Mirkwood Manor
by
Lacadiva
See disclaimer in Chapter 1.
Chapter 2
Only one word could describe Charlita's first week on the job. Bliss. No ringing phones. No boss breathing down her neck, demanding her time. No interruptions whatsoever. Just her in a room filled with history and mystery.
The first day she merely placed a chair in the middle of the room and sat there, looking about, taking it all in. She sat that way for over an hour. Next, she pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and began gently lifting the pages and carefully placing them about the room in some sort of order. All pages that appeared to be maps – and there were quite a lot of them! – went to one corner of the room. All that appeared to be letters to another corner. And all that appeared to be addendums to huge volumes of history books, consumed yet another corner.
The maps fascinated her most. She could not yet read the fading script, nor had she figured out what country was described in those ancient hills and waterways and shires. But she had much in the way of resources, and knew that with time, and a little help from colleagues and professors, she would find a way to decipher them.
As for her employer, she rarely knew he was around. She would arrive every morning at 8:45 and leave by 5:30 pm. The first day, he opened the door for her, and promptly disappeared. The next day, upon her arrival, she'd found the door unlocked, and a large key sitting on a table in the foyer. She would have to have a long talk with Mr. Greenleaf about home security.
One afternoon, while taking a break, she wandered into the kitchen. She couldn't figure out what was strange about the room, until hunger had inspired her to seek out the refrigerator. There was no refrigerator. She assumed his old one was on the fritz, or perhaps he'd bought another that would be delivered later. But by week's end, no delivery persons had shown up, and by week two, there was still no refrigerator. She'd have to ask him about that, too.
It was also strange how very quiet Mr. Greenleaf was. Sometimes she'd turn around and find him in the room, hovering nearby. She hadn't heard a footstep or creaking of wood floors. She knew they creaked – every time she took a step the wood groaned and cried under her slight weight. How had he – obviously taller and heavier that she - managed to be so quiet? She wasn't quite sure how to ask him about that, but in her head, she regarded him as the "stealthy bugger."
Another thing she noticed. In the light of day, Greenleaf tended to look...well, younger. Healthier. When there was sunlight, and he'd make one of his ultra-quiet, unannounced and very brief appearances, she would look him in the face and see that, despite the thick white hair, he didn't appear to be very old at all. But when she'd see him at night, sitting in his library as she'd pass by, on her way out the door, she'd noticed how very old he moved. It wasn't physical, in his bones, but emotional, and though not etched in his face with lines and wrinkles, it was there in the sadness of his expression. It was as if he were in mourning, suffering from the sudden loss of those who meant everything to him. Sometimes it hurt her heart to look at him.
Charlita did not wish to interfere in his life by asking or trying to make him feel better. A man should be able to live anyway he pleased. But it seemed such a waste to have someone like Mr. Greenleaf spend his life sitting in an old library remembering sad times when he could be enjoying his life.
Maybe someday she'd have a talk to him about this, too.
* * *
The evening was cold, and the wind had picked up considerably. Winter was fast approaching, and Legolas knew the first snow of the season was not far away. He made a fire, and sat before it, on the floor, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs. He closed his eyes and remembered.
Suddenly he was sitting in sweet high grass at twilight. A cool lake bubbled nearby. A campfire burned several steps away. A fragrant meal warmed on a spit above the embers. And the promise – and threat – of action and adventure in the form of Orc hordes lay just beyond a mountainous ridge.
He could hear Aragorn telling some old tale he'd told a million times before by the fire, but Legolas could never hear his stories enough.
He could hear Gimli bragging about how bravely and flamboyantly he'd slaughtered a dozen unsuspecting Uruk-hai, tales of how his ax had served him well.
Night would descend, and then Aragorn would begin to hum a song, just under his breath. Something inspired by love, or a lament for a fallen friend. And Legolas would begin to sing, his voice both haunting and heartening. All this by a warm fire shared between friends and allies, brothers in arms.
Legolas snapped out of his memory, and found his eyes were wet with tears, his heart heavy with remembrance. He'd seen well over ten thousand years - why were these the only times his mind wandered back to over and over again? He'd seen the world change, reinventing and redefining itself so many times. He'd seen face of war change: from swords and arrows to flintlocks, to cannons, to bazookas and grenades, to heat seeking missiles and computer technology that assured mutual destruction. He'd seen the advancement of science: from flat earth theory to solar power to space technology. He'd seen the world go from traditional values to modern ideas and slam back to traditionalism again. He'd seen dictators and madmen come to power and die to be replaced by thousands of others over his long life. Yet no time like his time in Middle Earth stirred his heart and memory so. There were not many things in this strange world, save a warm hearth, that reminded him of times long since past.
