5.3.18 edited
Chapter 4
The Promise of Love
I had become a master of escaping the cellar by the time I was six or seven years of age. Defiant, spirited still despite the world of cold and darkness in which I lived, I took great joy in finding an escape and running wild in the night. Barefoot, often half-naked, I carefully lifted the barred window and slithered into the darkness, my heart thumping.
The consequences had never outweighed the promise of adventure. Without a sound of protest I would accept my punishment if I were discovered, never fighting the hand or belt. Nothing my father said or did mattered any more, as I knew in my heart one day he would kill me. If I wished to survive, I would leave their home and never look back-and yet I feared the unknown more than his relentless and heavy hand. Before dawn I always returned to the cellar, sometimes slipping unnoticed through the window, but more often than not my father waited silently on the dirt steps, belt in hand.
I was a terrible child, always running away.
It was summer when I began traveling farther throughout the nameless seaside village. The streets smelled of fish and there was always the sound of the sea nearby, the cry of gulls and the creaking of boats in the harbor. Men from different countries laughed and drank in the taverns throughout the summer and late into the fall. When the weather turned cold the streets became quiet and lonely, the music once blaring through the streets was then muffled behind closed doors. From a distance I watched the strangers interact late into the night. Grand illusions of stowing away on board and becoming a man of the sea filled my mind. I would be a pirate, I mused, I would sail alone and see each corner of the world. Instead of a damp cellar, I would return to my quarters below deck and surround myself with treasure. Sirens would call to me, but I would outsmart them.
As a child, anything after sundown seemed incredibly late and somewhat forbidden. It couldn't have been past ten in the evening when I padded down alleys, frightening the cats and stray dogs that had made a meal of garbage. If I was careful I could secretly observe women and men leaving taverns and cafes. The farther I walked from my home the cleaner the people appeared. The women wore expensive clothing, dresses that made them appear as living dolls. The men in their fine evening wear carried their canes and held their ladies on their arms. Their every move fascinated me while still brutally reminding me I was not worth the dirt beneath their shoes.
Unbeknownst to them, however, I was a part of their secret world. It delighted me to no end that I could walk in darkness and imitate them and they would never know. I studied the way men stood beside one another, how they held their forks and wine glasses as they took meals together. I threw back my head and silently imitated the way they laughed at jokes I did not understand. My harmless deception allowed me a sense of power that didn't exist in my bruised, beaten body. I was there, a ghost in the darkness pretending to be a man.
There had been music coming from a tavern one night I escaped from the cellar on a particularly muggy evening. It was perhaps late July or early August, the time of year when the cellar air was stagnant and I sat motionless to keep from sweating profusely. My parents had been arguing, which was so common it felt unusual to my ears when there was silence. While they insulted and assaulted one another, I wriggled through the opening in the cellar window and followed the sound of musicians playing outside. I needed to escape the violence between them, the endless cycle of hatred they showed towards each other before my father took out his anger on me.
Music made me feel as nothing else could, stirred life into me that was always on the brink of being snuffed out. The notes I heard conjured visions in my mind of swans as they glided along a lake; peaceful, serene images that existed only in my thoughts. Each song pulled me out of my own hell and delivered me into a world made solely of sound.
I was so enamored by the string quartet that I nearly walked into the establishment and took a seat with the crowd. Instead, fearing their civilized world, I retreated like an animal and crouched in the nearest alley out of sight. The sound of my parents in the midst of a heated argument was long out of earshot, their home at the outskirts of the village no longer in my line of vision. Several times I glanced back, afraid my father had seen me escape, but he had been too consumed with whiskey to notice. Eventually my mother would be consumed by the contents of a small green glass bottle always at her side, and she would sit for hours merely staring at the wall.
With my legs tucked up to my chest, I rested my chin on knees and closed my eyes as I listened to the violinist play a solo while a woman sang. My heart rate slowed, my body relaxed, and my mind wandered as she sang of a lover lost to the sea. Gone since spring, to sleep beneath the waves, tangled in the arms of a jealous siren. My love, my only love, never to be seen again. The tears on my cheeks, the salt of the sea. Does he know my love for him? I sing into the ocean deep, where the siren has decided to keep. Oh please bring my beloved back to me.
