To Allan, Though Whose Spelling Differs

I had refused adamantly to discuss this singular vision with all who matter in my brief existence, but for the want, nay the need that approaches a level biologic in nature, I hereby lay upon the page an extraordinary experience of body and soul that a mind was hardly able to comprehend. I had on previous occasions waxed philosophic on the vagaries of ideations that imperiously invaded my consciousness, preyed upon me as a vulture eyeing fresh carrion, until I had formally and finally concreted their permanence in words flowery and poetic. This state does not appreciatively change with the seasons of Life, no matter my health or sobriety or that which alters same. Even with the indolence of fever, these stray thoughts contrive to occupy my every waking hour, an itching unwilling to abate when scratched, eternally urging.

It was on a particularly troubling evening when I had attempted to assuage one of those thoughts by penning what became not much beyond that of rambling nonsense. I had poured a brandy, with an assurance to my restless soul that this too shall pass in time. The brandy slid smooth and warm down my gullet, tracing down to my stomach with promise of temporary peace, and after a second quaff I found myself easing into a brocade covered seat, the voices inside quelling their cacophony bit by bit, volume lessening with each passing minute. I gave in to dulling of the senses and soon my eyes began to droop, while the fires crackled and spat and snapped on occasion in the fireplace. The warmth nearly matched that smoldering in my belly, spreading within and without as I drifted further towards the twilight that divides wakefulness and sleep.

Hours seemed to pass as I slowly dropped into an oddly fitful sleep, the interior of my eyelids presenting clouds of color in a constant parade, distracting as that sight is to the sleeper. Eventually, even that faded as I had finally succumbed to slumber. Soon, though, my stupor gave way to a scene such that I thought I had awakened in the night, it was so well defined and yet fading into darkness at the perimeters of my vision. It seemed the room I occupied had changed radically, though the dimensions not unlike that which I had vacated in my slumber. Before me was a furniture with a strange appliance setting on it, a low square of wood with a disc set upon its upper facing. Along the dexter of that platter, a slender rod lay horizontal. Flanking this strange box were two other wooden containers that sat upright, their faces covered with a cloth or canvas. I desired to arise and approach the table to examine these more closely, but my tipsy condition kept me firmly in chair, which I found was not so much a distressful feeling after all.

The room was dimly lit, the source of illumination unclear and unseen. I failed to find much more detail than the sight before me. It was just a dream, I reassured my distressed heart. Even with the realism of its details, the oddness of the scene had no equal in my imagination. And the quiet, that infernal quiet, the quiet of death, an absolute lack of sound haunted me. As if the walls themselves conspired to rob me of even the sound of my breath in that moment. Those very walls which resided at the edge of my vision were black in color, or should I say more a lack of color, any light shining upon their surfaces absorbed and not released back to my eyes. It seemed though that these walls were textured, as in a series of peaks and valleys in regular pattern all over, left and right, even above me.

A few moments passed with my exploration in eye only of my unconscious prison, then an event of strangeness brought my soul to a level unheard of in my darkest musings. My notice had still been distracted when I heard a faint click emanating from the table at the other end of the chamber. I thought for the fleetest of moments I spotted a disembodied hand pulling away from the appliance, but instead it was my ears which endured that which proceeded. I heard a scratching that seemed to originate from the direction of the table. My heart jumped, imagining some small, wild creature was trapped within one or the other box, when something extraordinary occurred. I heard a faint sound, not unlike the tinkling of a far-off piano coming from that end, increasing in volume, as if I had been ferried down a hall, toward the parlor wherein the instrument was played. The notes rolled up and down the scale, evoking the flow of water, and was quickly accompanied by a recorder playing a counterpoint and an underlying noise that confused my senses. Then, upon this odd musical passage was overlaid a tempo of what seemed like the low string of a bass being plucked, the notes of the same and evenly spaced, first one... two... one two three, one... two... one two three, louder and louder these notes overpowered the others, as if the beating of my own heart roaring in my ears.

These dark, low notes played alone for a few bars, then were joined by some unknown instrument I had never experienced even in the waking world. It reminded me of a virginal, but too rich and demonic in tone, its rhythm countering that of the bass notes. Then a drumming sound thumped in another sympathetic rhythm that filled out the instrumental passage, This simple but deeply disturbing melody drilled into my consciousness then magically faded, leaving only the percussive pattern of the bass. What lay ahead shook my very soul.

A voice, if it could be given that term, began to sing in such a way that surely it must have originated in some purgatory I could not imagine. It sounded tinny, as if invented by automaton, but kept in tune to the musical scale. The words seemed familiar to me, picking at the depths of memory. The demon's voice sang for a few bars the verse, then was joined by a hellish choir that raise their voices to introduce the chorus of the song. Deep, dark tones spelled out a bridge and briefly a man's voice that haunted me with a familiar sentence, then a single word, one which I myself know so well! How is it possible, since I had not yet published that work? Surely, this demon has looked into my life with a clarity reserved for the prophet! I could not contain forever that which compared me in this visit to a depth of madness.

