Immediately upon stepping foot out of the carriage, I felt that something strange was amiss. I heard not the slightest whinny or nicker from the horses nor even did I hear any sound to indicate that the driver himself was about. Stepping fully from the cabin, I walked about the front of the carriage. There stood the team of horses (though I could scarcely see them), and they were indeed quiet – and still – as if fear or something else had caused them to stand, rooted to the spot, like great statues carved of midnight. The driver was not in his seat, and, upon further inspection, I found no trace of him in or about the carriage. Furthermore, as I walked back about the carriage, I noticed the faintest sensation of wet coldness on the back of my next. Reaching back to swipe at my neck, I found it to indeed be wet, but with what I did not know. I thought, perhaps, it to be naught save for the clammy grip of the fog. Thinking little more on the matter, I came to the conclusion that the poor driver must have gone for a relief and had become lost, therefore I must go about the woods looking for him. As I lit the lamp, and walked once more about the carriage looking for footprints, I noticed what was both an oddity and the reason I felt wet about the collar: snow was falling! It was falling in late spring, no less. Furthermore, there was a great amount of it. The horses were flecked with the white stuff, and all about the carriage there stood a liberal dusting. I now felt it imperative to find the driver so that we could be on our way to a warm inn, where we could escape this seeming devilry. For a great length of that night I searched, calling for him over a wide acreage of woodland. I made sure never to lose sight of the carriage and its one remaining lantern, lest what befell the driver might also become my fate. Finally, I resolved to quit my search, as it was proving a fruitless endeavor, and spend the night in the carriage in hopes that the driver might find his way back before the morn broke new on the horizon. To that end I left a lamp burning hanging by its peg outside the carriage and bedded down in the cabin with my jacket as cover and the hard floor as pillow. I was awoken in the wee hours by a rustling outside of the carriage. I know not precisely when, save that it must have been quite late, for the lantern’s rich orange flame had shortened and cast a baleful red glow all about the cabin’s interior as well as outside of the carriage. Springing from my sleep in hopes that the lost driver had made his way back, I cast my sight all about the outside of the carriage, but saw nothing. It was still snowing quite heavily, and the mist had fallen to the ground, covering it like a great, shifting carpet. I could see now that the forest itself was indeed more immense than I had first imagined, and that a little further out from where I had ended my search, it became an impenetrable wall of brushy undergrowth. Though I cast about sometime, I saw nothing, but was haunted by that rustling sound. It sounded as if something ponderous was shuffling its way through the snow; snow that was, by then, quite deep. Dispelling the foolish thoughts that ran through my mind, I stepped from the cabin to make a more proper investigation of the emanations, and, as I carried my search to the carriage’s rear to check that it was not bandits I had heard rustling through the luggage, I saw it. Some distance behind the carriage – nearly one hundred paces – there was a great black…shape. As best I could tell in the poor light, it loped in a stooped posture, its head barely clearing obscuring mist. Perhaps it walked on all fours, or perhaps the bent posture of this thing made it seem so, I could not tell. I could tell, however, that it lumbered towards me, nearly twice my width, and, as it moved closer I could discern a sound of harsh gurgling, as one with the consumption might make in their final moments of life. My nostrils were likewise assailed by the unmistakably fetid odor of rot, but I could do naught but observe its weighty approach. What broke me from my fearful repose must have been the nicker of the horses, and I am now certain that they saved my life, for as they neighed, the creature broke into a dash so belying its bulk. It very nearly had me when I climbed shakily upon the driver’s seat and spurred the team to action. Little encouragement did they need, for the fear had gripped them, and they quickly achieved an untiring gallop. For some time, the creature pursued, but eventually peeled away into the forest to the left of the road. Sure that I had succeeded in my narrow escape, I slowed the horses to trot. I knew not where I now found myself, but I was sure that the direction in which I was headed was the most favorable of directions. I rode out the night and into the next morning when, once again, my hearing was assailed by the same rustling sound. Not desiring to encounter that horrid creature once again, I spurred the horses on, and no sooner had I done so than the creature appeared on the road ahead of me. It seemed as surprised as I did, for it quickly found its end beneath the hooves and wheels of the carriage. This seemed both a blessing and a curse, for no sooner had the creature been ran over than the carriage tilted, disconnecting itself from the horses, and slid to a stop amidst the trees. I was very lucky in that I myself was not harmed, for I jumped to safety. I was without too much fortune, though, for the horses galloped away, still harnessed to each other. I was lost without good transportation. I did not know what to do. Finally, not wanting to spend another night in that evil forest, I walked on. Through the day I walked, and as night approached, I caught the faint sound of music and laughter coming from somewhere off of the road. I look all about me, and no sooner had I discounted it a figment of my exhausted mind than there appeared in front of me a large inn, fully three stories tall, and very nearly as wide. I had walked for some time, and as I stepped upon the front step, I felt myself swoon and fall.