My throat tightened and my eyes pricked with tears as the haunting sound of the violin and the woman singing slowly faded with the end of the song. I wanted to recreate what I heard, to carry this forever in my hands as well as my mind. I feared losing this sensation, of never finding it within myself…this beauty, such beauty in the melody and yet overwhelming sadness in the lyrics. She sang of love and loss. I craved the feeling of love, to be wanted and missed as the man in the song.
I shuddered at the thought of dying alone in the cellar, of the day I knew that lingered on the horizon when my father struck me too many times or too hard and ended my life. There had been several times when I had lost consciousness or faded numbly away beneath his heavy hand, oblivious to the pain until my mind righted itself and the aftermath of a beating screamed through me.
Eyes pressed shut, I pushed the overwhelming sensation of panic and listened as the crowd clapped before the start of the next tune. I doubted a single person seated outside of the tavern realized the true magnificence of the performance, and I felt a spike of jealousy that these ignorant fools were allowed to sit out in the open while I hid like a rat. My hands balled into fists, nostrils flared. As I began to curse them, I felt a violent tug on my arm that left me gasping for my next breath.
At once I was drawn to my feet where I stumbled, eyes wide and heart hammering. More than my father's heavy hand, I feared being discovered by a stranger.
"No, please," I begged, attempting to shield my face with my hand as the stranger's grasp tightened along my upper arm. I hadn't begged in a very long time and my outburst shamed me.
"Easy, easy," a male voice rasped in my ear. His breath smelled strange, like copper. "You are alive, then. You were sitting quite still, my child. I did not intend to startle you so. Are you well?"
The hand that grasped my arm loosened, and I realized he had not grabbed hold of me out of malice but to steady me once I bolted to my feet. At any moment I could have pulled free and run away, but I decided not to move. My father hit harder when I flinched; I decided it was best to remain stock still in the presence of this stranger as to not stoke his anger.
"Are you well?" he asked again. His voice was strangely deep and raspy yet quite calming. Something about the way he spoke was familiar and I wondered if I had watched him converse with others in the cafe or outside of taverns.
At last I nodded and risked a glance in his direction, but found it was too dark to see the man's features clearly or for him to see mine. Still, I did not dare lower my hand from my face. In all truth I was not well. My ribs hurt when I inhaled deeply, my left hand so swollen and bruised I could not make a fist without pain. I offered an answer I had heard a hundred times before between friends. It came automatic, and for that I was grateful as I felt somewhat normal.
"I am fine," I said, my breaths ragged with fear.
"Listening to the music?" he asked as he released me at last.
"Yes," I answered. I took a step back and glanced around to see if there were others waiting in the shadows, but we were quite alone.
"You do not wish to sit closer?"
I shook my head. Conversation did not come easy to me. My mother did not speak to me at all and my father merely asked questions I could never answer correctly, which led to him knocking me to the ground more often than not.
The entity chuckled. "Me either," he said. "But tell me, do you dabble in music, my son?"
At first I thought he mocked me and I stiffened, preparing to punch him in the belly and flee. Something stopped me. Curiosity, I suppose, or the desire to speak with someone, anyone at all. I had never struck anyone before, not even my father in self-defense, and I was fairly certain I could not strike this unseen man before me, at least not without reason. Whenever I escaped my parents' home, I did not go in search of trouble. Mostly I desired to wander free and be left alone.
I shook my head. "I would like to play, very much," I answered.
"Why is that?"
"I would like to recreate what I hear. I...I would be a master," I answered.
He grunted. "What would make you a master?"
"I do not hear the melody they play," I answered without thinking over the question. "I feel it. The notes form pictures in my mind like a story come to life only I can see." As I said the words aloud I felt foolish and I shrugged. "I am not mad," I mumbled.
