Ave Maria
I remember the little things from my old life; the smell of Mother's hair, the way Millie the cat's fur felt against my cold skin-
-the way Papa's belt sounded...
Mostly, though, I remember taking walks through the alleys and bystreets of Paris, alone, yet not. It is a strange thing to describe, these strolls in the dark, for I acutely recall a feeling, a presence of another being, an entity, perhaps an angel? I suppose I shall never be entirely certain. All I am certain of is my new life after I found the secret door. After that, I was never the same again...
* * * * *
She was a little girl, only about six years old, the kind of child with rosy cheeks and dark hair that reminded you of a porcelain doll, although a neglected one. Her white dress was tattered and dirty, her eyes bright, her toes bare. Bruises and scars criss-crossed her arms and legs, making her seem to be made of patchwork, all stitched together in different patterns.
The staircase was long and dark, but she was curious; for her small mind, it seemed as though 'twere a mole's tunnel into the earth. It was cold and damp, yet she yearned with untold excitement for what she might find at the bottom of it. So it was followed, down, down, down into the cavernous mouth of darkness.
Only a quarter of the ways down, she heard a strange voice. At first, she crept nearer to the wall, grasping its edges, fearful of the sounds from the deep, void of light. The more she listened though, the more courage she found, so she pressed onward, longing to meet the voice at the bottom of the stairs.
Almost halfway, a pattern emerged in the speech of the voice. Oh! a song! Her heart lept at the idea of a song, even more so than the idea of someone singing a song. The girl's feet nearly skipped down the stones as she descended;
"Alas, my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously..."
She felt her mind skittering to and fro with the dancing sound of the voice, yet, strange, how sometimes it seemed to be moaning more than singing. She could scarce understand what was happening, but the words, yes, the words drug her onward, her ears reaching out for the friendliest sound she had heard in days...
* * * * *
It had been a very tiring week, I remember. Papa hadn't been kind at all, although I couldn't blame him, his job was so hard for him. For the last few days I had been ill in bed for letting the cat come into the house. He didn't mean for it to happen, but it did, and that was that.
Then, one day, he disappeared.
"Mama, Mama!" I ran crying, "Where is he? Where is he? Where is Papa?"
"He is gone."
"Where, Mama, where did he go, when will we see him again?" And she sighed the sigh of a sadness I had heard for a long time, the same sigh that had come from her lips for my entire life.
"He is gone, and you shall never see him again." Then she turned her back and went back to doing the laundry, washing the dishes, living her life. I went out to play, but soon screamed in fright and came hurrying back inside.
"Mama, he must be here, he must be!" She ignored me, and kept on scrubbing the white sheets and clothes. "Mama, see?" I cried, pointing. "Oh, Mama, his shoe, it's stuck in the dirt! I tripped over it! What's wrong, where's Papa, where is he, Mama?"
Mother suddenly turned, staring out at the patch of yard I pointed at. Her face glazed over and she dropped a clean, wet dress from her hands, both of them meeting in front of her mouth. She fell upon her knees on the floor, landing hard on shards of rock, and began to pray.
"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name..."
"Mama!" I yanked on her dress-tail in hysterics, "Mama! You're bleeding, Mama, there's blood on your hands! What's happened, Mama, what's wrong?" Her face grew hard and cold, and she stood up silently, leaving her unfinished prayer hanging. Moving to a bowl of water, she rinsed her hands carefully, and gave me no words of explanation.
* * * * *
The child sat on the bottom stair, her chin in her hands, her eyes closed, listening. The songs had changed and the voice kept growing fainter and weaker, the notes trembling more and more. Soon, it was hardly a whisper, and, fearing something terrible had happened to her unseen friend, the girl carefully inched into the darkness.
Then, there! A small light, a tiny candle fighting alone in the night's cruel atmosphere. She found herself running towards it and the voice, on and on, not caring for where her weary feet tread. Finally, she slowed to a walk, the light near, and her friend close at hand.
This carrier of the voice seemed very tired, for he lay on the ground quite motionless. She could only hear his rasping for breath, only feel the delicate tears on his face. Carefully, almost fearfully, she sat on the ground next to him and touched his hand. The skin of it felt clammy, its texture that of paste, but it felt kind. For the first time in a while, she was not afraid to be near someone, and she held the hand in hers, feeling the texture and the callousness of the palm.