The instrumental returned, with dark angels, male and female accompanying brass overtaking the melody for a moment, then another phrase I had already kept for my own purposes, then the demons returned to the chorus. All this while, I had no inkling of the source of the devil's music, but the disembodied voices seemed to come from the direction of the table. What magic is this? I pondered, that with such liveliness is it possible that perhaps this was some form of musical box, an invention unheard of in the annals of science? Or was it trickery, the Turkish Player, with his hidden orchestra just beyond those walls, to play me for the drunken, sleepy fool I was? Eventually, another sorcery erupted from the music, this one even more uncanny than those that had come before. Some new, satanic instrument was introduced, loud and plucky, dashed across the underlying theme, jauntily invading my aching ears with its devilish phrases. And still, the male voice echoed that same sentence I knew so well and that single damning word! Had he burgled my papers in the privacy of my chambers, or did he steal that directly from the vault of my mind? Was there no end of this damning tune that drags me to a place so removed from my Maker?

I would never be capable of relegating the memory of this infernal event to a place of forgetfulness, no river Lethe to relieve me of those words, that demon playing over a stringed section of orchestra, the choir chiming in assent. Finally, gratefully with relief the music faded as the demon chorus laid me to rest. Momentarily, I felt the resonance of the song, the thumping of the bass notes dying off, when suddenly a scream of anguish frightened me so that I nearly rose from my seat, I started so that I almost overcame my paralysis. Percussion came suddenly into play and that awful plucking returned. The scream came back for a moment then regaled me with such a frightening story that I felt a sympathetic response to the anguish of the screamer. Again, the Devil knew my heart! I feared he would expose me as the fraud!

This behavior of the demon orchestra continued for nearly an hour. I was subjected to an instrumental piece that evoked the dark corners of a family's secrets exposed then finally destroying them in a tempestuous storm. A cacophony proceeded, then a calming tune eased my derangement until at last, at long last, I was brought to salvation by an angelic choir warbling dulcet tones, fading eventually into obscurity. This was my story, being dragged into some locale that only Dante had dared to invent and present to me in this dream-like trance, tales of mystery and imagination that I had believed were of my own volition, then after the proverbial fall and the purging of my evil, only could I then appreciate the grace of my Deity and His host, welcoming me gratefully into Paradise. Had this been my Al'Aareef all this while?

I sat stock still in my chair as the music faded and then that scratching was heard again. In this moment, I at last was able to see the Hand that conducted this invisible band, as it appeared from nowhere and removed the thin rod from near the center of the platter on top of the flat box. All this time I had taken no notice of that tool, now wondering if some scientific magic was at play, rather than the medieval notions of demonic possessions? I wanted to wake, but could not, at least it seemed not to be time for me to do so, for a man's voice came from the darkness near the table, speaking English in such a way understandable to my ears, although with a strange inflection I could not place. He spoke as though he knew me personally, though I had never met this man in my waking life. I could just make out his face in the dimness of the room, he was a dark-haired fellow, briefly bearded, his eyes intense but quiet, He spoke soothingly, I presumed to allay my fears. The rest of him was dressed in black, so that he appeared almost as a disembodied head.

“My name is Alan,” he said quietly, “not to be confused to the spelling of your own. I conjured you to this time and place so you can know what you have done in your time that has echoed through the years. Your words, you poetry, your darkness and your light had infected me, haunted my soul much as it must have yours, so much so I had to place them to music. My goal was to match the dark moods of many of your writings in a musical style of my day, and I in my way have captured at least an idea of the depth of your work.”

I was astounded at this revelation. As my lips opened to form a response, the thought occurred that my questioning may open some rift of consequence I cannot imagine, what extent it may damage my present and this promised future made by a stranger who masquerades as a practitioner of the Calliopiac muse. I stammered that he should take care in what he may inform me, as (and I knew this next to be canard) it may unintentionally influence my own attitude to so much degree that I may not even perform those duties he proscribed that I would do. In heart, I was experiencing a curious sensation: A pride I had never known, coupled with a feeling of horror that I may be duped by a devil sent to flatter me.

“I should warn you, Sir, I will not be so easily confounded by your sweet words,” I finally said. “Your concertos are in this age an abomination, a level of devilry unheard of in this earthly realm. You should take care not to publish it for fear of instant and assured reprisal by the more discerning ears of Today.”

He was taken with offense at my criticism, but then nodded understanding. He informed me that he was in history a century and a half beyond my time, how the technology of his day was as foreign to me as the machinery of my day would be to a man of the time of our Lord. He explained the nuances of his composition, much of the terms he used were foreign to me. He spoke of use of electricity to achieve much of his goal, including the device he used to reproduce faithfully those strange songs with which I was imprisoned. Eventually, I believe I came to some understanding, insomuch as we were both inventors of things fantastical, that I even came to appreciate what he had attempted to do, with his crude and disfashionable musical machinations.

Finally, his monologue done, he looked me over and said simply, “Thank you.” With that, he nodded, although I would have believed his motion implied his body had bowed a bit, his face slowly receding into the darkness, and I was left with the music still echoing in the recesses of my mind, haunted by the notion of future success, though never promised fame nor fortune. But, vanity seized me and I inflated ego at the remembrance that someone who seemed well-regarded a sesquicentennial from now further cemented my immortality in song. And my regard for his compositions increased, with the realizations that the dark and morbid tones of the movements did in fact capture those fancies I conjured from the deepest corners of tortured cogitations.

Suddenly, I awakened with a start! My study was the same as before my vision, the toasty warm fire still active in the hearth, all had returned to normal. I sat there for the rest of the night, remembering all that transpired, even to whether to relay my experience in prose. Even with the doubts I endured throughout, I now knew this event being true, for who but a future acolyte of my dark, brooding stories and poetry could possibly have known that one word, repeating over and over. No other could have guessed I would write such an improbable invention of a word such as 'Nevermore'?