Chapter 2
May 17, 1871
The man born under the name Erik Muhlheim – having chosen a new name for himself, he was known on the boat as Maestro Erik Christoph – scanned the coastline of northern Scotland as the ocean liner passed it. The salty wind spray caught the hood of his cloak and filled it out. The former Opera Ghost closed his eyes and inhaled the sea air. It felt good against his face – both sides of it.
He fingered the sleeve of the cloak. He'd bought it in Amesbury, in a souvenir shop that sold "Druid relics." Seeing the wonder of Britain had been … eye-opening fun. He could see, in his mind, the tools and techniques required to build it, but the historical guide assured him the site was far older than any of them.
He had become caught up in the tale of Camelot – the richness of the stories astounded him, and his genius had been inspired by their passionate belief in the legend. He could hear lyrical lines running through his head. Just the words for now, something along the lines of "Strange but true, when I'm close to you, stars fill the sky."
A melody line began to take shape, and he scrambled in his pockets for some manuscript. He found his pencil and began humming, notating the pitches that were hitting him. He wrote his lyrics in the spaces between the staves. He added some words to fit the musical phrase he'd conceived. The opening line became "Strange, dear/ but true, dear/ when I'm close to you, dear/ the stars fill the sky./ So in love with you am I." ((AN: "So In Love" – lyrics and music by Cole Porter))
He wrote furiously then, words hitting him anew as melodic possibilities swirled through his mind. The highland cliffs of Scotland went by unnoticed in their beauty. The only beauty he was paying attention to was the musical genius God had given him.
Some of the other passengers stared at his strange actions. Erik couldn't see them, couldn't hear their whispers, so locked in concentration was he. A curious little boy broke away from his father and scrambled up onto the bench Erik didn't even realize he was sitting on. The boy peered into Erik's lap as the composer's pencil hovered over the page. A word, a word, what word would fit next? "In love with …" what?
He smirked. In love with the night, of course.
A sailor landed from up in the riggings and stalked over to the bench. He snapped his fingers and scolded the boy. "Oi! Off with ye lad, git!"
The boy scampered off.
The sailor sat down, crossed his arms, and stretched his legs out, crossing his feet at the ankles. He watched Erik work for a bit, waiting for him to come to a stop.
The former Opera Ghost straightened a little, scratching his forehead.
"Ye writin' another ditty, Mr. Christoph?" the sailor asked in his quiet, gravelly voice.
Erik was startled, and blinked at Riley MacDougal. "Err, no," he replied in accented English. "It will be a love song, I think."
"Bah. Love songs."
The Frenchman grinned. "I compose opera music, Riley, not sea chanteys."
"That'd be a hoot: 'Fare thee well, you Barbary Merchants' on stage."
Unable to resist, the man with a demon's face hummed a note in his angelic voice. Riley laughed and playfully rolled his eyes as the tenor sang the first verse: "I promised her rings for her fingers/ sparkling flowers for her flaxen hair./ I swore that I'd never/ set sail in foul weather/ but stay by her side at the shore."
A deckhand joined in at the chorus from the upper deck, his baritone harmonizing with Erik's operatic quality: "Fare thee well, oh you Barbary merchants./ Fare thee well to the Spanish blockade./ Fare thee well to the straits of Gibraltar/ and the treacherous seas of Cathay."
Riley sang the second verse ("I gave her my word to be married/ and took her sweet vow in return./ I swore that I'd never/ set sail in foul weather/ but stay by her side at the shore." chorus ), his lilting brogue and bass timbre making the musician's nerves thrum. As exacting as the Phantom had been about the music in his Opera House, the sailors on the Widow's Folly were very good. He'd enjoyed his time on the boat chiefly for that reason.
"I built her a cottage in Chatham./ Gave her children to sit by the fire./ I swore that I'd never/ set sail in foul weather/ but stay by her side at the shore." chorus
A musician with a talented ear, he was always listening for new melodies. The sailors sang their barroom ditties ("But our cottage is too small for a sailor/ without the blue sea and the sky./ Though I swore that I'd never/ set sail in foul weather/ I left her behind at the shore. Take me back, oh you Barbary merchants./ Let me risk the Spanish blockade./ Carry me to the straits of Gibraltar/ and the treacherous seas of Cathay.") while swabbing the decks and maintaining the lifeboats. Erik had tried to listen and learn their songs unnoticed, but his mangled face brought attention everywhere. In his favor, the sailors asked no questions. Among them, his face was a badge of honor. They all had scars, from bar fights and tavern wenches. Some even had tattoos, the symbol of a trip to the Orient.
