There' s a big hello going out on this Welcome Wednesday slot to David Niall Wilson who is on a 'Buy The Book Tour' just now with his novel Nevermore – a Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe. David is sharing a guest post with us today, we've got an excerpt (Chapter 1 to tempt you) from the novel and, having read it recently, I've done a review of this very intriguing novel.
Keep reading to find out how you can enter to win David's prizes.
First let's meet David who is sharing with us about how the novel came to be written. Welcome again and over to you, David...
There is no real answer to the question "Where do you get your ideas?" – but that doesn't mean you can't explain where you got them after the fact. In many cases, for me, it starts with history. I live in an area rich in folklore. Authors like Manly Wade Wellman have been mining the North Carolina hills and forests for material for generations, and I'm happy to count myself among their number.
Not
for the first time, my novel Nevermore, a
Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe was born of the research I did
for an entirely different book. I've
written a number of stories now in the fictional Eastern North Carolina town of
Old Mill. In Kali's
Tale, book IV of The DeChance Chronicles, I brought my series protagonist
Donovan DeChance and his companions from their home in California to the edge
of The Great Dismal Swamp, and beyond. I
already knew what they were going to face when they arrived, but that never
stops me from diving in and doing more research.
I
searched North Carolina Folklore, and The Great Dismal Swamp. There is a lot of material to be found, and I
read most of it. I searched the texts of
old books that have been digitized, and read folk tales and family journals
from the area. Somewhere in that
research, I found references to Lake
Drummond, which is a very
large lake in the swamp, located near the Intercoastal Waterway, which is a
fascinating thing in its own right.
Two
facts stuck with me. There was once a
hotel that sat directly on the border of Virginia
and North Carolina,
The Lake Drummond Hotel – sometimes called "The Halfway House." It was a troubled place, where state laws
blurred, violence was common. During its
short ten years or so of existence, every form of outlaw, troublemaker, and
celebrity passed through its doors, and among those was a poet and storyteller
named Edgar Allan Poe.
There
was a short side note to the story. It
is rumored that Poe may have penned an early draft of his famous poem, The Raven during his stay. I tucked this fact, along with the existence
of the hotel, away for later use. I did,
in fact, use it in Kali's Tale, which
is how Nevermore was born. Donovan DeChance is a man who has lived an
inordinately long life. In a
conversation in Kali's Tale he
casually mentioned having met Poe, and that the meeting took place at the
Halfway House.
Next
in my research I found a series of similar legends about Lake Drummond. In each, a witch, a Native American, or some
other person or creature was chased through the swamp to the banks of the
lake. All of their attempts at escape
ended in their being transformed, by themselves or others, into trees. Some of those trees still stand on the banks
of the lake. One is in the form of a
woman, looking out toward the lake.
Another looks remarkably like a deer, springing out over the water.
Again,
I made a note of these stories, and got back to the book in progress, where
they had no part. That's how stories
start for me. Bits and pieces of them
occur to me separately, and then something draws them together. Sometimes I'm out running, and thinking about
something I read, and then a connection occurs to me. Some crossover or link. In this case, that link became the character
Eleanor MaCready. Lenore to her friends.
 | |
| David Niall Wilson |
Here's
how it happened. I have always had a
knack for picking faces, animals, creatures and scenes out of common place
items. The pattern on a tiled
floor. The side of a barn. The shape of a tree. Clouds.
Everyone has done this, I think, at least a little, but I do it
constantly, and my daughter has inherited it from me. What occurred to me was that I might not just
be seeing interesting images. What if
someone could look at those things – a tree in the shape of a woman for
instance – and see, or feel, more? What
if there was something imprisoned, or trapped?
What if it could be freed?
So,
on a two mile run at six o'clock in the morning, I created that character in my
head. She had no name at the time, but I
knew it was a woman. She saw spirits
trapped in trees, grass, clouds, whatever, and was compelled to draw them – and
then – to recreate the object where they appeared by erasing their features,
turning a tree back to just a tree, or a rock to simply a piece of stone. Again – I filed it away.
