The Slender Poe Anthology (24 page)

I endeavored to shriek; and my lips and my parched tongue moved
convulsively together in the attempt
—
but no voice issued from the
cavernous lungs, which oppressed as if by the weight of some incumbent
mountain, gasped and palpitated, with the heart, at every elaborate and
struggling inspiration.

The movement of the jaws, in this effort to cry aloud, showed me that
they were bound up, as is usual with the dead. I felt, too, that I lay
upon some hard substance, and by something similar my sides were,
also, closely compressed. So far, I had not ventured to stir any of my
limbs
—
but now I violently threw up my arms, which had been lying at
length, with the wrists crossed. They struck a solid wooden substance,
which extended above my person at an elevation of not more than six
inches from my face. I could no longer doubt that I reposed within a
coffin at last.

And now, amid all my infinite miseries, came sweetly the cherub
Hope
—
for I thought of my precautions. I writhed, and made spasmodic
exertions to force open the lid: it would not move. I felt my wrists for
the bell-rope: it was not to be found. And now the Comforter fled for
ever, and a still sterner Despair reigned triumphant; for I could not
help perceiving the absence of the paddings which I had so carefully
prepared
—
and then, too, there came suddenly to my nostrils the strong
peculiar odor of moist earth. The conclusion was irresistible. I was
not within the vault. I had fallen into a trance while absent from
home
—
while among strangers
—
when, or how, I could not remember
—
and
it was they who had buried me as a dog
—
nailed up in some common
coffin
—
and thrust deep, deep, and for ever, into some ordinary and
nameless
grave
.

As this awful conviction forced itself, thus, into the innermost
chambers of my soul, I once again struggled to cry aloud. And in this
second endeavor I succeeded. A long, wild, and continuous shriek, or
yell of agony, resounded through the realms of the subterranean Night.

“Hillo! hillo, there!” said a gruff voice, in reply.

“What the devil's the matter now!” said a second.

“Get out o' that!” said a third.

“What do you mean by yowling in that ere kind of style, like a
cattymount?” said a fourth; and hereupon I was seized and shaken
without ceremony, for several minutes, by a junto of very rough-looking
individuals. They did not arouse me from my slumber
—
for I was wide
awake when I screamed
—
but they restored me to the full possession of my
memory.

This adventure occurred near Richmond, in Virginia. Accompanied by a
friend, I had proceeded, upon a gunning expedition, some miles down the
banks of the James River. Night approached, and we were overtaken by
a storm. The cabin of a small sloop lying at anchor in the stream, and
laden with garden mould, afforded us the only available shelter. We made
the best of it, and passed the night on board. I slept in one of the
only two berths in the vessel
—
and the berths of a sloop of sixty or
seventy tons need scarcely be described. That which I occupied had no
bedding of any kind. Its extreme width was eighteen inches. The distance
of its bottom from the deck overhead was precisely the same. I found it
a matter of exceeding difficulty to squeeze myself in. Nevertheless, I
slept soundly, and the whole of my vision
—
for it was no dream, and no
nightmare
—
arose naturally from the circumstances of my position
—
from
my ordinary bias of thought
—
and from the difficulty, to which I have
alluded, of collecting my senses, and especially of regaining my memory,
for a long time after awaking from slumber. The men who shook me were
the crew of the sloop, and some laborers engaged to unload it. From the
load itself came the earthly smell. The bandage about the jaws was a
silk handkerchief in which I had bound up my head, in default of my
customary nightcap.

The tortures endured, however, were indubitably quite equal for the
time, to those of actual sepulture. They were fearfully
—
they were
inconceivably hideous; but out of Evil proceeded Good; for their very
excess wrought in my spirit an inevitable revulsion. My soul acquired
tone
—
acquired temper. I went abroad. I took vigorous exercise. I
breathed the free air of Heaven. I thought upon other subjects than
Death. I discarded my medical books. “Buchan” I burned. I read no “Night
Thoughts”
—
no fustian about churchyards
—
no bugaboo tales
—
such as this
. In short, I became a new man, and lived a man's life. From that
memorable night, I dismissed forever my charnel apprehensions, and with
them vanished the cataleptic disorder, of which, perhaps, they had been
less the consequence than the cause.

There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of
our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell
—
but the imagination
of man is no Carathis, to explore with impunity its every cavern. Alas!
the grim legion of sepulchral terrors cannot be regarded as altogether
fanciful
—
but, like the Demons in whose company Afrasiab made his voyage
down the Oxus, they must sleep, or they will devour us
—
they must be
suffered to slumber, or we perish.

JOHN ALLEN CANN

John Allen Cann is a native of California with a B.A. in Theater Arts from Cornell and an M.A. in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. During the years he lived in Santa Barbara, he hosted the poetry show, “The Unseen Rose,” at KCSB and started Aetheric Press. After moving to Sacramento in 1984, he worked in many of the region's K-12 schools with his
Kid
s
&
Words
Program. He now instructs English at Cosumnes River College, and teaches a Tuesday evening class on modern poetry,
Nobel Omissions
, at the Sacramento Poetry Center.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Our effort to create The Slender Poe is made richer by the contributions of so many people.

With special gratitude to Gabriel Sass and Richard Henricksen for their passionate love of Edgar A. Poe and for passing that love on to others; to John Allen Cann for taking an offhand comment at a dinner party seriously and turning it into a lovingly crafted book; to Laura Koivunen for her amazing creativity and design abilities; to Lori Easterwood, Christie Hamm and Susan Benson for coming up with the best program ideas; to Linda Beymer for using her red pen with love and accuracy; to Gerry and Seth, “machine whisperers” extraordinaire; to the Sacramento Public Library Authority Board for supporting creative programming; to the staff of the Sacramento Public Library for the hard work they do every day and their ability to come up with new ideas for improving service; to the Friends of the Pocket-Greenhaven Library for sharing the vision to make our own book possible; to the Kline Family Foundation for their generous support of One Book Sacramento, and finally, to all of the people throughout Sacramento City and County who love the library.