"No, no, not mad at all. Quite remarkable, in fact, and a rare gift," he replied. He touched my arm again, pressed his fingers against my flesh and I suppressed a shiver. He only had a thumb and a forefinger, or possibly his middle finger. The rest were little more than nubs. "Goodnight, child. Perhaps we will meet again one night."
The brief encounter left me speechless. This nameless, faceless shadow had not threatened to harm me and had made no attempt at molesting me in any way. His words were kind, his voice soft and benign. No one had ever spoken to me in such a manner, and I found myself staring at his silhouette in utter disbelief. The most gentle person I had ever met in my life was a stranger in a dark alley. The most cruel were the people who lived above the cellar where I was kept.
"Do you play?" I questioned before he disappeared. Suddenly I feared being alone again, afraid it would be years before I experienced such kindness again. One more moment I told myself, one more question and then I would walk away.
"Not well," he answered. There was melancholy in his words. He turned and regarded me over his shoulder. I wondered what he saw, other than a black mass. I saw nothing of him but the shape of his thin frame and mussed hair.
"How did you learn?" I asked, desperate for another moment of his time. Already I had used up my one question, but I felt greedy.
"Taught myself."
His words intrigued me. I could teach myself. I was sure of it.
"I need an instrument," I said more to myself than to this stranger.
The stranger stood with his hands on his hips and nodded. "That always helps an aspiring musician."
The music inside the tavern came to an end and the crowd applauded before the next song began. For a long moment we stood in silence, both regarding one another in the darkness. As much as I desired to play an instrument, I knew for certain my parents would not give me one no matter how I begged. They rarely supplied food two days in a row and my clothes went months without washing or repair. My heart felt heavy as I thought of how music seemed more essential to my existence than food.
"My violin finds little use these days," he said. "I believe it would be much happier in willing hands. Would you like it?"
"I have no money," I said quietly.
"Money," he replied, "is unnecessary."
In hindsight, I should have been wary of his words, as there were forms of payment a mere boy could give a man that were worse than losing coins. But I was naive, and fortunately this fellow had nothing lecherous on his mind.
"You would give it to me?"
"I'll leave it here for you tomorrow," he said. "As long as your parents do not mind you out at such a late hour."
I felt my cheeks flush. My parents did not care one way or another for me, however, I feared what my father would do if he found me with a violin. I would have to hide it from him, I knew, perhaps in the woods behind my parents home.
"Why would you give me your violin?" I blurted out.
"I haven't yet decided."
He walked away and I didn't stop him. I was certain he would not return, or if he did it would not be with a violin. I returned home, my heart filled with sorrow. I was a fool for believing his words, for accepting his promise. My own parents did not care for me and certainly no stranger in the night would offer me a gift.
That night I didn't care if my father stood waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I didn't flinch when he retrieved his belt, grabbed me by the hair, and forced me to bend over so that he could bloody me. I remained hopeful that the following night when I escaped—I would be damned if bruises and welts broke me—that there would be a violin in an alley. It was the only thought that carried me through the night.
Fortunately, my father was too drunk and too exhausted from fighting with his wife to thoroughly punish me. He forgot about the window and stumbled upstairs where he slammed a door and most likely passed out. Crumpled at the bottom of the cellar stairs, I fell asleep and dreamed of music, of glorious sounds I could create. The promise of love and adoration from a crowd and a violin in my hand.
The following night I left again, sucking in a breath as my bruised, tender flesh wriggled out the window. I practically flew to the alley near the tavern, where the only sound that night was raucous laughter. There I waited, my eyes wide open, my body tense. It could have been mere minutes or the better part of an hour to wait and it all felt the same to my impatient mind.
I flinched when the stranger returned and took my arm as he came up from behind me. He walked as silent as a ghost.
"You've returned," he said, sounding surprised.
"I have."
"Are you a street urchin?" he questioned.
"No."
"Do you travel with the fair?"
"No."
"Then where do you come from?"