Near
the end of Kali's Tale, as I started
figuring out what would come next, I remembered Donovan's promise to tell his
companions of his meeting with Poe. I
remembered the Halfway House, and the poem The Raven. I looked up Lenore and discovered that no one
seemed to know for certain to whom the poem was addressed.
I
thought I would start Book V of The DeChance Chronicles with a flashback to
Donovan's meeting with Poe, but by then the roots were planted, and growing,
and it took me a very short number of pages to realize what I had was not a
flashback. It was a book. I knew why I believed Edgar came to the Lake
Drummond Hotel because I researched his life.
I knew why Lenore cam there, because I'd written her story in my
head. There were other things to
discover, though, and it should come as no surprise that I found them
–accidentally – through research.
Edgar
traveled with an old Crow he'd named Grimm.
He and the bird had an almost symbiotic relationship, and it was from
that bond that his stories flowed. While
studying up on The Brothers Grimm, I learned that they had written a fairy tale
titled – The Raven. For those of you who believe in
synchronicity, you'll understand why my mind started working overtime about
then.
In
the interest of not giving away too much of my story, I'll stop now, and hope
that I've intrigued you enough to pick up my novel and read the story. I'd like
to thank my gracious host, Nancy, for
allowing me her web space for this post – and I hope I haven't been
boring. No one asked – but that is my
greatest fear.
-David
Niall Wilson
Thank you, David...and I didn't find it boring! Here's a bit more about David:
One dark, moonlit night, two artists met at The Lake Drummond Hotel, built directly on the borderline of North Carolina and Virginia. One was a young woman with the ability to see spirits trapped in trees and stone, anchored to the earth beyond their years. Her gift was to draw them, and then to set them free. The other was a dark man, haunted by dreams and visions that brought him stories of sadness and pain, and trapped in a life between the powers he sensed all around him, and a mundane existence attended by failure. They were Eleanore MacReady, Lenore, to her friends, and a young poet named Edgar Allan Poe, who traveled with a crow that was his secret, and almost constant companion, a bird named Grimm for the talented brothers of fairy-tale fame.
Their meeting drew them together in vision, and legend, and pitted their strange powers and quick minds against the depths of the Dismal Swamp itself, ancient legends, and time.
Once, upon a shoreline dreary, there was a tree. This is her story.
Nevermore – A Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe on Amazon | Audible.com | Barnes & Noble | Crossroad Press
**e-Book at Special Price of $2.99 for the duration of the tour on Amazon!**
Published by Crossroad Press
********************************************************************************************************************
ARE YOU READY TO BE ONE OF DAVID'S WINNERS? HERE'S WHAT'S ON OFFER... A $15 Amazon gift Card, (1) copy of Nevermore, a Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe; (2) eBook copy of Nevermore, a Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe; (3) Audible.com copy
Nevermore, a Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe. Click on the link and enter the raffle.
*****ENTER RAFFLECOPTER HERE TO WIN*****
*******************************************************************************************************************
My REVIEW of Nevermore, a Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe which I've given 5 great stars to:
David Niall Wilson has been writing and publishing horror,
dark fantasy, and science fiction since the mid-eighties. An ordained minister,
once President of the Horror Writer’s Association and multiple recipient of the
Bram Stoker Award, his novels include Maelstrom, The Mote in Andrea’s
Eye, Deep Blue, the Grails Covenant Trilogy, Star Trek Voyager: Chrysalis,
Except You Go Through Shadow, This is My Blood, Ancient Eyes, On the Third Day,
The Orffyreus Wheel, and Vintage Soul – Book One of the DeChance Chronicles.
The Stargate Atlantis novel “Brimstone,” written
with Patricia Lee Macomber is his most recent. He has over 150 short stories
published in anthologies, magazines, and five collections, the most recent of
which were “Defining Moments,” published in 2007 by WFC Award
winning Sarob Press, and the currently available “Ennui & Other
States of Madness,” from Dark Regions Press. His work has appeared in
and is due out in various anthologies and magazines. David lives and loves with
Patricia Lee Macomber in the historic William R. White House in Hertford, NC
with their children, Billy, Zach, Zane, and Katie, and occasionally their
genius college daughter Stephanie.
