Abraham Lincoln_ Vampire Hunter - Seth Grahame-Smith [40]
“That you speak of them with such reverence, Mr. Poe, seems madness to me.”
“Can you imagine it? Can you imagine seeing the universe through such eyes? Laughing in the face of time and death—the world your Garden of Eden? Your library? Your harem?”
“Yes. I can also imagine a want of companionship, and a want of peace.”
“Well, I can imagine a want of nothing! Think of the fortune one could amass, the comforts one could afford, the wonders of the world one could see at his leisure!”
“And when this intoxication has worn away… when every desire is fulfilled and every language learned—when there are no more distant cities to explore; no classics to be studied; not another coin to be stuffed into one’s coffers—what then? One can have all the comforts of the world, but what use are they if there is no comfort in them?”
Abe shared a folktale, one that he had first heard from a traveler on the Old Cumberland Road.
There was once a man who yearned to live forever. Beginning in his youth, he prayed for God to grant him immortality. He was charitable and earnest, honest in his business dealings, true to his wife, and kind to his children. He humbled himself before God, and preached His laws to all who would listen. And yet, he continued to age with every passing year, until he finally died a frail old man. When he reached heaven, he asked, “Lord, why did You refuse to answer my prayer? Did I not live my life according to Your word? Did I not praise Your name to all who would listen?” To which God replied, “You did all of these things. And that is why I did not curse you by answering your prayer.”
“You speak of eternal life. You speak of indulging the mind and body,” said Abe. “But what of the soul?”
“And what use is a soul to a creature that shall never die?”
Abe couldn’t help but smile. Here was a strange little man with a strange way of seeing things. Only the second living man he’d ever met who knew the truth of vampires. He drank to excess and spoke in an irritating, high-pitched voice. It was hard not to like him.
“I begin to suspect,” said Abe, “that you would like to be one of them.”
Poe laughed at the suggestion. “Is not our existence long and miserable enough?” he asked, laughing. “Who in God’s name would seek to prolong it?”
Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter
IV
On the following afternoon, June 22nd, Abe wandered along St. Philip Street by himself. Allen Gentry hadn’t returned from whatever depravities he’d enjoyed the night before, and Poe had staggered off to his own boardinghouse at dawn. After sleeping half the day away, Abe had decided that some fresh air and a stroll were desperately needed to chase the fog from his mind and bitter taste from his mouth.
I happened upon some great commotion in the street as I neared the river—a large crowd gathered around a platform, which had been decorated in reds and whites and blues. A yellow banner flew above this makeshift stage, upon which were the words SLAVE AUCTION TODAY! ONE O’CLOCK! More than a hundred men were crowded in front of the platform. More than twice that number of Negroes milled about nearby. Pipe smoke choked the air as prospective buyers mingled—the rare laugh breaking through the din, their pencils and papers held ready as the hour neared. The auctioneer, a man every ounce as plump and pink as a hog, then stepped before them and began: “Honored gentlemen, I am pleased to present the day’s first lot.” Upon this, the first Negro, a man of perhaps five-and-thirty years, took the stage and bowed heartily, smiling and standing tall in his ill-fitting suit (which looked to have been purchased for the occasion). “A bull, name of Cuff! Still in the prime of his strength! As fine a field hand as you are ever likely to see, and sure to sire a brood of sons with backs every bit as sound!” That this “bull” seemed so fervent in his hope of being bought—standing up straight, smiling and bowing as the auctioneer described his many uses—I could not help my pity and