The man stirred, and an embered eye stared at her glassily, but she didn't notice; she only heard the strains of song come from his lips. A slow, sad song, a death song, a sleep song. Indeed, she felt herself fall into slumber, her head lying on the man's chest as the song finished and his breathing ceased.
When she awoke, she found him still there. Her hand reached to his face and touched it; oh, she felt the face of an angel! Surely this face was unlike any human face she had ever found before, it felt so new and unusual. It was like nothing she had once touched in her short life.
"It must really be an angel!" she thought, and searched for his wings. It puzzled her when there were none to be found, and she was confused so that she began to cry. A thin hand suddenly placed itself on her shoulder.
"What's wrong, what are you doing here?" The girl turned, trying to find who had spoken.
"Are you God?" This seemed to startle the speaker, as they knelt down near the body of the man.
"What do you mean, am I God?"
"Well," began the little girl, swallowing hard, "I heard an angel and I followed its voice. It sung me to sleep but when I woke up, the angel didn't make any noise. I felt his face, it was so... so beautiful, he must be an angel, but someone's taken his wings!" She started to cry again. "I thought you must be God, come to take the angel back to Heaven!"
The speaker, who was a woman, cradled the girl in her arms and comforted her, rocking her back to sleep as her husband took care of the body. The deed done, the earth disturbed, he stared down at the grave. His wife moved to stand near him, and he wiped the tears from her face.
"What are we going to do with her, Christine?" he said, embracing the woman. "She's blind, we don't know where she came from, we don't even know her name..."
"I didn't know his either, at first. She needs someone to care for her, it couldn't just be coincidence that we found her here." There was a silence as they stood there for more than an hour, before finally leaving the way they had come. In the carriage on their way to the train station, the little girl awoke, still with the stange people.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes?"
"Who was the angel?"
"His name was Erik, dear." Raoul glared at her.
"Christine, explain to her. She doesn't need to get the wrong ideas." She returned the glare before turning her head down again to the child sitting next to her. "He wasn't an angel, he had no wings," he finally said, at a loss for words himself.
"Some angels, love," Christine began, softly, her hand brushing across the girl's cheek, "Some angels don't need wings to fly."
I remember the little things from my old life; the smell of Mother's hair, the way Millie the cat's fur felt against my cold skin-
-the way Papa's belt sounded...
Mostly, though, I remember taking walks through the alleys and bystreets of Paris, alone, yet not. It is a strange thing to describe, these strolls in the dark, for I acutely recall a feeling, a presence of another being, an entity, perhaps an angel? I suppose I shall never be entirely certain. All I am certain of is my new life after I found the secret door. After that, I was never the same again...
* * * * *
She was a little girl, only about six years old, the kind of child with rosy cheeks and dark hair that reminded you of a porcelain doll, although a neglected one. Her white dress was tattered and dirty, her eyes bright, her toes bare. Bruises and scars criss-crossed her arms and legs, making her seem to be made of patchwork, all stitched together in different patterns.
The staircase was long and dark, but she was curious; for her small mind, it seemed as though 'twere a mole's tunnel into the earth. It was cold and damp, yet she yearned with untold excitement for what she might find at the bottom of it. So it was followed, down, down, down into the cavernous mouth of darkness.
Only a quarter of the ways down, she heard a strange voice. At first, she crept nearer to the wall, grasping its edges, fearful of the sounds from the deep, void of light. The more she listened though, the more courage she found, so she pressed onward, longing to meet the voice at the bottom of the stairs.
Almost halfway, a pattern emerged in the speech of the voice. Oh! a song! Her heart lept at the idea of a song, even more so than the idea of someone singing a song. The girl's feet nearly skipped down the stones as she descended;
"Alas, my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously..."
She felt her mind skittering to and fro with the dancing sound of the voice, yet, strange, how sometimes it seemed to be moaning more than singing. She could scarce understand what was happening, but the words, yes, the words drug her onward, her ears reaching out for the friendliest sound she had heard in days...
* * * * *
It had been a very tiring week, I remember. Papa hadn't been kind at all, although I couldn't blame him, his job was so hard for him. For the last few days I had been ill in bed for letting the cat come into the house. He didn't mean for it to happen, but it did, and that was that.
Then, one day, he disappeared.
"Mama, Mama!" I ran crying, "Where is he? Where is he? Where is Papa?"
