POE MUST DIE (8 page)

Yes he was poor and he lived in fear of debtors’ prison. He’d received as little as $4.94 for a piece of written work and been excessively grateful, for at the time it had been the difference between hunger and survival. Never had he earned more than $800 in a year and even that glorious occasion had occured only twice in his life.
Twice in thirty-nine years. He was poor,
and therefore limited in everything he wanted to do.

Poverty, rejection. Defeat breeding defeat and always there was his pride, a most fierce pride. Many called him egomaniac, for had he not said that he could not conceive of any being superior to himself and did he not believe this to be so even now? Poe didn’t regard this observation as mere authorial vanity, for his power to create had been proven by the criticism, poems and short works flowing from his pen in fifteen hour working days, works which had not been equalled or excelled in this most ignorant land.

America the abominable, rich in stupidity and ruled by the tyrant called Mob. American democracy, “The most odious and unsupportable despotism … upon the face of the earth.” What can one say of a nation whose national anthem is the same tune as the English drinking song “Anacreon in Heaven.” Poe firmly believed that there was neither education nor culture in America.
Here all think for themselves and they cannot think.

And Poe had told them so. Told them of their ignorance and in turn, they called him “Tomahawk,” the man who cuts his rivals to shreds with his bitter pen. A destructive man you are, Eddy.
Yes, but only to the aspirations of those untalented and pretentious dolts, who with the intelligence of a squash, reach for heights forever beyond them.

Then you are an honest man, Eddy.
Yes, and I have paid dearly for being so. Aristotle, I beg you to say of me as you said of yourself
—
I think I have sufficient witness that I speak the truth, namely, my poverty.

Rachel stood up, turning her back to him and drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The shawl was lavender, as was her gown and satin high-heeled shoes, shoes which a servant cleaned daily with white wine and a piece of muslin. She was an inch taller than Poe, with long hair that held all of the brown and gold of autumn, hair combining fire and sun and reaching to her waist. Poe, with his tremendous capacity for happiness and unhappiness, had met and loved Rachel a year ago and she had given him both. At that time she was alone, waiting for her husband to return from somewhere in the world and Poe’s wife was just recently beneath the earth and he needed to love again.

Their love had not been of the flesh, for Rachel’s attachment to her husband had been firm, deep, unyielding. So Poe, who worshipped beauty, had worshipped Rachel for it eased the hurt of losing Virginia.

He had fame and was imaginative and because women had warned Rachel against him (“morbid, dangerous, a drunkard, bitter”), Rachel had found him attractive, as did other women. They delighted in each other and Poe had drunk deep of her beauty and lived on hope, that agony of desire.

Then her husband had returned and Rachel left his life. What remained was pain, something he knew quite well. Now she was in his life again, in need of his help.

She wanted him to use his contacts as a journalist, as a man of despair, as a man who knew too much about the underbelly and dark side of Manhattan and make contact with the grave robbers who had stolen her husband’s body.

But what was Rachel hiding from him?

She gazed into the fire with eyes that did not blink. On the other side of the closed door, a maid’s laughter faded as she climbed a staircase. “Eddy?” Rachel turned to face him. “Do you ever wish to see your dearest wife alive, even for one brief moment?”

He twisted his thin mouth into a sad smile. “I loved her totally, some would say incoherently. I weep for her not with my tears but with my heart’s blood. My few remaining friends would prefer her to be alive, for I would drink less and therefore, quarrel less. Were Virginia alive, I would also spend less time in that land which exists between life and death.”

Rachel took one step toward him and stopped. Her eyes locked with his. “Would it not be worth anything to feel her arms around you once more?”

Poe closed his eyes and shivered. The sickness that now threatened to overtake him was not that caused by drink or ill health. It was an even more cruel sickness, one rooted deep in personal despair. “Six years ago, a wife whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a blood-vessel in singing. It was thought she would not live and so I took leave of her forever, undergoing each and every agony of her death. Then she achieved partial recovery and again I clutched at hope.”

Poe opened his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Once more the vessel broke. And healed. One year later, it happened again and again I had no choice but to suffer with her. Partial recovery again until, until… ” He blinked tears from his eyes.

It broke again and again and again, crushing me with unspeakable torment as I watched her die and yes, I died with her. Her pain only made me love her more dearly and with all my strength, I desperately clung to her life. I am, perhaps, too sensitive and all that concerns me I view with total and extreme seriousness, but this has made me a poet which I would not change.”

Poe collapsed onto a dark green velvet sofa and spoke to the ceiling high above him. “I became insane, alternating that hideous state of mind with unfortunate intervals of the most horrible sanity. I drank, God knows how much or how often and I continued to exist, for one cannot call what I
endured
living. I existed on a pendulum ruthlessly swinging back and forth between despair and hope. Would my dearest one live, would she die. No man, let alone myself, could continue living that way without total loss of reason and when the deliverance for which I prayed finally came I was no happier. For what cured me of living between despair and hope was the death of my wife. The solution became the problem.”

Poe leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “My only life died and let me tell you that the one I received in its stead I hurl back at God and curse him for giving it to me.”

He felt Rachel come up behind him and place her hands on his shoulders. “Eddy, it can be done.”

Poe turned to look at her.

“Eddy, it is possible for the dead to live again.”

He stared at her for long seconds, then said, “I was correct.”

The tone in his voice made her withdraw her hands.

Poe stood up to face her. He
was
correct. Oversensitive Poe, with his mind buried in tales of terror, revenge and murder, with his soul consumed by death, fantasy, mystery and ratiocination, Poe who never guessed but who analyzed carefully and accurately. Poe who was admired, derided, feared, scorned.
Poe knew.