Ten thousand years ago.
How had he lived so long, outside of the boundaries of the undying lands? Why did he remain?
He pulled his hair down over his ears, a thing that had now become an unconscious habit. Best not to be noticed by the humans. He grew tired of explaining his elvish features as an unfortunate birth defect just to keep the humans from becoming overly curious or acting on their ignorance and fear. It was hard enough to keep up appearances of being of a certain age before it was time to move on again.
There was but one thing he could do to relieve the heaviness in his soul. He began to sing. It was a song of loss and bravery with mournful minor notes that instantly brought him back to the brink of tears. This was the song that told the tale of the King of Gondor, Aragorn, his battle to save Middle Earth, and his love for the beautiful Elf Arwen, who had given up eternity for him, and become his wife.
* * *
She pulled off her wire rimmed glasses and her cotton gloves, yawned and stretched. She was exhausted and yet exhilarated all at once. Charlita had combed through nearly a quarter of the Stealthy Bugger's collection, far more than she had anticipated by this time. Quite an accomplishment. She had not yet found any reference books to help break the code of the language in which all these documents appeared, but she had found some symbols that looked oddly familiar, which would hopefully lead her down the proper code-breaking path eventually.
She checked her watch and was nearly shocked – it was well past nine o'clock. Darkness had descended hours ago, and she'd probably missed the last bus. She'd have to cab it tonight.
She reached for her cell phone (Mr. Greenleaf did not have a phone in the house. She'd have to talk to him about that, she mused) to call her son. He'd be staying with his best friend all week to allow her a chance to catch up on her thesis. She hated it when Tristan was away, and could not bring herself to go home. She'd planned to put in a few extra hours, but had not realized how quickly time had gotten away from her.
"Hey, Tristan."
"Mom, I told you, call me T.K."
"Alright, T.K. How's everything?"
"Cool. We had pizza and we're playing video games."
"Did you do your homework?"
"Yes," he said, impatiently.
"Don't be up all night, okay?"
"Mom, it's Friday!"
"I know, but –"
"I gotta go."
"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow. Love you."
"Yeah. Bye."
"Bye Tri...T.K."
How had he grown up so quickly? One minute she was bouncing him on her knee, reveling in his crooked smile and garbled first words, impressed by his deep stare from dark intelligent eyes and how everything was mommy. If she fed him, he had to feed her, insisting upon pushing a Cheerio between her lips and giggle madly when she made a show of eating it. If she tickled him, he had to tickle her, wiggling his strong and tiny fingers under her chin until she laughed raucously. If she was sad, he'd sit quietly in her arms and let her be. Now at nearly ten years old, Tristan, a.k.a. T.K. didn't seem to have much use for mommy anymore. In many ways she applauded his independence – he would be fine if some tragedy caused her to be prematurely taken away from him. In other ways, it broke her heart – where had her baby gone? She prayed that his desire to be separate from her would be temporary, and that someday he would understand how wide and deep her love ran for her only child, and that he would appreciate it and return it twofold.
She quickly dialed her favorite taxicab company and ordered her ride. The kindly dispatch person apologized that it would be more than thirty minutes before her cab arrived, reminding her how busy Friday nights could be. She considered trying to get a bit more work done while she waited, but exhaustion had begun to overwhelm her. Her neck and shoulder muscles ached and burned from bad posture, and her legs were slightly stiff from sitting too long. It was all she could do to stand and collect her few belongings.
She turned off the lights, locked the room, then walked as quietly down the hall as she could. She cursed the squeaking wood floors that announced her every step, and hoped that she was not disturbing the Stealthy Bugger.
She was not aware of his nightly routine, as she was usually gone long before this hour. She was not sure if he was an early to bed, early to rise kind of man, or if he was a night owl, hanging out in his library reading mysteries or technical magazines. She wondered if his tastes ever ran to the more male-oriented magazines, but for some reason she could not see him indulging in that kind of thing. It seemed wrong somehow. She imagined he would read The Art of War, or perhaps Russian literature. Maybe Dickens or Victor Hugo, or Chaucer.
