Chapter 4: Fishing Net

Gustave Daae did not resist as the king's guard pushed him into the waiting train, mostly because if he so much as twitched, the guards would pepper him with lead pellets. Two accompanied him into the car, jostling him when he tried to rest his aching feet. He listened carefully and heard the rest of the guard boarding the neighboring train car. Ah, little angel… It is good that you will not see your old father like this.

The sergeant had drugged him, and he'd woken up on a stretcher fast approaching the train station. Christine had been nowhere to be found. She is alive. She must be.

"He has to be taken to Paris. Your job is to protect him. Make sure the trade goes safely." Words leaked in through the cracks in the metal.

"And what if they just keep the money, sir?"

"Drop him and run. Simple."

The train began to click and groan under the strain of some heavy burden. At last, it accelerated, throwing the old man against numerous boxes and bags. The corner of a crate jostled and made a jolt of pain fire up his elbow. He looked to the guards for help. They were sitting, frustratingly complacent, on small crates, sabers sheathed. His cry of pain did nothing to faze them.

"Shut up, old man. You are cargo, nothing more, and you will behave as such."

…

Erik frowned. The great cave he lived in was cold and dark, but it was not so forbidding that six people could not bear the short trek for a rehearsal. They should be here by now. Mme. Giry knows where all the traps are, doesn't she?

Actually, the stars-to-be were busy disarming the many tripwires, trigger hairs, and projectile catapults along their way. Mme. Giry held up her hand for them all to halt. They did; no one wanted to be skewered by a falling stalactite. Marcus looked around, anxious for the hazardous journey to end.

"Are we there yet?" The madam held out a hand for Eter's knife, and when it was slapped into her palm, cut a spider-silk thin wire dangling just at eye level, squinting in the dim light of the lantern that the big Russian Artur had refused to hold. However, why he had refused to hold it was still an unanswered question. He had seemed rather afraid of it…

'Antoinette's' brittle, dry voice echoed around the hard surfaces of the cave, and revealed a vast expanse invisible to the small group. "Almost."

She didn't flinch when a rumbling in the distance sent a cloud of dust and splinters their way. If the wire had been pulled the wrong way, their next death would have been in a tomb of rock. Marcus let out a sigh of relief- and jumped about a foot in the air when Anna pinched his shoulders with a loud, ghoulish cry. "Eeyah! D-don't do that!"

Mme. Giry stopped up any reply the Irish woman may have had. "We're here. Christine, hold up the light."

Christine, who had been frightened into silence at the sight of all the (genius) snares a few minutes into the journey, lifted the small fire high above her head and gasped.

The ceiling was covered in glistening, glittering bits of stone, washed over with a rainbow of colors. A deep sapphire pool of water lay still just an inch from her feet. In the middle of the lake, an ancient column jutted up and joined with the roof. It was carved, she realized with wide eyes, into a four-story house- two rooms per floor.

"Look," Marcus said, pointing, "M. Erik's coming." And he was indeed coming, swimming towards the shore and pulling a large boat behind him. Mme. Giry looked on, quite unimpressed.

"Erik, why not simply row?" He looked past her at Christine and winked as he climbed out onto the stone floor. His white shirt was clinging to his slim, wiry frame, and his black hair had flopped over to cling to his mask. The young soprano blushed and looked at her slipper-clad feet.

"The siren will take us back," he explained rather cryptically. Then his voice turned sour and annoyed. "Now, Mme. Giry, would you care to explain why you took the dangerous route and disarmed all the traps along the way?"

"Because M. Glubokiy cannot fit through a thin mirror as you can. He is not exactly as bony as you are."

"I am not bony. I simply eat less than most people."

"Pardon my tactlessness, but the last time you ate was last Saturday at exactly five in the afternoon." She turned and marched herself back up the tunnel. Erik held out his hand to Christine, taking note of her raised eyebrows and still-pink cheeks. Perhaps she can be seduced, and- no. Her voice is far too good to be banished for an affair and pregnancy.

"After you, mademoiselle." Christine accepted his help and wondered briefly where her mask of indifference had gone. Then she stepped into the carved, varnished boat and let the issue slip from her mind.

…

"Charles, stop it!" Meg giggled as her secret lover tickled her sides, making her fall into his arms. "Do you want someone to hear us out here?" He only tossed his mousy brown hair in disregard. They were, after all, outside at the hidden back of the opera house, hidden from view by a maze of old crates and set pieces.

"Who cares? I'm in love with you and I'm not ashamed of it. And besides," he said, smiling warmly, "your mother is bound to find out eventually." He ran his fingers through her sleek, light hair, admiring the way it flashed like gold in the chilled light of a cloudy morning.

In a fit of playfulness, Meg dashed away from him and around the corner, laughing again as she heard him follow, and then…silence.

"Charles?" The click of a hammer on a pistol silenced her. Cold steel pressed over so gently into her temple; she froze, terrified and subconsciously hoping this attacker would think her dead. A voice hissed in her ear as Charles was dragged out from behind a group of old tables and sheets. He was struggling against two men in black military uniforms.

"Come with us, and he won't get hurt. And if he opens his mouth after this…" Meg whimpered weakly as a second gun was shoved up under the young man's chin. If it was shot, his brains would be as good as detonated. Charles jolted one arm out of the hold of the thugs and elbowed one hard in the stomach.

"Don't, Meg! Just let me go and get out of here!" The winded soldier's companion locked Charles' arm behind his back and forced him to his knees.