Nevermore, a
Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe
On the banks of Lake Drummond, on the edge of The Great Dismal Swamp, there is a tree in the shape of a woman.
One dark, moonlit night, two artists met at The Lake Drummond Hotel, built directly on the borderline of North Carolina and Virginia. One was a young woman with the ability to see spirits trapped in trees and stone, anchored to the earth beyond their years. Her gift was to draw them, and then to set them free. The other was a dark man, haunted by dreams and visions that brought him stories of sadness and pain, and trapped in a life between the powers he sensed all around him, and a mundane existence attended by failure. They were Eleanore MacReady, Lenore, to her friends, and a young poet named Edgar Allan Poe, who traveled with a crow that was his secret, and almost constant companion, a bird named Grimm for the talented brothers of fairy-tale fame.
Their meeting drew them together in vision, and legend, and pitted their strange powers and quick minds against the depths of the Dismal Swamp itself, ancient legends, and time.
Once, upon a shoreline dreary, there was a tree. This is her story.
Nevermore – A Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe on Amazon | Audible.com | Barnes & Noble | Crossroad Press
**e-Book at Special Price of $2.99 for the duration of the tour on Amazon!**
Published by Crossroad Press
********************************************************************************************************************
ARE YOU READY TO BE ONE OF DAVID'S WINNERS? HERE'S WHAT'S ON OFFER... A $15 Amazon gift Card, (1) copy of Nevermore, a Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe; (2) eBook copy of Nevermore, a Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe; (3) Audible.com copy
Nevermore, a Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe. Click on the link and enter the raffle.
*****ENTER RAFFLECOPTER HERE TO WIN*****
*******************************************************************************************************************
My REVIEW of Nevermore, a Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe which I've given 5 great stars to:
The setting for this haunting tale is perfect, the author
plunging the reader immediately into the mystery of The Great Dismal Swamp. Instant
clues place the tale back in time: the inn, no doubt, with almost as many
stories to tell as Edgar himself. From the outset we learn something of what Lenore’s
purpose is but perhaps not quite Edgar Poe’s. As Lenore has the compulsion to
draw, and Edgar has the impetus to write, the reader like me is hooked on
finding exactly what the main characters hope to achieve during their short
visit to the creepy area. In parts it is a tale about each of those above
mentioned characters but the sub-plots are complex too, and the interaction of
all the characters is quite absorbing. The plot is as tortuous as the trees that
are in the swamp, some parts of it, I feel, left to conjecture since the ‘loss’
referred to in the title is quite dramatic! The language flows beautifully,
harking back to olden times. It is a dark tale which left me a bit staggered at
the end- but I don’t do spoilers- read this really good tale for yourself!
Settle in now since David is very kindly sharing the whole of Chaper One with us from Nevermore, a
Novel of Love, Loss & Edgar Allan Poe:
Chapter One
The room was low-ceilinged and deep. Smoke wafted from table to table, cigars, pipes, and the pungent aroma of scented candles. Laughter floated out from the bar, separated by a low half-wall from a small dining area, where the bartender regaled the crowd with a particularly bawdy story. In the corners, more private conversations took place, and at the rear, facing the Intercoastal Waterway beyond, the door stood open to the night, letting the slightly cooler air of evening in and the sound and smoke free.
The smoke prevented the illumination from a series of gaslights and lanterns from cutting the gloom properly. Smiles gleamed from shadows and the glint of silver and gunmetal winked like stars. It was a rough crowd, into their drinks and stories, plans and schemes.
Along the back wall, facing a window that looked out over the waterway and the Great Dismal Swamp beyond, a lone figure sat with her back to the room. Her hair was long and light brown, braided back and falling over her shoulder to the center of her back. She was tall and slender with smooth, tanned skin. She was dressed for travel, in a long, floor length dress that covered her legs, while allowing ease of motion. The crowd swirled around her, but none paid her any attention.
She paid no attention to anything but the window. Her gaze was fixed on the point where an intricate pattern of branches and leaves crossed the face of the moon.
There was a sheaf of paper on the table, and she held a bit of chalk loosely between the thumb and index finger of her right hand. She formed the trees, the long strong lines of the trees, the fine mesh of branches and mist. Her fingers moved quickly, etching outlines and shading onto her sketch with practiced ease.