I shrugged, too ashamed to answer I escaped from a cellar as often as I could to evade being beaten by my father for a few hours, that I searched for clean water and scraps of discarded food as the only meals my father brought were spoiled and covered in flies. To my parents I was a dead thing, and the gravestone behind their house bearing my name was proof.
He chuckled softly. "Very well. You shall have many young women at your door when they hear you playing."
I didn't answer as I couldn't fathom the significance of his comment to my life. I waited as patiently as I could for the promised violin. Unexpectedly he grabbed my arm again and I turned my face away. I sucked in a breath as his fingers pressed into a bruise left the previous night by my father.
"Please do not touch me, for your own sake," I said under my breath. I could not suppress the shiver that rattled up my spine, nor the trembling in my voice.
"For my own sake?" he questioned
I nodded, but did not elaborate.
"I won't hurt you, boy, if that is what you fear. My two surviving sons have grown up and left me. Their mother's dead, gone to a better man than I am, bless her soul." He paused, his claw-like hand once again digging into my arm. "I may seem a frightful creature, but you will see I am not a monster."
I nodded but did not turn toward him. His words remained with me for a lifetime.
"What happened to your hand?" I asked, settling in his presence. It was an uncouth question, but he did not seem offended by words.
"I was once a fisherman," he said. "But the nets and hooks…? I caught myself and the fish went free. May I ask you where the bruise came from?"
I shivered again, a sensation I felt rise up from my core. Without a word I shook my head.
"It is fresh," he commented.
I nodded.
"Someone did this on purpose?"
I started to nod but stopped myself and froze, attempting to harness my harsh breathing and heaving chest. One of many fresh bruises, I wanted to tell him. Weekly there were more and I often could not differentiate from the old and new as they blended together, a canvas across my thin frame of deep purples and blues with lighter greens and sickly yellow.
Something hard and blunt nudged me in the side and I held my breath, my heart beating so rapidly I thought I would pass out. My thoughts were on the previous night when I returned to the cellar, of how I smelled the putrid stench of alcohol on my father's breath before I saw him in the shadows. Leaving again was a mistake on my part, but I would pay the price later. For now I was free.
"Here. Take it."
I did. I found the handle and took the violin case. After a moment, the man sighed and offered a nod.
"I live above the butcher's shop. Follow the smell of blood and you're sure to find me," he said. "I'll teach you to play if you'll spare the time."
Slowly I stepped back. "I'm not allowed out," I said.
"And yet here you are."
I hung my head in shame. I was a terrible child, always running away.
"Are you Kimmer's son?" he questioned.
I had no idea who Kimmer was, but I'd heard the name before. I didn't know my parents' names. The words they had for one another were ones I didn't wish to speak.
Still, I nodded. Better to be named someone's son than no one at all.
The man sighed again. "Your father, he won't understand music."
I nodded again, unsure of whether or not he could see me-and uncertain of whether he truly knew my father.
"Best not play it in front of him."
"I won't," I promised. Desperately I tried to do nothing in front of my father aside from breathing.
"You won't come to the butcher's shop for lessons, will you?" he asked, his voice hinged in sadness.
"No," I answered truthfully. Breath held, I waited for him to ask me why I would not come to him or demand I give back the violin since I was clearly ungrateful and unwilling to learn. My shoulders bunched, my free hand in a fist as I waited for him to shove me to the ground for my insolence.
Instead, the Shadow did something unexpected. He did nothing at all.
"Goodnight to you, then," he said, squeezing my shoulder tightly. He ran his thumb gently back and forth along my bare flesh before he released me, seemingly mindful of my bruises. "Tell me your name, child, so that one day I may say that I knew you."
I don't know why I answered him. I should have run away and never looked back, but I wanted him to know me, as I feared I would die and no one would ever know I existed. Strange to be a child and hold such fears. My father rarely used my given name as he preferred much more humiliating words.
"Erik."
"Play in the graveyard," he suggested. "Raise the spirits one night. Ghosts," he mused, "appreciate a well-played tune. Should our paths cross again, I have something more for you, my child."