NEVERTHELESS
Upon my word, this is how it really happened. I mean, truth be told, who are you going to believe, some sickly quill-pusher who perceived phantasms and bloodied visages in every darkened corner, or me, who just tells it as is? Why wouldn’t I? I live my life, and that’s all I do.
Yes, it is true that it was a rather dreary midnight hour, what with it being December and all. Food was hard to come by these days, and the roasted chestnut vendor whom I had been liberating the odd nut from was now wise to my larceny and had taken to carrying a pistol with him. While I could hold my own against those accursed seagulls at the harbor, it was hard to find enough with four of five of these white devils diving at me constantly. So I’d taken to visiting the garbage heaps in the residential neighborhoods. I got my pride, it is true, but I also got a stomach to fill.
So, it was cold, it was dark, and it was bleak. I’d found a pile of scraps that seemed promising, but I’d also found a very hungry cat, so I was keeping my distance from said pile. That was how I first clapped my eyes upon her.
The poor woman lying prone upon the ground, scarcely more than a girl, was clad in thin shrouding, that barely kept the wind and snow off her skin, let alone provided any warmth. Incredibly, she lived still but her blue lips exhaled very little breath. I am not ashamed to admit my first thought was that her eyes might make an exquisite delicacy. It’s in my nature, and I am very proud of my nature. I am quite a fine specimen of my species, Corvus corax, that is, when I am not so thin due to a dearth of food. I landed next to her face, taking care to avoid entangling my talons in her hair. I studied her face, looking for the tell-tale signs of life’s flame extinguishing.
Suddenly, she spoke, feebly pointing with her hand up at a row of houses just ahead of where she lay. “Tell him,” she moaned, “tell him I live. Tell him Lenore still lives, and seeks his succor. Please, I beg of you . . .” she collapsed, but breathed still. I cocked my head. Did she expect me to seek out this man and relay all this to him? Apparently she did.
I tell you, I considered just waiting until she expired. Yet I contemplated the possible reward of being a messenger resulting in the happy assistance of saving a woman’s life. Surely I’d receive some recompense.
“Stay here,” I told the woman. If she heard me, she gave no sign. There were five or so houses on the block, but as the hour was late, only one had a window still alit with flickering illumination. This house, I approached. At the door, I rapped the wood as hard as I could with my beak. There I waited for a few minutes. Finally, I heard a man’s voice muttering something I couldn’t hear clearly though the wood. Then the door opened, and this guy in bad need of a haircut and shave peered out. I recall that he trembled all over. I am not certain it was the fierce wind that sprang up just then that caused him to shiver. I looked up at him, and called out as loudly as I could, “Lenore!”
The man did not acknowledge my presence since he only scrutinized the darkness beyond his door frame, rather than look down where I stood. But he had heard me, since he blanched and whispered sharply, “Lenore!” then he slammed the door in my face. What ungentlemanly rudeness! But even if he was a craven brute, I was certainly capable of maintaining the moral upper hand. I flew around the corner to his window, where I could now see, through the slats of his blinds, the man seating himself in a threadbare chair close to the pitifully small fire burning in his chimney.
I rapped the shutter of his window with my beak once again, putting more effort into it this time. The man whipped his face around to stare at the window, his face full of fear. Slowly, he got to his feet. Finally, he seemed to reach a resolution. He strode over to where I perched on the sill, and threw open the shutter. Prepared for such an action, I wasted no time in flying inside (oh blessed warmth!) and up out of reach, onto the top of some woman’s head. Not a live woman, but one carved from stone. The man, at first quite startled, then smiled a tremulous smile. Then he started speaking, and damn me if he didn’t half make sense, so flowery and overly embroidered were his words. I stared at him in complete bewilderment for half a moment before I realized he’d basically asked me my name, even if he’d taken fifty words to do so. I replied proudly. After all, I had a fine, solidly raven name.
“Mortimer,” I informed him. He started to blather again, but I couldn’t hear him, so I just repeated my name. The man continued to stare at me. Then he sat down. Then he stared at me some more. I stared back. Then suddenly he screamed at me!
He sat there and started screaming, in that cumbersome language of his, something about respite and Lenore. When I heard the name Lenore, I thought perhaps I could finally perform my duty as messenger, so I nodded and agreed, “Lenore!”
Now, upon my soul, this is as it happened. Never mind that tale the man published. He obviously not only has a speech impediment, but hearing difficulties as well, because he kept hearing only one word from me, one I never even said. I implore you, how is that my fault?
Now the man was yelling at me, calling me evil and angel all in one breath (and at this point, his neighbor was pounding the adjoining wall, bellowing, “Poe, shut yer gob, man! You been at the gin again?”) and he again mentioned Lenore, but he kept referring to her as if she had already passed.
I had to roll my eyes. This man, Poe, was clearly not in full possession of his wits. Even if he were, I doubted said wits would amount to the natural measure found in his fellow men. “Look my good man,” I said, “there’s a woman outside, in dire need of medical attention due to excessive exposure to the harsh elements, who wishes to inform you of her continued existence, and her name so happens to be Lenore, you poof.”
The idiot leaped out of his chair and shrieked incoherently at me, accusing me of trying to peck my way into his heart (the eyes are much more delicious) and yelled at me to depart. Affronted by such uncivil treatment, I refused to leave my perch immediately. I sat there unmoving, staring as hard at the brute, until I could void my bowels all over the sculpture I sat upon. It’d serve him right. Nevertheless, this is the tale as it truly transpired.
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