And then she heard it. It was a sound that both warmed her heart and chilled her soul. His voice was like nothing she had ever heard, not in her entire life. The language was strange and beautiful. She stopped and listened, letting the complicated but soothing melody take wing in her imagination. She stepped closer, wanting desperately to hear more, and more clearly. Another step and she was right at the library door. She peered in and saw Mr. Greenleaf. He was sitting on the floor, lost in his song, eyes closed, head slightly raised, making those incredible sounds.
And suddenly, to her chagrin, he was finished. She stood there, trembling, her own eyes squeezed shut and brimming with tears, a hand on her chest, wondering what had just come over her. When she opened her eyes, she found Mr. Greenleaf standing before her.
She nearly fell back, startled, embarrassed, caught. She could barely read her employer's expressions. She was sure there was anger, but there was something else, something she could not fathom or discern.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice quivering. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I was just leaving and I heard you...singing."
Mr. Greenleaf said nothing, only stared at her.
"I've never heard such .... I'm sorry."
"You leave at five thirty."
"I wanted to work a little later tonight. My son is away. I don't like being home when he's away. So I stayed. I'm sorry. You don't have to pay me the overtime."
"Money is not my concern. My privacy is."
"I understand."
"Do you?"
She'd never heard such sternness in his voice before. She wanted very much to stand up for herself, to tell him he cannot talk to her that way. But she could not find the words.
"I do," she said finally. "It won't happen again. My cab should be here soon. I'll wait outside."
"Nonsense," he said as she reached for the door, "the evening is quite cool. Stay inside. Your driver will alert you upon his arrival."
"Okay, you're sending me mixed messages here. You're telling me I shouldn't be here and now you want me to stay till the cab comes. I'm confused."
"Better you be confused than cold. Come into the library. There's a fire."
* * *
Ten minutes into her wait, and there she sat in a deep red leather chair. Mr. Greenleaf stood by the fire. She watched the light dance in his eyes.
"What were you singing?" she finally asked, not really expecting much of an answer.
"A song I learned many years ago."
"What language was it?"
"A dead one."
She wanted to let it lie, but her curiosity was too much to bear.
"Whatever you were singing, it gave me chills."
"I'm sorry."
"No! It's a good thing. Definitely a good thing. You should record it." She instantly felt ridiculous. Despite the long white hair, he was hardly the rock star type.
"Record it?"
"Yeah, you know, put in on CD. I'm sorry, it's a ridiculous idea."
"CD. Yes. I'm mildly familiar with it. Compact disk. Digitized recorded music. Would you purchase it?"
"Yes."
"And listen to it?"
"I'd wear it out."
"Why?"
"Because it's beautiful. It stirred my heart. It's the kind of thing you want to hear again and again."
He smiled. "You'd be the only one."
"You don't know that. Once it got a bit of airplay...."
"Airplay?"
"The radio. You know."
"I'm afraid I don't have one. I did, many years ago, but I didn't like much of what was coming out of it."
Charlita nodded. "Yeah, music isn't what it used to be. I'm into old school."
"Old school?"
"You know, Motown. Seventies rock."
"Unfamiliar to me."
"Oh, come on. You've heard the Supremes, the Temptations. Smokey Robinson?"
"Are they Seventies rock?"
"No," she cried. "Where the heck have you been?"
"If you are considered an aficionado of 'old school', I'm afraid my 'school' is far older than yours."
"What...Fifties? Fourties? Benny Goodman? Older than that?"
"Keep going."
"A fifteenth century madrigal?"
"Closer."
She tilted her head so that she could see better the smile that was playing at his lips.
"I'm afraid I don't understand much of modern music," Mr. Greenleaf confessed. "It's all about falling in love...or rather lust...and then falling quite quickly out of it. Love songs are of great importance to every culture, but they've become quite superficial and not particularly romantic these days. I've heard songs long, long ago that are so deeply stirring that you cannot bear to move a full minute after the song has ended. Songs that so deeply penetrate your heart and soul that it becomes a part of you. Songs that compel you to dare climb a mountain, fight a fear, or to take into your arms the one you love and declare you devotion no matter what consequence is borne of it. Songs that let you know that when you cry, you do not cry alone."
His voice trailed off, lost in some memory Charlita wished she had privy to. What a memory it must have been.
He caught himself and turned away from the mesmerizing fire and gave her a weak smile. "I get carried away," he said in apology.