A serving girl wandered over to glance down at the work in progress. She stared at the paper intently, and then glanced up at the window, and the night beyond. She reached down and plucked the empty wine glass from the table.
"What are they?" she asked.
The woman glanced up. Her expression was startled, as if she'd been drawn back from some other place, or out of a trance. She followed the serving girl's gaze to the paper.
Among the branches, formed of limbs and leaves, mist and reflected light, faces gazed out, some at the tavern, some at the swamp, others down along the waterway. They mixed so subtly with the trees themselves that if you were not looking carefully, they seemed to disappear.
"I don't know," the woman said. "Not yet. Spirits, I suppose. Trapped. Tangled."
"You are a crazy woman," the girl said. There was no conviction in her words. She continued to stare at the sketch. Then, very suddenly, she stepped back. She stumbled, and nearly dropped her tray.
The woman glanced up at her sharply.
"What?"
"That…face." The girl stepped back to the table very slowly, and pointed to the center of the snarl of branches. The tip of her finger brushed along the lines of a square-jawed face. The eyes were dark and the expression was a scowl close to rage.
"I've seen him before," she said. "Last year. He…he was shot."
"Can you tell me?"
The girl shook her head. "Not now. I have to work. If I stand here longer there will be trouble. Later? I must serve until the tavern closes, a few hours…"
The artist held out her hand.
"My Name is Eleanor, Eleanor MacReady, but friends call me Lenore. I'll be here, finishing this drawing, until you close. I know that it will be late, but I am something of a night person. Can we talk then? Maybe in my room?"
The girl nodded. She glanced down at the drawing again and stepped back. Then she stumbled off into the crowded tavern and disappeared. Lenore stared after her for a long moment, brow furrowed, then turned back to the window. The moon had shifted, and the image she'd been drawing was lost. It didn't matter. The faces were locked in her mind, and she turned her attention to her wine glass, and to the paper. The basic design was complete, but there was a lot of shading and detail work remaining. She had to get the faces just right – exactly as she remembered them. Then the real work would begin.
Even as she worked, her mind drifted out toward the swamp, and toward her true destination. She didn't know the exact location of the tree, but she knew it was there, and she knew that she would find it. She didn't always see things in her dreams, but when she did, the visions were always true.
A breeze blew in through the open window, and she shivered.
The face she was working on was that of an older man. He had a sharp, beak of a nose and deep-set shadowed eyes. The expression on his face might have been surprise, or dismay. His hair was formed of strands of gray cloud blended with small twigs and wisps of fog as she carefully entered the details.
There were others. She'd counted five in all, just in that one glimpse of the swamp. She thought she could probably sit right here, at this window, and work for years without capturing them all. How many lives lay buried in the peat moss and murky water? How many had died, or been killed beside the long stretch of the Intercoastal Waterway? She tilted her head and listened. The breeze seemed to carry voices from far away, the sound of firing guns, the screams of the lost and dying.
She worked a woman's features into a knotted joint in one of the tree’s branches. The face was proud. Her lip curled down slightly at the edge, not so much in a frown, as in determination. Purpose. From the strong cheekbones and distinctive lines of the woman's nose, Lenore sensed she'd been an Indian. How had she come here, soul trapped fluttering up through the sticky fingers of the ancient trees?
Around her, the sounds of revelry, arguments of drunken, belligerent men, clink of glasses, full and empty, and the sound of a lone guitar in a far corner surrounded her. She felt cut off – isolated in some odd way from everyone, and everything but the paper beneath her fingers. Now and then she paused, reached out for her glass, and sipped her wine.
No one troubled her and that in and of itself, was odd. A woman – an attractive woman – alone in a place like the Halfway House was an oddity. She should have been a target. She was not. A few men glanced her way, but something about her – the way she bent over her work, the intensity of her focus – kept them away. She worked steadily, and one by one, the others drifted out the doors, some to rooms, others to wander about with bottles and thoughts of their own. Eventually, there were only a few small groups, talking quietly, the bartender, and the girl.
