor, gifting her with that copy of
Twilight
, he received intelligence that caused him to believe that she had spurned his gift, rejected his soul-offering, and that she had pledged her hand to a rival. Plunged into black despair, Frost conceived of only one possible retreat that would match the anguish of his being: North Carolina’s Great Dismal Swamp. A legendary haunt of melancholy, affirmed as the recourse of heartstricken lovers by many of Frost’s heroes, such as Longfellow and Thomas Moore, the Great Dismal Swamp seemed the only fitting abode wherein to nurse his wounds—or extinguish his very consciousness.

By train and steamer he made his way to the boggy wasteland. Hurling himself on foot into its darkling interior, still clad in his unsuitable street clothes, Frost battled briars and vines and sinkholes for ten miles, until darkness fell. Just on the point of casting himself into the marsh’s peaty waters, he stumbled upon a party of duck hunters. Suddenly, human company appeared precious to him, and his mood began to lift. Over the next few days, he experienced various misadventures back in the South’s small towns, which culminated in his humbly wiring his mother for the train fare home.

But how could Hazel know any of this? Perhaps her remark merely referred symbolically to some aspect of his personality she divined. Frost chose for the moment not to interrogate her on this point.

“Yes, I suppose my stories have exhibited an affinity for the nighted places of the earth. But are you speaking literally?”

“Yes, I am. We need to ride a trolley to the village of Chepachet, to visit its Dark Swamp.”

Vague memories of conversations with Lovecraft on various Rhode Island locales rumored to possess supernatural qualities now returned to Frost. “I believe I’ve heard of this locus of mystery. All right, then, let’s catch a ride downtown, to Exchange Place.”

As they strolled toward the East Providence trolley stop, Frost sought to learn more about his companion. Hazel needed little prompting to talk about herself.

“I’m thirty-eight. No special male friends, but plenty of chums of both sexes in the amateur-press world. I enjoy writing, but have commenced to suspect that I have little talent for it. I live in the same town I was born in, with my widowed mother. It was she who helped me become a witch, for it’s an old family calling among the Heald women. But I’m only a pauper witch, not inclined to feather my own nest with my skills. Not do I indulge in any kind of repellent or malicious work, such as milking bats or riding bony old men naked through the night. I prefer to use my abilities to help people. People who deserve it. Such as you, Robert.”

Frost was silent. Hazel’s easy candor disarmed him. She seemed utterly open and aboveboard, yet remarkably unshallow. There were depths to this woman not yet apparent.

They boarded the first trolley to stop for them and rode west, crossing the sparkling Seekonk River. In the center of Providence they transferred to the Chepachet-bound car and settled down for an hour’s trip.

Their conversation turned to abstract literary matters, and Frost found Hazel to be a well-informed devotee of the arts. The ride into the state’s northwestern rural domains proved congenial and passed swiftly. Before Frost quite expected it, they were disembarking in Chepachet Village.

The heartening sunlight fell upon a rambling, well-tended cemetery that climbed a hillside. Small stores lined a quarter-mile stretch of the main road, known as the Putnam Pike, which, if followed farther, would lead all the way to Hartford, Connecticut. The several private homes that could be seen appeared wholesome and well maintained.

“Well, what next?” Frost inquired, as they stood in front of a farrier’s, shuttered and quiet on the Sabbath.

“Let’s inquire at this tavern.”

Frost asked Hazel to wait outside, leery of the potentially bawdy atmosphere inside the dining establishment. But to his surprise, he found the Stage Coach Tavern to be a reputable place, and just gearing up for the lunchtime trade. Frost buttonholed a portly elderly woman polishing silverware, and soon had directions. Moreover, he managed to secure a sack lunch for the two of them, spending his last fifty cents. He hoped Hazel could supply carfare back to the city.

He hoped that after his hegira into the Dark Swamp he would be in any condition to ride home.

Rejoining Hazel, Frost said, “We need to seek out the property of a farmer named Ernest Law. It’s a mile farther down the road.”

“Let’s get walking then! There’s no more splendid recreation on such a fine day!”

Hazel’s sentiments pleased Frost, and he offered the woman his arm, at least for their promenade through town, where the sidewalks allowed them to walk abreast.

When they reached the outskirts of the village, where only fields and forests and the isolated homestead greeted their gaze, Frost dug out the paper-wrapped roast-beef sandwiches supplied by the tavern and shared them with Hazel. Two large pickles spiced the meal. They ate as they walked down the muddy, gravel-strewn road, conversation temporarily abandoned. Hardly had they finished their apples—a bit mealy, after a long winter in storage—when a rutted, weedy sidetrack appeared.

“This must be the Law farm,” Frost ventured. “Their road appears little traveled. I take it the Dark Swamp is not a popular destination.”

Hazel said, “The road less traveled always offers vaster prospects than the high road. Never hesitate to venture down such paths, Robert.”

Frost bristled. “I wasn’t hesitating, woman! Let’s move on!”

They turned and followed the track that bent its way through the undergrowth.

After perhaps half a mile, they caught sight of what was presumably the Law farm: an unpainted, weather-silvered, one-story residence in poor repair, nursed by various outbuildings of equal shabbiness. Moving across the sumac-invaded lawn, Frost and Hazel reached the shoddy steps. Soon Frost was knocking at the door.

When the door swung open, it revealed a bony woman with a careworn yet friendly face, her checked house dress faded and much mended. “Yes? How may I help you?”

“Mrs. Law?” Frost inquired. “We’re visitors from Providence who are keen to see the Dark Swamp. We understand that at least a portion of it extends across your property.”

The woman regarded Frost and Hazel as if they had recently escaped from some sanitarium. “That worthless blotch of land does indeed intrude on our property. Why anyone in his right mind would want to dally there is beyond me. But if you continue to follow the track until you pass the last cornfield, you’ll come directly to it. You’ll have to excuse me now. I’d offer you some refreshment, but we’ve just today had a death in the family. It’s our hired man, and we are busy trying to arrange a home burial.”

“Oh, please, pardon us—” began Frost. But before he could finish his apology he was talking to a closed door.

Leaving the sad-aspected house behind, Frost said glumly to Hazel, “Sorrow is the one constant in every human life.”

“Is it, Robert?” was her reply. “Remember that happiness makes up in height what it lacks in breadth.”