"Feel free to go farther."
"You know, there was one modern tune that remained with me for a brief spell. I did not much like the music, but the words were quite compelling."
"Do you remember how it went?" Charlita asked.
"Some of it," he confessed, and ran a hand through his hair, trying to conjure up the words. "I believe I'm paraphrasing, but it went something like this. 'Do not push me, because I stand upon to the edge. I am trying not to lose my head."
Charlita's eyes narrowed as she pried the lyric from her memory. When finally she remembered, she laughed so hard she nearly fell from her chair.
Greenleaf looked a touch embarrassed.
"Oh, my gosh," she said, reclaiming her wits, calming the raucous laughter that had claimed her. "Oh my GOSH, that's a rap song."
"Rap? Yes. Perhaps."
"I believe the rest is...It's like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder how I keep from going under."
"That's the song!"
"You do not look like the rapper type."
"Perhaps not. But you have to admit, the sentiment displayed in that particular rhyme is quite indicative of the times. One needn't be a "rapper" to appreciate it. And I'd appreciate it if you'd forget about my sorrowful attempt to "rap."
Before she could answer, she heard a horn blaring outside.
"That's my cab."
"Ah," he said quickly and came to her side, a gentleman waiting to escort her to the door. "I bid you good night, Miss Huffington."
"I enjoyed chatting with you, Mr. Greenleaf."
"So did I," he said. His surprise at this was not completely masked.
Charlita smiled. "Have a good weekend."
"Weekend? Oh, yes, it is the weekend already, isn't it? Then I shall see you Monday."
He waited at the door until the taxi pulled off. He stepped back inside, closed the door, and nearly shuddered at the sudden chill. A heaviness descended upon him, weighing him down, one that was usually omnipresent but strangely forgotten for the short time while in the presence of his employee. He knew what it was immediately and fought not let his heart be overcome by it.
Loneliness.
End Chapter two. Light and fluffy now, but it gets harsher later. Please respond and I'll keep going.
See disclaimer in Chapter 1.
Chapter 2
Only one word could describe Charlita's first week on the job. Bliss. No ringing phones. No boss breathing down her neck, demanding her time. No interruptions whatsoever. Just her in a room filled with history and mystery.
The first day she merely placed a chair in the middle of the room and sat there, looking about, taking it all in. She sat that way for over an hour. Next, she pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and began gently lifting the pages and carefully placing them about the room in some sort of order. All pages that appeared to be maps – and there were quite a lot of them! – went to one corner of the room. All that appeared to be letters to another corner. And all that appeared to be addendums to huge volumes of history books, consumed yet another corner.
The maps fascinated her most. She could not yet read the fading script, nor had she figured out what country was described in those ancient hills and waterways and shires. But she had much in the way of resources, and knew that with time, and a little help from colleagues and professors, she would find a way to decipher them.
As for her employer, she rarely knew he was around. She would arrive every morning at 8:45 and leave by 5:30 pm. The first day, he opened the door for her, and promptly disappeared. The next day, upon her arrival, she'd found the door unlocked, and a large key sitting on a table in the foyer. She would have to have a long talk with Mr. Greenleaf about home security.
One afternoon, while taking a break, she wandered into the kitchen. She couldn't figure out what was strange about the room, until hunger had inspired her to seek out the refrigerator. There was no refrigerator. She assumed his old one was on the fritz, or perhaps he'd bought another that would be delivered later. But by week's end, no delivery persons had shown up, and by week two, there was still no refrigerator. She'd have to ask him about that, too.
It was also strange how very quiet Mr. Greenleaf was. Sometimes she'd turn around and find him in the room, hovering nearby. She hadn't heard a footstep or creaking of wood floors. She knew they creaked – every time she took a step the wood groaned and cried under her slight weight. How had he – obviously taller and heavier that she - managed to be so quiet? She wasn't quite sure how to ask him about that, but in her head, she regarded him as the "stealthy bugger."
Another thing she noticed. In the light of day, Greenleaf tended to look...well, younger. Healthier. When there was sunlight, and he'd make one of his ultra-quiet, unannounced and very brief appearances, she would look him in the face and see that, despite the thick white hair, he didn't appear to be very old at all. But when she'd see him at night, sitting in his library as she'd pass by, on her way out the door, she'd noticed how very old he moved. It wasn't physical, in his bones, but emotional, and though not etched in his face with lines and wrinkles, it was there in the sadness of his expression. It was as if he were in mourning, suffering from the sudden loss of those who meant everything to him. Sometimes it hurt her heart to look at him.