There was nothing more she could do. She had drawn an eerily accurate recreation of the trees over the waterway, and of the five faces she'd found trapped in their branches. She sensed things about them but knew little. She did not need to know. She knew that she had to set them free, to allow them to move on to the next level. Something had bound them – some power, or some part of themselves they were unwilling to release. They did not belong, and though she knew that most of the world either ignored, or did not sense these things at all – she did. All those trapped, helpless beings weighed on her spirit like stones. She was fine until she saw them, but once that happened, she was bound to set them free. It was her gift – her curse? Sometimes the two were too closely aligned to be differentiated.
She rose, drained the last of the wine in her cup, and gathered her pencils. She tucked the drawing into the pocket of a leather portfolio, careful not to smudge it. Soon, it would not matter, but until she'd had a chance to finish her work, it was crucial that nothing be disturbed.
The girl, who had been busy wiping the spilled remnants of ale, wine, and the night from the various tables and the surface of the bar, wandered slowly over.
"I'm in the corner room," Lenore said, smiling. "The one farthest in on the Carolina side."
The girl nodded. She glanced over at the bartender, then turned back.
"I will come as soon as I can." She glanced down at the portfolio. "You have finished?"
Lenore nodded, but only slightly. "I have finished the basic drawing, yes."
"He was a bad man," the girl said. "A very bad man. I have never seen him there – in the trees – before tonight. I don't like that he watches."
"After tonight, he will not," Lenore said, reaching to lay her hand on the girl's shoulder. "But I'd love to know who he is – who he was. I seldom know the faces I've drawn. You saw him – in my drawing, and in the trees. Most see nothing but branches."
"I will come soon," the girl said, turning and hurrying back toward the bar.
Lenore watched her go, frowned slightly, and then turned. She had to exit through the front door and follow a long porch along the side of the building where it turned from the saloon in the center to a line of rooms on the Carolina side. There were similar rooms on the Virginia side, but her business was in the swamp, and the corner room gave her a better view of what lay beyond.
As she made her way to her room, she heard the steady drum of hooves. She stopped, and turned. A carriage had come into view, winding in from the main road that stretched between the states. It was dark, pulled by a pair of even darker horses. She stood still and watched as it came to a halt. Something moved far above, and she glanced up in time to see a dark shape flash across the pale face of the moon. A bird? At night?
She glanced back to the carriage to see it pulling away into the night. A single figure stood, his bag in one hand. He glanced her way, nodded, and then turned toward the main door of the saloon. He was thin, with dark hair and eyes. It was hard to make his features out in the darkness, but somehow she saw into those eyes. They were filled with an odd, melancholy sadness. As he passed inside, it seemed as if his shadow remained, just for a moment, outlined in silvery light. Then it was gone.
Lenore shook her head, turned, and hurried to the door to her room. She fumbled the key from her jacket pocket, jammed it into the lock, and hurried inside. She had no idea why the sight of the man had unnerved her, but it had. And the bird. If she'd woken from a dream, she'd have believed she was meant to set him free…but she was very, very awake, and though her fingers itched to draw – to put his image on paper and tuck it away somewhere safe, she knew she could not. Not now – not yet. There was not much time before dawn, and she still had work to finish – and a story to hear. The stranger, if she ever returned to him, would have to wait.
She lit the oil lamp on the single table in her small room, opened the portfolio, and laid the drawing on the flat surface. There was a small stand nearby, and another bottle of wine rested there. She had two glasses, but had not known at the time why she'd asked for them. Another vision? She poured one for herself, and replaced the cork.
Moments later, there was a soft rap on the door. When she opened it, the girl stood outside, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and looking up and down the long porch as if fearing to be seen.
"Come in," Lenore said.
The girl did so, and Lenore closed the door behind them.
"What shall I call you?" she asked, trying to set the girl at ease. Something had her spooked and it would simply not do to have the girl bolt without spilling her story.
"Anita," the girl said shyly, glancing at Lenore. "I am Anita."
"I'm glad to meet you," Lenore said, "and very curious to hear what you have to say about the man you saw in the trees. I see them all the time, you know. In trees, bushes, sometimes in the water or a stone. It's not very often that I meet another who is aware of them – even less often that I have a chance to hear their stories."