"He is gone."
"Where, Mama, where did he go, when will we see him again?" And she sighed the sigh of a sadness I had heard for a long time, the same sigh that had come from her lips for my entire life.
"He is gone, and you shall never see him again." Then she turned her back and went back to doing the laundry, washing the dishes, living her life. I went out to play, but soon screamed in fright and came hurrying back inside.
"Mama, he must be here, he must be!" She ignored me, and kept on scrubbing the white sheets and clothes. "Mama, see?" I cried, pointing. "Oh, Mama, his shoe, it's stuck in the dirt! I tripped over it! What's wrong, where's Papa, where is he, Mama?"
Mother suddenly turned, staring out at the patch of yard I pointed at. Her face glazed over and she dropped a clean, wet dress from her hands, both of them meeting in front of her mouth. She fell upon her knees on the floor, landing hard on shards of rock, and began to pray.
"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name..."
"Mama!" I yanked on her dress-tail in hysterics, "Mama! You're bleeding, Mama, there's blood on your hands! What's happened, Mama, what's wrong?" Her face grew hard and cold, and she stood up silently, leaving her unfinished prayer hanging. Moving to a bowl of water, she rinsed her hands carefully, and gave me no words of explanation.
* * * * *
The child sat on the bottom stair, her chin in her hands, her eyes closed, listening. The songs had changed and the voice kept growing fainter and weaker, the notes trembling more and more. Soon, it was hardly a whisper, and, fearing something terrible had happened to her unseen friend, the girl carefully inched into the darkness.
Then, there! A small light, a tiny candle fighting alone in the night's cruel atmosphere. She found herself running towards it and the voice, on and on, not caring for where her weary feet tread. Finally, she slowed to a walk, the light near, and her friend close at hand.
This carrier of the voice seemed very tired, for he lay on the ground quite motionless. She could only hear his rasping for breath, only feel the delicate tears on his face. Carefully, almost fearfully, she sat on the ground next to him and touched his hand. The skin of it felt clammy, its texture that of paste, but it felt kind. For the first time in a while, she was not afraid to be near someone, and she held the hand in hers, feeling the texture and the callousness of the palm.
The man stirred, and an embered eye stared at her glassily, but she didn't notice; she only heard the strains of song come from his lips. A slow, sad song, a death song, a sleep song. Indeed, she felt herself fall into slumber, her head lying on the man's chest as the song finished and his breathing ceased.
When she awoke, she found him still there. Her hand reached to his face and touched it; oh, she felt the face of an angel! Surely this face was unlike any human face she had ever found before, it felt so new and unusual. It was like nothing she had once touched in her short life.
"It must really be an angel!" she thought, and searched for his wings. It puzzled her when there were none to be found, and she was confused so that she began to cry. A thin hand suddenly placed itself on her shoulder.
"What's wrong, what are you doing here?" The girl turned, trying to find who had spoken.
"Are you God?" This seemed to startle the speaker, as they knelt down near the body of the man.
"What do you mean, am I God?"
"Well," began the little girl, swallowing hard, "I heard an angel and I followed its voice. It sung me to sleep but when I woke up, the angel didn't make any noise. I felt his face, it was so... so beautiful, he must be an angel, but someone's taken his wings!" She started to cry again. "I thought you must be God, come to take the angel back to Heaven!"
The speaker, who was a woman, cradled the girl in her arms and comforted her, rocking her back to sleep as her husband took care of the body. The deed done, the earth disturbed, he stared down at the grave. His wife moved to stand near him, and he wiped the tears from her face.
"What are we going to do with her, Christine?" he said, embracing the woman. "She's blind, we don't know where she came from, we don't even know her name..."
"I didn't know his either, at first. She needs someone to care for her, it couldn't just be coincidence that we found her here." There was a silence as they stood there for more than an hour, before finally leaving the way they had come. In the carriage on their way to the train station, the little girl awoke, still with the stange people.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes?"
"Who was the angel?"
"His name was Erik, dear." Raoul glared at her.
"Christine, explain to her. She doesn't need to get the wrong ideas." She returned the glare before turning her head down again to the child sitting next to her. "He wasn't an angel, he had no wings," he finally said, at a loss for words himself.
"Some angels, love," Christine began, softly, her hand brushing across the girl's cheek, "Some angels don't need wings to fly."