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the lethargy.
Her hands drifted slowly past me.
"I am going to cause you to relax very deeply," she said. "When you awaken you should feel entirely
refreshed."
I was about to respond, but then it did not seem worth the effort. Her hands passed me again and I was
hardly aware of my body any longer. Except for my eyes. It seemed an awful lot of trouble, keeping my
eyes open. I let them close. I felt the shadows of her hands go by once more. And then I was
departing soaring, bright white, drifting, turning to snow, falling. . . .
. . . Suddenly, my head felt funny, my stomach worse. I raised my hands to massage my temples. I
opened my eyes. I lay in bed, propped by pillows. A threadbare blanket covered me from the waist
down. As I lowered my hands they trembled slightly. I listened to the sound of a catbird from somewhere
beyond the window. Looking about, I saw that I occupied a small and rather shabby room. What was
happening? I could not recall how I had come to this place . . .
There was a note on the bedside table. I picked it up. It was addressed to Poe. Even more puzzled, I
read it, hoping for some clue as to what was happening:
Richmond, Sept. 29,1835
Dear Edgar, Would that it were in my power to unbosom myself to you, in language such as I could on
the present occasion, wish myself master of. I cannot do it and therefore must be content to speak to
you in my plain way.
That you are sincere in all your promises, I firmly believe. But, Edgar, when you once again tread these
streets, I have my fears that your resolves would fall through, and that you would again sip the juice,
even till it stole away your senses. Rely on your own strength, and you are gone! Look to your Maker for
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help, and you are safe!
How much I regretted parting with you, is unknown to anyone on this earth, except myself. I was
attached to you and am still, and willingly would I say return, if I did not dread the hour of separation
very shortly again.
If you could make yourself contented to take up your quarters in my family, or in any other private family
where liquor is not used, I should think there were hopes of you. But, if you go to a tavern, or to any
other place where it is used at table, you are not safe. I speak from experience.
You have fine talents, Edgar, and you ought to have them respected as well as yourself. Learn to
respect yourself, and you will very soon find that you are respected. Separate yourself from the bottle,
and bottle companions, forever!
Tell me if you can do so and let me hear that it is your fixed purpose never to yield to temptation.
If you should come to Richmond again, and again should be an assistant in my office, it must be expressly
understood by us that all engagements on my part would be dissolved, the moment you get drunk.
No man is safe who drinks before breakfast! No man can do so, and attend to business properly.
I have thought over the matter seriously about the Autograph article, and have come to the conclusion
that it will be best to omit it in its present dress. I should not be at all surprised, were I to send it out, to
hear that Cooper had sued me for a libel.
The form containing it has been ready for press three days and I have been just as many days deciding
the question.
I am your true Friend,
T. W. White
I let it fall. I couldn't remember when I'd felt this weak. Nevertheless, I struggled, I rose, I crossed the
room to a small mirror and studied myself within it my face yet not my face. Haggard, red-eyed. I
rubbed my temples again. So poor Poe was drinking too much, and this is what it felt like.
How had I wound up in his body?
I recalled Ligeia's hands drifting past me, doing things with the stuff of life itself it seemed. I remembered
Valdemar, Peters, Ellison. And my last encounter with Poe. Did he think Annie was dead? Could that be
the cause of his present unhappy state?
If that were so, might it change things for the better with him if I were to leave him a message? I looked
about for something to write it with.
"Eddie!" the voice of an older woman, from the next room. I elected not to answer it. "Eddie! Are you
up?"
There. On the small table by the window. A pen. An inkwell. I hurried to them. Paper.
Paper . . . ? The man was working for a magazine. He must have some paper. None in the drawer
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"Would you care for some tea, Eddie?"
Aha! In the box beneath the table.
I drew up the room's only chair, collapsed upon it. How to begin? I would have to refer to our shared
experiences with Annie.
How many visions of a maiden that is,I wrote. And then the strength went out of me. I put down the
pen. I could hardly keep my head up. At my back, I heard the door open. Curiosity bade me turn, but I
was too weak to do it. I slumped.
"Eddie!" I heard her cry.
I was already losing myself again, floating, drifting away. Her voice grew tiny. My muscles went numb
and the world turned gray. Then something stirred the currents of life inside me and shadows drifted
across my eyes.
After a long while I sighed and looked upward. Ligeia's face was near, brows slightly knit in what might
be an expression of concern as she scrutinized me.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
I shook my head and I patted my stomach. The feelings of hangover had vanished.
"Fine," I said, stretching. "What happened?"
"You don't remember?"
"I remember being in another place, in someone else's body."
"Whose?"
"Edgar Allan Poe's," I said.
"The one of whom you asked Monsieur Valdemar?"
I nodded.
"We go way back. And I'll bet he was here in my body while I was off in his."
It was her turn to nod.
"Yes," she said, "and he seemed either drugged, drunk, or mad. It was difficult to gain control, to send
him back."
"Why did he come in the first place? Does this sort of switching happen often?"
"This was the first time I've ever seen or heard of it," she said. "That was a very strange man. It was
almost as if I'd conjured some dark spirit."
I decided against asking what her experience was in the dark spirit area. I'd had enough excitement for
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one morning.
"He asked after an Annie," she continued, "and said something about his heartstrings being a lute. If he is
not mad he must be a poet. But I wonder now whether the thing that led to the transfer lies with him or
with you."
I shrugged.
"Wait. Did not Monsieur Valdemar say you are somehow the same person?" she asked. "That would
explain the metaphysics of it."
"Like all metaphysics, it explains nothing of any practical value," I said. "I am neither mad nor a poet. My
heart is not a musical instrument. I'm just in the wrong world, I think, and so is poor Eddie Poe. I don't
know how it came to pass, but the man we're following had something to do with it."
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