"It is not a good story," Anita said. "He was a very bad man."
Lenore smiled again. "He's not a man any longer, dear, so there is nothing to fear in the telling. Would you like a glass of wine?"
The girl nodded. Lenore poured a second glass from her bottle and handed it over.
"Sit down," she said. "I still have work to do, and I can work as you talk. It will relax me."
"I will tell you," Anita said, perching lightly on the corner of the bed, "but it will not relax you."
"Then it will keep me awake," Lenore said, seating herself at her desk. "You see, I don't just see those who are trapped, I have to undo whatever it is that has them trapped. I won't be finished until I've freed them all."
The girl glanced sharply over, nearly spilling her drink.
"Maybe…maybe it is best if this one stays."
Lenore pulled out her pencils, and a gum eraser.
"We'll leave him for now," she said. "There are four others, and I can only work on one at a time. Tell me your story."
Anita took a sip of her wine, and nodded. "His name is Abraham Thigpen. He died about a year ago but I remember it like today…"
Lenore listened, and worked, rearranging branches, shifting the wood slightly, picking the strong woman's face to release from the pattern first. Anita's voice droned in the background – and she faded into the story, letting it draw her back across the years as she carefully disassembled her drawing, working the faces free.
The room was low-ceilinged and deep. Smoke wafted from table to table, cigars, pipes, and the pungent aroma of scented candles. Laughter floated out from the bar, separated by a low half-wall from a small dining area, where the bartender regaled the crowd with a particularly bawdy story. In the corners, more private conversations took place, and at the rear, facing the Intercoastal Waterway beyond, the door stood open to the night, letting the slightly cooler air of evening in and the sound and smoke free.
The smoke prevented the illumination from a series of gaslights and lanterns from cutting the gloom properly. Smiles gleamed from shadows and the glint of silver and gunmetal winked like stars. It was a rough crowd, into their drinks and stories, plans and schemes.
Along the back wall, facing a window that looked out over the waterway and the Great Dismal Swamp beyond, a lone figure sat with her back to the room. Her hair was long and light brown, braided back and falling over her shoulder to the center of her back. She was tall and slender with smooth, tanned skin. She was dressed for travel, in a long, floor length dress that covered her legs, while allowing ease of motion. The crowd swirled around her, but none paid her any attention.
She paid no attention to anything but the window. Her gaze was fixed on the point where an intricate pattern of branches and leaves crossed the face of the moon.
There was a sheaf of paper on the table, and she held a bit of chalk loosely between the thumb and index finger of her right hand. She formed the trees, the long strong lines of the trees, the fine mesh of branches and mist. Her fingers moved quickly, etching outlines and shading onto her sketch with practiced ease.
A serving girl wandered over to glance down at the work in progress. She stared at the paper intently, and then glanced up at the window, and the night beyond. She reached down and plucked the empty wine glass from the table.
"What are they?" she asked.
The woman glanced up. Her expression was startled, as if she'd been drawn back from some other place, or out of a trance. She followed the serving girl's gaze to the paper.
Among the branches, formed of limbs and leaves, mist and reflected light, faces gazed out, some at the tavern, some at the swamp, others down along the waterway. They mixed so subtly with the trees themselves that if you were not looking carefully, they seemed to disappear.
"I don't know," the woman said. "Not yet. Spirits, I suppose. Trapped. Tangled."
"You are a crazy woman," the girl said. There was no conviction in her words. She continued to stare at the sketch. Then, very suddenly, she stepped back. She stumbled, and nearly dropped her tray.
The woman glanced up at her sharply.
"What?"
"That…face." The girl stepped back to the table very slowly, and pointed to the center of the snarl of branches. The tip of her finger brushed along the lines of a square-jawed face. The eyes were dark and the expression was a scowl close to rage.
"I've seen him before," she said. "Last year. He…he was shot."
"Can you tell me?"
The girl shook her head. "Not now. I have to work. If I stand here longer there will be trouble. Later? I must serve until the tavern closes, a few hours…"
The artist held out her hand.