"The boss just said for us to take a captive. Let's just get him." Meg began to tremble. The gun was still pointed at her lover's head, and she couldn't move without being shot herself. The hissing voice behind her drew unbearably close. It radiated cold and hate.

"Never mind, then. We'll take them both."

…

Erik had gone over the basic parts for Il Guarany, and cast each of his students in their proper roles. Perhaps they could tell that Christine was the best- they had immediately recommended she sing the lead.

"You do realize, then, that you are giving someone you barely know the best part in the show?" Marcus, who'd given the most reasons why Christine should be the lead, answered for his companions.

"We know. It's not as if anyone else could sing that part anyway." Erik eyed the lot for a moment, and then looked at the new soprano. Her eyes were on the ground again, and her hair fell around her shoulders in such a way that she looked smaller and younger than she already was. As good as she is she is not quite up to playing the lead…yet.

"Well, then, the rest of you can go for now. I have a concerto to complete."

All five of the trainees headed for his custom-made front door. "Except you, Christine; you have more to do if you are to play the lead."

"But it's time for lunch, and-"

As amusing as he is up above, he is incredibly impatient down here…

"Then you'll spend lunch with me. I will not have my lead develop a third-rate voice wasting her time on meaningless social activities." He sat down at an upright piano and reorganized the score so that Christine's part was in the front.

"I am going to eat first." Erik looked up again and saw that she was heading down the steep staircase towards the kitchen. "Just because you will not eat does not mean that I will be like you and work on an empty stomach." Is she arguing with me? Is she perhaps complimenting my work habits? Well, maybe her basic needs come first- she is not half-dead and ugly. She is alive and… Don't let her get to your head, Erik. You are her teacher, and you have a theatre to run. You have no time to waste on daydreams.

"There isn't much in the pantry, Christine. The last time I raided the kitchens was about a month ago." He followed her down and was greeted with the sight of the impudent, stubborn little girl filling a pot with water and lighting the stove. "Soup?" She confirmed his suspicions as she pulled an old, dry bone from the cupboards and dropped it into the water.

"Soup. By the way, what kind of bone was that?"

"It was a lamb femur, brought to me by a dear, kind old friend," he answered, painting a thick layer of sarcasm over the words. She raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh as she chopped carrots (preserved by the icy temperature of Erik's stone house) into the warming broth. Damn! How in the world did she break down his guard so easily?!

"And who, pray tell, was that 'dear, kind old friend'?" The man's eyes fell, suddenly, and he looked away. The playful tone he usually used with her drained from his voice.

"A friend who will not be back in a long while."

…

"The next time you take a captive, I expect you to find one at least decently close to the target, Castelot," the hard voice pacing in the shadows admonished. Though the rebuke was gentle, the baron shivered in his kneeling position. His pudgy hands were shaking as he clenched them against his legs. "Not some frightened kitten of a ballerina or a worthless, orphaned stage boy."

The voice was hard and cold like steel, sculpted to cut into minds and infuse them with fear. "I- I will do better next time, your Highness."

"No, on second thought, you will not do better because there will not be a next time." Philippe, duc d'Orleans and son of Louis Philippe, Comte de Paris, stepped out from behind an expensive ebony desk and straightened the gun holster under his suit jacket. "You are dismissed, Baron."

The fat nobleman didn't need a second excuse- he hurried out of the mock office and down into the munitions warehouse towards his carriage. That man is not a man. He is not human! Irrationally afraid for his life, Castelot stumbled into his seat and only dared look back once he was safely five blocks away.

Duke Philippe smiled to himself. One step at a time, Philippe. First the city, then France, and then…a munitions monopoly over all Europe. It only takes twisting of the right arms. And the first step to the city is the genius under the theatre. Yes, I think I will pay a visit to the theatre very soon.

…

Marcus pulled in his net, hoping, praying for just the one fish to take home and eat that night. There were no wet flops or cries of delight from his younger brother. At last, he gazed at the pastel sunset and pinned the net to the side of his sailboat to sort through the flotsam he'd snared and see if any of it was edible. A few shrimp, bits of seaweed, detritus from the mainland… He smiled his genteel smile and stepped on the head of a wriggling eel. This wormy creature would have to do for the night.

Anatoly Ischyros, the five-year-old brother he guarded, crouched over his own catch for the day: three minnows and a sea snail, guarding them as if they were gold. "Marcus, did the big boats take all the fish away again?"

"Yes, they did." He turned his back and picked up the eel, gutting and cleaning it with an old fish knife. The innards would have to be saved for bait or stew; the orphaned brothers could afford to waste nothing.

"No, go away, seagulls!" Marcus turned around again to see his brother at the prow, batting at several large, white birds. His feet were dangerously close to the slightly rotten edge of the boat.

"Anatoly, get back!" He lunged for the little boy, scattering the fowl. Then the younger brother tripped. Marcus dived into the tepid water, swimming after his sinking relative. If it had been lighter, he could have seen him with more clarity in the saline fluid. If the young fisherman had been a stronger swimmer, he could have snagged the child's limbs and borne him back to the surface.

But it was darkening out, and the sea began to roughen under the lash of a blustering wind. And he was not a strong swimmer- the pressure grew too great, and he was forced to rise again for oxygen. If another boat had been out, its captain would have seen the young man climbing back into his boat, tears mingling with the sea.

There was not another boat out, however. If you cry, and are not heard above the weeping of a storm, are you still crying?