They had welcomed the Devil's Child into their midst, teaching him drinking songs and sea chanteys. Wherever he went he was greeted with hails and good cheer. And when he had timidly shown them the knot at the heart of the Punjab lasso, they had roared with laughter at its effectiveness.
Erik had found his niche among them. Unlike most of the passengers, he'd found his sea legs quickly. He had yet to be sick, and spent nearly every day on deck. Several of the sailors spent short breaks with him throughout the day, genuinely interested in his work. They also kept the cruelly curious at bay.
He thought it strange that those he considered friends were all rough around the edges. Except for the Girys, they were all murderers, riff-raff, mercenaries, and thugs. But the sailors were honest and open about it. Erik was tired of hiding his face and his past. Perhaps that was why he felt so comfortable on the ship. With the camaraderie of the sailors, he didn't have to hide anything.
"What do you think you'll do in Ireland, Erik?" Riley asked when their song ended.
"I'm not certain. I'd like to hear their folk music, most definitely. I've been working on a story," he indicated the score he'd begun, "based on the legend of Camelot. But current Imperial sympathies in both our countries leave me with a want to editorialize on the political situation. Shakespeare's play, "Romeo and Juliet" is a prime example. And I've taken inspiration from you, too. What you've told me of the treatment of Irish and Scottish people at the hands of the British is deplorable, and deserves worldwide recognition."
Riley was stunned. He sat there blinking.
"Trouble is, I don't know how to write that," the composer finished.
The sailor was silent for a while. "Maybe ye'll find more inspiration in Ireland."
"Perhaps." He didn't doubt it.
He scratched his good temple with his forefinger and stared down at his music. He wrote the word "delirium" in the margin and played with the wording to make it fit the musical phrase he'd concocted. He smirked, thinking of how Christine's kiss had left him feeling delirious – high, elated, and reeling from the sense of joy.
He sung it softly to himself to test it, not noticing that Riley had gone back to work and the child from earlier was hovering near again. "In love with the night mysterious./ The night when you first were there./ In love with my joy delirious/ when I knew that you could care."
Yes, that would work. He kept writing, finishing the song as it was meant to be instead of worrying over how it would fit in his new opera. He'd written "Music of the Night" long ago during a drug-induced episode, and it appeared nowhere in Don Juan. He stopped for a moment, thinking.
He could shelf the Camelot project for now. After all, it was only an idea. This music existed in his mind – it was far more important. He made notes on the chorus section and repetition of verses, added some harmony lines, and set it aside.
He stared at his pencil, then brought up a fresh piece of manuscript paper. He began transcribing "Music of the Night," "Point of No Return," and grinned as he put "Phantom of the Opera" to the page. He briefly considered writing the story of the Opera Ghost, but dismissed it as being too risky. He would never be able to publish it for performance in Paris. Or, France at all, really. Only time could tell.
He put his pencil away and smoothed out the finished manuscript pages. He could still remember most of the score to Don Juan, but "Point of No Return" was the only song really salvageable from it. Clutching the music to his chest, he gazed out to sea again. He was facing west this time, and the sun was nearly set over the Atlantic. It was a molten red globe that turned the sky and waves orange.
Erik leaned his elbows on the rail and watched the color show. He'd seen sunrises and –sets before, over the rooftops of Paris, but never out in the open like this. He didn't think such an event could bring him a feeling of such peace, but, there it was.
When the sun hit the horizon, he turned and headed to his cabin. Though he had paid for first-class passage, having a room down in steerage gave him the privacy and freedom he required. He took his dinner in the Captain's cabin with the first mate, a man who shared his passions about music.
First Mate Arthur Strickland was the son of a composer, and an amateur violinist. He enjoyed Tchaikovsky symphonies, Mozart piano trios, and anything ever written by Beethoven.
Erik agreed with him on all of those, though he much preferred opera. Still, it was good to be able to hum entire sections of orchestral works for an admiring public who was knowledgeable enough to analyze basic compositional elements.
Dressed in a white shirt, charcoal gray waistcoat with matching cravat, black silk jacket, trousers, and boots, he placed his hat at a rakish angle, tilted to cover the disfigured half of his face. He left his cabin and made his way up to the premier deck. The stewards nodded to him, all business.
A crewman was exiting the Captain's cabin as Erik approached and held the door open for him. The Phantom smiled and softly said, "Merci." Mr. Strickland greeted him with a jaunty wave and a glass of brandy.