"My Name is Eleanor, Eleanor MacReady, but friends call me Lenore. I'll be here, finishing this drawing, until you close. I know that it will be late, but I am something of a night person. Can we talk then? Maybe in my room?"
The girl nodded. She glanced down at the drawing again and stepped back. Then she stumbled off into the crowded tavern and disappeared. Lenore stared after her for a long moment, brow furrowed, then turned back to the window. The moon had shifted, and the image she'd been drawing was lost. It didn't matter. The faces were locked in her mind, and she turned her attention to her wine glass, and to the paper. The basic design was complete, but there was a lot of shading and detail work remaining. She had to get the faces just right – exactly as she remembered them. Then the real work would begin.
Even as she worked, her mind drifted out toward the swamp, and toward her true destination. She didn't know the exact location of the tree, but she knew it was there, and she knew that she would find it. She didn't always see things in her dreams, but when she did, the visions were always true.
A breeze blew in through the open window, and she shivered.
The face she was working on was that of an older man. He had a sharp, beak of a nose and deep-set shadowed eyes. The expression on his face might have been surprise, or dismay. His hair was formed of strands of gray cloud blended with small twigs and wisps of fog as she carefully entered the details.
There were others. She'd counted five in all, just in that one glimpse of the swamp. She thought she could probably sit right here, at this window, and work for years without capturing them all. How many lives lay buried in the peat moss and murky water? How many had died, or been killed beside the long stretch of the Intercoastal Waterway? She tilted her head and listened. The breeze seemed to carry voices from far away, the sound of firing guns, the screams of the lost and dying.
She worked a woman's features into a knotted joint in one of the tree’s branches. The face was proud. Her lip curled down slightly at the edge, not so much in a frown, as in determination. Purpose. From the strong cheekbones and distinctive lines of the woman's nose, Lenore sensed she'd been an Indian. How had she come here, soul trapped fluttering up through the sticky fingers of the ancient trees?
Around her, the sounds of revelry, arguments of drunken, belligerent men, clink of glasses, full and empty, and the sound of a lone guitar in a far corner surrounded her. She felt cut off – isolated in some odd way from everyone, and everything but the paper beneath her fingers. Now and then she paused, reached out for her glass, and sipped her wine.
No one troubled her and that in and of itself, was odd. A woman – an attractive woman – alone in a place like the Halfway House was an oddity. She should have been a target. She was not. A few men glanced her way, but something about her – the way she bent over her work, the intensity of her focus – kept them away. She worked steadily, and one by one, the others drifted out the doors, some to rooms, others to wander about with bottles and thoughts of their own. Eventually, there were only a few small groups, talking quietly, the bartender, and the girl.
There was nothing more she could do. She had drawn an eerily accurate recreation of the trees over the waterway, and of the five faces she'd found trapped in their branches. She sensed things about them but knew little. She did not need to know. She knew that she had to set them free, to allow them to move on to the next level. Something had bound them – some power, or some part of themselves they were unwilling to release. They did not belong, and though she knew that most of the world either ignored, or did not sense these things at all – she did. All those trapped, helpless beings weighed on her spirit like stones. She was fine until she saw them, but once that happened, she was bound to set them free. It was her gift – her curse? Sometimes the two were too closely aligned to be differentiated.
She rose, drained the last of the wine in her cup, and gathered her pencils. She tucked the drawing into the pocket of a leather portfolio, careful not to smudge it. Soon, it would not matter, but until she'd had a chance to finish her work, it was crucial that nothing be disturbed.
The girl, who had been busy wiping the spilled remnants of ale, wine, and the night from the various tables and the surface of the bar, wandered slowly over.
"I'm in the corner room," Lenore said, smiling. "The one farthest in on the Carolina side."
The girl nodded. She glanced over at the bartender, then turned back.
"I will come as soon as I can." She glanced down at the portfolio. "You have finished?"
Lenore nodded, but only slightly. "I have finished the basic drawing, yes."
"He was a bad man," the girl said. "A very bad man. I have never seen him there – in the trees – before tonight. I don't like that he watches."