“Rachel?”

She backed away from him.

“Rachel, who has convinced you that your husband can be brought back to life?”

“I, I—” She folded her arms under the lavender shawl, a barrier against Poe. She aimed her chin at him. She feels anger and fear, he thought and so do I, for she is now in the hands of those who will harm her if they can.

He shook his head slowly. His southern voice was softer than usual. “And so they have you as well.”

She spun around, her back now to him.

Poe hurried around the sofa, a hand reaching out for her. He wanted to protect her. “Rachel, they are frauds!”

“They are not!”

“Rachel, these newfangled spiritualists are obscene frauds, please believe me. It is a new fad and will soon be exposed for the dangerous nonsense it is. Spiritualists claim they can evoke the dead. Rachel, they cannot. They claim to be able to speak to the dead. They cannot. They claim the dead speak through them and I tell you this is not so. Oh Rachel, do listen, I beg you!”

She covered her face with her hands and Poe took her in his arms, stroking her long hair. “Rachel, Rachel.”

Poe despised spiritualism because he pursued the truth in all things and this was lies, merely another affront to what little human intelligence could be found in this boorish nation. Money changed hands of course, for as Washington Irving had told him, the almighty dollar reigned in this democratic land.

In dark rooms and for large fees mediums throughout New York City were causing tables to turn and tilt, musical instruments to play through the touch of invisible hands, spirits to “write” on slates, bells to ring, bodies to levitate in darkness and even glasses of water to overturn.

And this trickery was growing ever popular in America. In New York spiritualism was an epidemic, a most lucrative one to be sure, with victims prepared to believe over logic and sanity. Spiritualism was on the rise because people like Rachel would do
anything,
pay
anything
to hear that the beloved still lived. These days, no one asks after your health, but how does your table turn.
Good and how is yours, sir.
Spiritualism was fraud for money, a rising fad and one which Poe wanted to see exposed.

She looked at him and he felt her pain.

“Eddy, I love him as much as you loved Virginia. I want him back.”

“You will never see him alive.”

“Eddy, get him back for me. Bring us together again. Please.” Her fingers dug into his arms. Her intensity and determination were unnerving.

“Rachel—”

“He is waiting for me to—”

Poe grabbed her shoulders and shook her, shouting at the top of his voice. “Not in this world, not in this world! You must understand this. You must! The dead have no place in this life, in this world, not your dead, not my dead, not—”

A fist banged on the door. “Missus, are you—”

Rachel shouted, “I am fine, Charles. There is no need for alarm. Please return to your duties and thank you.”

Poe lowered his voice. “Do not do this, please! Flee these people. They will only harm—”

“Miles Standish will not harm me!”

“Miles Standish.” Poe’s hands dropped from her shoulder. Miles, with his historic name, was the lawyer for Rachel and her husband, a man Poe knew had too much interest in the dead. He was obsessed by the medical profession and spent hours watching the dissection of cadavers. He was wealthy, educated and he would be responsible for arranging for the ransom money to be withdrawn from Rachel’s accounts. Poe, who felt that Miles’s interest in Rachel was growing more personal than professional, did not like him. It was more than jealousy; on first meeting, Standish had made fun of Poe’s threadbare clothes and Poe had retaliated with a cutting remark that had drawn laughter from those present. Poe knew Miles Standish would never forgive him for this public humiliation.

He said, “Did Miles arrange for you to become involved with—?”

“Oh Eddy.” She walked away from him. “Miles wants me to be happy.” She stood looking through a window out onto Fifth Avenue at a hay wagon moving slowly on the cobbled street. “Hay is expensive, Eddy, did you know that. Thirty dollars a ton.”

“Damn the hay!” He gripped her shoulders and turned her around to face him. “Rachel!”

Her face was streaked with tears. “I will die without him, Eddy. Please bring him back to me. Please.”

“Rachel, I—”

“You know how it feels, you know the hurt, the emptiness. You told me.”

Poe bowed his head. “What do you want me to do?”

“I trust only you, none other. Go to Mr. Standish tomorrow. He is away today on business. I shall give you a note. Speak to him about the ransom. Tell him to begin arrangements now, to have the money ready so that, so that…”

“I shall.”

“Thank you.” She touched his cheek with one hand. “Tell him to see me when he has spoken to my bank. I do not want him in this house until he has done as I asked. Please let him understand this.”

“A question.”

“Yes.”

“Who is the spiritualist in whom you have placed your trust?” And your funds, he thought.

She hesitated.

“Rachel, you ask much of me and I do it willingly. But in turn, you must be honest with me.”

“Paracelsus. He calls himself Paracelsus.”

Poe threw back his head and laughed. “Paracelsus. To hear this name is worth my trip this morning through the snow. Paracelsus.”

Poe continued to laugh until he again sat down on the green velvet couch. “I raced from my sleep, such as it was, to arrive here early enough to make my report and now you tell me that a spiritualist calling himself Paracelsus has promised to reunite you and—”

“I will not have you scorn him!”

Poe quickly stood up. “My apologies, dearest Rachel. It is just that the name is of such magnitude that I could not help but be impressed. The original Paracelsus was one of the most startling figures in magic. A sixteenth century Swiss university professor, brilliant, arrogant. He was magician, physician, alchemist, philosopher. It is said he achieved miraculous cures—”

“I do not want to hear more. You mock me.”

“I do not.”

“Then you will do as I ask?”

He nodded slowly.

“I thank you, Eddy.”

And even though she stood in front of him, she had closed a door and Poe was no longer able to touch her.