I do not know how long I remained in my distemper, but it was still fully night when I awoke. Taking some time to absorb my surroundings, I washed myself in the basin, and decided to venture downstairs for a spot of food, or perhaps a cordial. Little did I know what manner of denizens this placed harbored. As I stepped downstairs, I thought surely I must be dreaming, for I saw all manner of people and creatures, great, small, but all odd in some manner. Trying to hide my surprise, I ventured to the barkeep, a lovely woman of brown skin and long raven-black hair.
“Hello, madam. I know it is terribly late, but would it be possible to get a spot of food for an empty stomach,” I said.
Looking up from her work, she smiled and said, “Why, our wanderer has finally awoken. Of course you may have something to eat, it is never late at the World’s End Inn.”
Smiling back at her, I had naught to say save a pleasant thank you when she brought me a hearty stew and a mug of beer. As I turned to look for a place to sit in the over-crowded tavern, she stopped me, “If you want any more, just ask, I imagine you are quite the hungry man after two days with no food,” she stated.
Taken aback, I responded, “Do you mean I have been in slumber for two days! Why, how much do I owe you for your trouble?”
“Oh, nothing, weary traveler, but a story for some of the good people of this tavern. I think that table over there is open,” she said, pointing to a tight cluster of mixed company about one of the tables.
“Oh, of course,” and I went to enjoy my meal.
I sat down near the end of what must have been one of the other lads’ “payment” , for I heard many gasps as the fellow – a short sort of man with curly brown hair, a good natured countenance, and bare fur covered feet – finished his story about a ring of some sort. I had barely placed the spoon to my mouth when a tall man, with skin white as ivory and flowing black clothes that seemed to be ever-moving asked quietly, “ So, what story might you pleasure us with?”
“Well, I am not sure. How about my account of coming to this…place?”
“No, no, no. We all know how you got here. It was the storm outside, a sort of flux of events that brought you here. Tell us something entertaining.”
“I am not much of a storyteller, you see. I write for the papers. A rather unimaginative trade, but one that pays the bills no less. I really can think of noth…,” at that moment I felt, for some reason, the letter from Pym in my vest pocket. Only thinking on it a moment, I recounted Pym’s tale of his journeys, strange though they were.
“Ah, yes, that puts me in the mind of another story I have heard, about a man who walls up his ‘friend’ in a wine cellar. Buries him alive, he does. Dreadful stuff,” blurted the short fellow. He recounted the story to the table and all agreed that both carried dreadful subjects within their narrative. I, however, could see no further relation.
“Well, you see, “ the short fellow began upon me stating my puzzlement, “they are both grisly tales, that is obvious, but what makes them alike – and unique at the same time – is that they both go about the telling of story in the same manner. I’ve heard it called ‘Gothic’ at times, and, as I see it, it refers to the dark nature of the storytelling itself. For example, you take this other story I heard, hmmm, we’ll call it The Masque of the Red Death for simplicity’s sake. This chap, Prospero, he is a prince, and his kingdom is falling into ruin because of the red plague. Unlike a kindly ruler, though, he locks himself and his court right up tight in the castle and throws a masquerade like none you ever saw. Funny, thing, though, is that they all think their sound as a pound up in the castle – especially the prince – but sooner than later, the old red death pops up and chases the prince around something fierce while dressed as a masquerade goer, all in funeral clothes and white mask. The thing is, though, the red death isn’t really the red death….”
“You mean it is an allegory, a symbol of some sort, “I asked.
“Exactly, “ he continued, “just like that ghostly woman figure in your story of Arthur Pym, it stood for something, which in that case was the princes own madness.”
“That is well and good, sir, but I still do not see how these stories can be connected by anything more than their gruesome natures,” I responded.
He sighed and drew on his long pipe before beginning anew, “You see, you’re looking too much at what the stories’re about than the way they are written or told. They are all established in the same way. Suspense is always built to near-fruition, but then builds even more, and each encounter – like Pym had all through that story of yours – meant something deeper than what it told about. You have to stop looking at the literal and take a gander at the figurative.”
“So if I am understanding you correctly, “ I began to postulate, “these stories are connected by the sheer fact that they are written in the same manner. They have the same – or similar – overall structure: Establishment of suspense, fulfillment of that same suspense, allegorical references, and the such?”
“Certainly. You are starting to grasp it, young man. These stories all share attributes in the telling that make them alike. That is what connects each of them, as well as what makes them so fun for the telling.”
“Well,” I began, standing up,” it is late, and I must leave on the morn, it was nice meeting all of you. Especially you, Mister….”
“Baggins, and you?”
“My name is Poe. Edgar Poe.”
“Well, Mister Poe, don’t forget what I told you here tonight, and you might make something of yourself yet, “ and at that he winked.
The next day I had a carriage ready and waiting on me, and I had not even requested one. I finished my trip to Nantucket without incident, and got the story from Mr. Pym, who I was now all too ready to believe. Why should I have not?