"After tonight, he will not," Lenore said, reaching to lay her hand on the girl's shoulder. "But I'd love to know who he is – who he was. I seldom know the faces I've drawn. You saw him – in my drawing, and in the trees. Most see nothing but branches."
"I will come soon," the girl said, turning and hurrying back toward the bar.
Lenore watched her go, frowned slightly, and then turned. She had to exit through the front door and follow a long porch along the side of the building where it turned from the saloon in the center to a line of rooms on the Carolina side. There were similar rooms on the Virginia side, but her business was in the swamp, and the corner room gave her a better view of what lay beyond.
As she made her way to her room, she heard the steady drum of hooves. She stopped, and turned. A carriage had come into view, winding in from the main road that stretched between the states. It was dark, pulled by a pair of even darker horses. She stood still and watched as it came to a halt. Something moved far above, and she glanced up in time to see a dark shape flash across the pale face of the moon. A bird? At night?
She glanced back to the carriage to see it pulling away into the night. A single figure stood, his bag in one hand. He glanced her way, nodded, and then turned toward the main door of the saloon. He was thin, with dark hair and eyes. It was hard to make his features out in the darkness, but somehow she saw into those eyes. They were filled with an odd, melancholy sadness. As he passed inside, it seemed as if his shadow remained, just for a moment, outlined in silvery light. Then it was gone.
Lenore shook her head, turned, and hurried to the door to her room. She fumbled the key from her jacket pocket, jammed it into the lock, and hurried inside. She had no idea why the sight of the man had unnerved her, but it had. And the bird. If she'd woken from a dream, she'd have believed she was meant to set him free…but she was very, very awake, and though her fingers itched to draw – to put his image on paper and tuck it away somewhere safe, she knew she could not. Not now – not yet. There was not much time before dawn, and she still had work to finish – and a story to hear. The stranger, if she ever returned to him, would have to wait.
She lit the oil lamp on the single table in her small room, opened the portfolio, and laid the drawing on the flat surface. There was a small stand nearby, and another bottle of wine rested there. She had two glasses, but had not known at the time why she'd asked for them. Another vision? She poured one for herself, and replaced the cork.
Moments later, there was a soft rap on the door. When she opened it, the girl stood outside, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and looking up and down the long porch as if fearing to be seen.
"Come in," Lenore said.
The girl did so, and Lenore closed the door behind them.
"What shall I call you?" she asked, trying to set the girl at ease. Something had her spooked and it would simply not do to have the girl bolt without spilling her story.
"Anita," the girl said shyly, glancing at Lenore. "I am Anita."
"I'm glad to meet you," Lenore said, "and very curious to hear what you have to say about the man you saw in the trees. I see them all the time, you know. In trees, bushes, sometimes in the water or a stone. It's not very often that I meet another who is aware of them – even less often that I have a chance to hear their stories."
"It is not a good story," Anita said. "He was a very bad man."
Lenore smiled again. "He's not a man any longer, dear, so there is nothing to fear in the telling. Would you like a glass of wine?"
The girl nodded. Lenore poured a second glass from her bottle and handed it over.
"Sit down," she said. "I still have work to do, and I can work as you talk. It will relax me."
"I will tell you," Anita said, perching lightly on the corner of the bed, "but it will not relax you."
"Then it will keep me awake," Lenore said, seating herself at her desk. "You see, I don't just see those who are trapped, I have to undo whatever it is that has them trapped. I won't be finished until I've freed them all."
The girl glanced sharply over, nearly spilling her drink.
"Maybe…maybe it is best if this one stays."
Lenore pulled out her pencils, and a gum eraser.
"We'll leave him for now," she said. "There are four others, and I can only work on one at a time. Tell me your story."
Anita took a sip of her wine, and nodded. "His name is Abraham Thigpen. He died about a year ago but I remember it like today…"
Lenore listened, and worked, rearranging branches, shifting the wood slightly, picking the strong woman's face to release from the pattern first. Anita's voice droned in the background – and she faded into the story, letting it draw her back across the years as she carefully disassembled her drawing, working the faces free.
My best wishes to you, David, for great success with all of your writing!
Slainthe!
Slainthe!
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