Ende wrote:The Raven
Listen to this while reading. It's nice.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore…
The year was 1874, and the hour was midnight. In the small town of Cambridge, England, a lone scholar poured over an ancient tome of wisdom, found in the midst of an old library. As he had pulled the cover open slowly, the opening words of the first page instantly intrigued him into bringing it to his lonely home, and reading more. His haphazardly organized room was filled with books, laid open at random, their spines broken against the floor. But, truly, knowledge was truly what he seeked, and this was how he found it. Knowledge was what he truly seeked. It wasn’t love. Love was meaningless to him. He just wished to learn, and that was all.
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door…
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound filled the silence of the room, breaking the calm atmosphere of the room like glass. The scholar looked down, attempting to ignore the noise. Who would be visiting at this time? It was past midnight. The moon was risen in the sky, illuminating the dark streets of the city in its silver light, and no man walked the streets of the city below. The young man looked up.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
He shook his head, thinking to himself, scrambling for an excuse. It wasn’t anything. The noise wasn’t really there. It was probably just late, and his own mind was playing tricks on him. The light of the candle flickered, briefly illuminating a section of a single page. And to a single word of that single section of that single page, his eyes leapt directly to.
Lenore.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
The man shook his head. Why was that name there? How was it here? He shivered in the cold December night, wrapped himself in his cloak, and attempted to return to reading, pressing his thoughts from his mind, attempting to banish them to oblivion. No. He would not think of Lenore. His sorrow would be seen nevermore. There was no meaning in love. His books and knowledge contained all he would ever need. His sorrow for Lenore…his love…named by angels, perhaps, everything about her truly perfect…his sorrow was pointless, and he would leave it.
And then he looked up again.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'
Suddenly, the curtains of the window fluttered, the amaranthine curtains rippling softly in the wind. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes, frowning deeply. “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.” he muttered to himself. “Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.” he repeated to himself, attempting to affirm reality. “This it is, and nothing more.” he said, more attempting to convince himself than anything else.
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
After a few moments, he stared at the closed door, raising the courage to answer, and then, after a few moments, he cast his hesitation aside and called over to the door.
“Sir, or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; but the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard you.” he softly whispered towards the door, and then he slowly strode towards the door. His hand grasped around the worn handle, and with a turn, he slowly pushed the door open. Creaking, it slowly came to a stop, revealing…absolutely nothing.
The darkness of the hallway stared back at him, and that was all.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
Had there truly been a knocking? Was he merely mad with grief? Did his own senses deceive him? He stood there, breathing quickly in the darkness, peering directly into the face of the blackness of the hallway. Was she truly dead? Lenore? Truly, he had known she was gone, ripped from the embrace of this sweet world, but, surely, who would come knocking at this hour? Could it be her?
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.
The silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no confirmation of truth to his mad dreams. He blankly stared, like he had before, and a single word escaped his lips.
“Lenore!”
There was complete silence, but the mere echo of his word, reverberating back from the blackened hallway.
“Lenore!”
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
Suddenly, the heart of the man filled with anger, and he spun around, walking back into his chamber. Lenore would not be there. Of course she truly would not. There was nobody there. It was just the maddened whispers of his own grief-stricken mind. He would never see her again. And that was all. That was the truth. Filled with grief, he turned and sat back at the desk, attempting to drown his thoughts in reading.
And then there it was again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It came from the window, and truly, it was louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
“Surely, surely that is something at my window lattice. Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore. Tis the wind and nothing more.” he muttered bitterly to himself, anger reverberating through his words. “Tis the wind and nothing more.” he thought again to himself, and he took another step towards the window.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Reluctantly, his trembling hand reached towards the shutter of the window, and with a quick flash of movement, he flung the window open.
And then, it flew in. Cloaked in black, wrapped in grey, the raven flew in, landing directly upon an old crumbling bust of Pallas, placed directly above the chamber door. It perched there, sat, and did nothing more, but look at the man with its emotionless gaze.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
The scholar smiled. It was almost amusing. The bird looked as if at a funeral. Grave, stern, and utterly grim. And yet, it was merely a bird, and that was all.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, though art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore – tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s plutonian shore!” he joked, inwardly laughing at the bird, not expecting a reply.
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And then the raven spoke.
“Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'
The scholar stared up at the bird in disbelief, marveling at it. Had it truly spoken to him? Though its answer was not truly an answer – nevermore was not truly a name – it was still amazing that it had spoken. Had this ever happened before? If his mind was not playing tricks on him, and the ebony fowl seated upon the bust above the door had truly spoken, he was…blessed? Surely, no other man had seen such a sight. Standing up, sending the old book to the floor, the scholar adjusted his spectacles, staring into the steely eye of the raven.
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
The raven said nothing, and then it spoke again.