Not a little self-consciously, Erik removed his hat when he sat down. He had not worn a mask since he had left the Opera Populaire, and he still carried some fears of being ridiculed for his infection by the unblemished officers on the ship. Up till the point when he left he opera house for good, he had been wearing masks since he had escaped from the gypsy circus.
As a child, he'd been laughed at, beaten, harassed, and paraded around like the freak that he was. He'd quickly learned to not pay attention to the crowds, but it had been hard for a young boy of nine. He'd never seen one of those faces looking back at his disfigured own with anything approaching kindness.
Not until the wise Gypsy woman who made potions and herbal remedies, at least.
His early adult years had left him wary of those who showed pity at his fate – they generally turned around and used him for their own ends. So, he was finding his new philosophy a little uncomfortable. Children stared at the scars with curiosity, women looked away in pity, and men avoided him as much as they could. People just didn't know how to deal with him.
It didn't help his situation that Erik didn't know how to deal with people, either.
But the rough sailors who worked in the heights and depths of the ship he could get along with. He'd learned how to behave in their environment. And he would always be able to understand musicians. Even half-trained ones such as First Mate Strickland.
"So, Mr. Christoph," the officer began. "What new surprises are in store for us today?"
The Frenchman took a sip of wine before speaking. "I finished a song that could be usable in something, although I'm damned if I know in what yet. And I transcribed some pieces that I wrote before." He didn't extrapolate, but Strickland already knew what he meant by the statement. Most of his friends on board knew he'd had to flee Paris or face death, and also that he greatly regretted whatever it was that he'd done.
"Would you be willing to play one of them?" the Englishman asked politely.
Erik thought about it. "Music of the Night" was the only one he could perform in this audience, and he knew the accompaniment would sound well on violin. He picked up his satchel and removed the music from it. He gave Arthur his copy and poured himself a glass of water.
They both warmed up, Erik gargling and Arthur playing some finger exercises. The tenor indicated for the sailor to begin when he was ready.
Arthur lifted the bow and put it to the D string about an inch from the frog. With a slow, fluid down stroke, he played the first note.
It sang, filling the cabin with a pure sound. Erik smiled and nodded, gently conducting the violinist. He closed his eyes, listening for his cue for the first verse.
After the line "Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dream," the tenor's emotions overtook him and he sang with full power. Arthur slowed, then stopped playing, mesmerized by the beauty of the song.
"Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before. Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar." The note, as the Phantom held it, was steady and true. The sailor found himself swallowing over a lump in his throat. Then he looked in his music, located his place, and prepared to start playing again.
The friends made music together that evening, and Erik felt wondrous. He could sense the awe coming from Arthur in waves, and it fueled his half-starved need for appreciation. He'd never corresponded with ordinary musicians before. It was a rather pleasant change of pace. He would definitely have to try it more often.
After their impromptu concert they ate, Erik smiling as the First Mate lavished his music with compliments. It was with a lighter heart and a heavier belly that the composer retired to his cabin.
He first penned a note to himself, a reminder that he should check on the horses in the ship's hold in the morning. Then he plopped on the bed, happily but slowly pulling off his boots and whistling the sea chantey "Fifteen men on a Dead Man's Chest." Tomorrow was another day. Another day he could spend with his music, with the sea air, talking and laughing with his new friends.
June 1, 1871
The phantom was only vaguely aware of the commotion of unloading the Widow's Folly. He softly stroked Ayeshette's muzzle, holding César II's reigns tightly. His bags and belongings were at his feet and the horses' hooves. He kept them quiet, feeding César a sugar cube.
"Well maestro, we're ready."
Erik turned. Arthur Strickland was a few feet behind him, in full dress uniform. Erik nodded, and loaded what bags he could onto César's pack. He tied the last bag behind Ayeshette's saddle.
Gathering the reigns in one hand, he led the horses over to the large gangplank. He took hold of Arthur's outstretched hand. "First Mate, it's been a pleasurable trip."
Arthur shook his hand. "It's been a pleasure having you on board, sire." Strickland handed him a piece of paper with names and addresses. Erik smiled and promised to keep up the correspondence.
He shook hands with the captain, and carefully led the horses over the water. César II nickered, plodding forward awkwardly, with nerves. Ayeshette was more calm, following the hand of her Master on her reigns dutifully.
Once finally on dry land, he reached into one of his packs and brought out a carrot. He broke it in two, feeding one half to each of them as reward for their good behavior. He double-checked the weight on each horse, tightening sashes that needed it.
He mounted the female, wrapping César II's reigns around his forearm. Erik saluted the sailors with an upraised arm as he nudged the horses to a canter. He followed the boulevard away from the docks and into the heart of Galway.
