THE CYCLONE LULLABY
SYNOPSIS: At the end of Act I in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical, Christine has gone off with Raoul, so Erik forlornly decides to leave Paris to visit an old friend; in a distant land the Gypsies had called Oz, he seeks the sullen, green-skinned girl shown off to the riffraff as a sin--the girl with the rainbow voice. Wicked/PotO crossover, NOT E/OW!
CANON: My main sources for Phantom of he Opera were the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical and Susan Kay's novel. For Wicked, I drew mainly on Gregory Maguire's novel, but may add elements from the Schwartz/Holzman musical.
For Dara, mon petit renard.
For the first time in his life, music faltered from Erik's skeletal fingertips. A murky silence rang over the House Beyond the Lake. The organ, with its gleaming brass pipes and well-worn keys, regarded him with reproach. Never before had he created nothing but cacophony! Always music … but this was terrifying, discordant noise.
A growl rose in his throat, like a tiger. He jerked away from the pipe organ, throwing the bench over, and leaving it lying forlornly on its side.
She was gone. Christine had left in tears, on the arm of that wretched Vicomte! She had drawn the hood of her navy cloak over her dark curls, as though it would hide her from the world. But he had seen her.
Hours had passed. The auditorium of the Palais Garnier was empty and silent as a tomb. One woman was dead. The wreckage of the golden chandelier was left where it had fallen. An "accident," as Monsieur Firmin insisted later. The lazy, wealthy patrons, including the Vicomte de Chagny and his brother, had been shocked to the core this night, what with an unfortunate death and horrific mechanical catastrophe.
The Comte Philippe was waiting rather impatiently in his carriage, demanding of the footman the whereabouts of his younger brother.
There. Erik, perched above the stables exit, easily concealed by a statue that he had seen installed, watched like a sentinel. There was the handsome young nobleman, the hero of this story, or so it seemed, leading a young woman gently by the hand.
Just as Erik had done the night before.
She was clothed strangely, in a substantial blue cloak. It was the end of August, and the Parisian nights were still sultry and heavy. The deep hood hid her features, but Erik knew what lay beneath the dense fabric. A round face, but gently sculpted, with large, heavy-lashed dark green eyes, a narrow nose, curving lips …
She paused, and turned her head. For a moment, Erik thought she knew he was there, and imagined her round eyes searching for his. The remnants of the kohl that had outlined her eyes was smeared in black tracks down her cheeks.
But no. She was merely looking back at the stars twinkling high above the opulent walls and roof of the opera house that was her home.
Then she was gone. So simple, a disappearing act! Something Erik could have mastered at an early age, with his aptitude for magic. But no conjuring trick could draw her back to him. No one could hear him, and as the carriage pulled away, the horses clattering on the cobblestones, he gave a hoarse sob, "Christine!"
She didn't hear him. In his heart, he knew she never would.
He lay behind that statue for hours. Too weary to get up and retreat underground. Every minute, his cosy lair grew more and more like Hell. Dark and torturous in its solitude. He would surely go insane should he remain here, haunted by the memory of his ingénue. No, he must find a place where he could not think of Christine Daaé.
He would not tell Marie-Louise Giry of his departure. Let the Opéra's staff believe the ghost was laid to rest.
He would not find rest. He would find a friend.
Nadir was the natural choice, but Erik's tolerance of the Persian's fatherly, disapproving manner was growing thin. No, he would not be moralised by Nadir Khan. Not tonight.
Erik slumped against the stone base, drawing his knees up to his chin, like a small child, wrapping his arms around his shins.
Temporarily abandoning his status as an adult, he thought, No one understands me. No one has ever understood me.
His mind began lumbering backward, his extraordinary memory playing out an opera of his own life. The construction of his theatre; seeing his mother's sunken face in death; Persia and it's blood-soaked rosy hours; the fairs …
The fairs. Something tugged. An old memory, coloured with emerald reflections.
Erik stood up abruptly. He knew exactly whom he wanted to see.
He wrapped a cowl around his head, and silently clambered down from the roof to the street. It was just dawn now. The sun was tinting the sky with pale light, and the city was languidly rousing itself.
Erik found the man he was looking for on the streets off the Champs-Elysées. The man was standing easily beside his battered travelling coach. It was old black that had faded to a deep forest green. The windows were curtained in viridian. The horses who stood as comfortably as their master, were bright, clean white.
The driver itself was a man of middle age, with a paunch of a belly and long whiskers of a reddish brown. All in all, he was rather nondescript, save for his attire. He was entirely clad in green. From his dark, muddy green boots, to his faded pea green cap, the man was an almost comical sight, making the architecture of Paris look dreary by contrast.
Erik approached the man, and said shortly, "Cab, monsieur."
"Where to, sir?" the driver asked amiably.
"To Oz!" he said curtly.