“Nevermore.”
And then it said nothing, yet again. Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered – it sat there, silently, peering over the room. The scholar scowled at it, and muttered to himself.
“Other friends have flown before. On the morrow, he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.” he claimed, mind flashing back to Lenore.
And then the bird repeated it yet again:
“Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'
The man jumped backwards, away from the raven, raising his fists into the air. What was the meaning of this? Why was it here? Why had it said this? Was it a blessing? A miracle? A figment of his diseased mind? Dropping his hands to his sides, he stared blankly back at it, and muttered to himself yet again.
“Doubtless, what it utters is only stock and store, caught from some unhappy mater whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore – till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore of “Never-nevermore”.” he grumbled, attempting to rationalize the creature, sitting upon that crumbling bust, who spoke nothing but of “Nevermore”.
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
Oddly, he found himself grinning yet again. The bird amused him, in its senseless one-word rambling. The grim, ghastly, and gaunt creature which sat above stared at him with steely glare, and yet in his heart, he found no animosity there. What did it mean by its one lone cry – the single word of “nevermore”? Walking back to his desk, he pulled a cushioned seat from the desk, sat it down in front of the crumbling bust on which the bird itself had seated, and then sat down, stroking his chin in his hand, attempting to unravel the meaning of its single cry.
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
For nearly an hour, he sat there, in the lone velvet chair, as the candle melted itself into a pool of melted wax, extinguishing its own light, leaving the room illuminated by nothing but the dim twinkling of the stars and the silver gleam of the moon, and the dim flickers of an old lamp in the corner. What could it mean? His head leaned back as he became lost and thought…and then, slowly, his mind returned to Lenore, and, yet again, he found himself flooded with grief.
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
The atmosphere of the room grew denser. He could feel it. His grief weighed him down, and it was as if the light itself had vanished from the room. Enraged, he glared at the abomination from hell, the raven, the creature which had begun his torment yet again. Had it not arrived, had the tapping not disturbed him, he could have lost himself yet again.
“Wretch!” the man cried, standing up, sending the chair to the ground, “thy God hath lent the and by these angels he has sent thee – respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
The lone word permeated the room yet again. “Nevermore.” quoth the Raven, feathered coat black as the night.
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
The man shook with rage. This thing of evil was not a blessing. It was a devil, sent to torment him, to remind him of his loss, to chant the cry of the single word which struck to the bottom of the soul. Quivering, the man reached towards one of the books.
“Prophet! Thing of evil! Prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, on this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore, is there balm in Gilead?” he cried, desperately seeking an answer. Was there truly an escape from his grief? Was there any relief? Inwardly, he knew the answer, and he dreaded it, but, in a last spark of hope, he cried his question to the prophet.
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
The lone word filled the silence, crushing out the last spark of hope.
“Nevermore.”
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Shaking in grief and horror, the man tearfully looked up at the Devil yet again. For that was what it was. A demon. A prophet, nonetheless, but a demon.
“Prophet! Thing of evil! Prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore! Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore! Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?” he cried, tears streaming down his eyes.
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the Raven stared, with its steely cold black glare, repeating it’s solemn word in whole, striking directly to the man’s soul.
“Nevermore.”
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
With a cry of rage, the man hurled the book he was holding at the Raven. It hit the wall, and split into a cascade of pages, paper drifting to the floor, covering any semblance of order.
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” he screamed, tears streaming down his face.
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! Quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take they form off my door!” he screamed again, voice rising to its peak, filled with agony and pain.
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
It was as if the demon was smiling at him. It gave no expression. Only the steely stone cold stare of the bird remained, coldly mocking him in ways unexplained. It opened its piercing beak, black as night, to give the reply it had always given.
“Nevermore.”
And it sat there still, upon the crumbled bust of Pallas, staring with its cruel eyes, making no motion whatsoever.
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
With a crash, the man fell to his knees, sobbing, completely broken. With bloodshot eyes, he stared at the demon yet again. Its stare remained unchanged. His eyes, dark as midnight, showed no sign of emotion, no sign of thought, but at the same time, the eyes were the eyes of a demon. The lamp flickered, briefly illuminating the Raven, and throwing his ghastly shadow upon the man, and on his broken soul.
And that soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor…shall be lifted nevermore.
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Yes, this isn't very good (quite bad, actually), and, yes, I'm not even 100% sure if the genre this falls in is horror, and, yes, it's just a basic retelling of Edgar Allan Poe's marvelous poem, but I wrote this a while (a year or two) back, and I decided I might as well enter it anyway.
If the idea's acceptable, I'll refine and touch it up to the point when it isn't so bad.
IMO, the idea is acceptable, but borrowing too heavily from Poe will cost you points for creativity.
There will be alligators.