Charlita did not wish to interfere in his life by asking or trying to make him feel better. A man should be able to live anyway he pleased. But it seemed such a waste to have someone like Mr. Greenleaf spend his life sitting in an old library remembering sad times when he could be enjoying his life.
Maybe someday she'd have a talk to him about this, too.
* * *
The evening was cold, and the wind had picked up considerably. Winter was fast approaching, and Legolas knew the first snow of the season was not far away. He made a fire, and sat before it, on the floor, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs. He closed his eyes and remembered.
Suddenly he was sitting in sweet high grass at twilight. A cool lake bubbled nearby. A campfire burned several steps away. A fragrant meal warmed on a spit above the embers. And the promise – and threat – of action and adventure in the form of Orc hordes lay just beyond a mountainous ridge.
He could hear Aragorn telling some old tale he'd told a million times before by the fire, but Legolas could never hear his stories enough.
He could hear Gimli bragging about how bravely and flamboyantly he'd slaughtered a dozen unsuspecting Uruk-hai, tales of how his ax had served him well.
Night would descend, and then Aragorn would begin to hum a song, just under his breath. Something inspired by love, or a lament for a fallen friend. And Legolas would begin to sing, his voice both haunting and heartening. All this by a warm fire shared between friends and allies, brothers in arms.
Legolas snapped out of his memory, and found his eyes were wet with tears, his heart heavy with remembrance. He'd seen well over ten thousand years - why were these the only times his mind wandered back to over and over again? He'd seen the world change, reinventing and redefining itself so many times. He'd seen face of war change: from swords and arrows to flintlocks, to cannons, to bazookas and grenades, to heat seeking missiles and computer technology that assured mutual destruction. He'd seen the advancement of science: from flat earth theory to solar power to space technology. He'd seen the world go from traditional values to modern ideas and slam back to traditionalism again. He'd seen dictators and madmen come to power and die to be replaced by thousands of others over his long life. Yet no time like his time in Middle Earth stirred his heart and memory so. There were not many things in this strange world, save a warm hearth, that reminded him of times long since past.
Ten thousand years ago.
How had he lived so long, outside of the boundaries of the undying lands? Why did he remain?
He pulled his hair down over his ears, a thing that had now become an unconscious habit. Best not to be noticed by the humans. He grew tired of explaining his elvish features as an unfortunate birth defect just to keep the humans from becoming overly curious or acting on their ignorance and fear. It was hard enough to keep up appearances of being of a certain age before it was time to move on again.
There was but one thing he could do to relieve the heaviness in his soul. He began to sing. It was a song of loss and bravery with mournful minor notes that instantly brought him back to the brink of tears. This was the song that told the tale of the King of Gondor, Aragorn, his battle to save Middle Earth, and his love for the beautiful Elf Arwen, who had given up eternity for him, and become his wife.
* * *
She pulled off her wire rimmed glasses and her cotton gloves, yawned and stretched. She was exhausted and yet exhilarated all at once. Charlita had combed through nearly a quarter of the Stealthy Bugger's collection, far more than she had anticipated by this time. Quite an accomplishment. She had not yet found any reference books to help break the code of the language in which all these documents appeared, but she had found some symbols that looked oddly familiar, which would hopefully lead her down the proper code-breaking path eventually.
She checked her watch and was nearly shocked – it was well past nine o'clock. Darkness had descended hours ago, and she'd probably missed the last bus. She'd have to cab it tonight.
She reached for her cell phone (Mr. Greenleaf did not have a phone in the house. She'd have to talk to him about that, she mused) to call her son. He'd be staying with his best friend all week to allow her a chance to catch up on her thesis. She hated it when Tristan was away, and could not bring herself to go home. She'd planned to put in a few extra hours, but had not realized how quickly time had gotten away from her.
"Hey, Tristan."
"Mom, I told you, call me T.K."
"Alright, T.K. How's everything?"
"Cool. We had pizza and we're playing video games."
"Did you do your homework?"
"Yes," he said, impatiently.
"Don't be up all night, okay?"
"Mom, it's Friday!"
"I know, but –"
"I gotta go."
"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow. Love you."
"Yeah. Bye."
"Bye Tri...T.K."
How had he grown up so quickly? One minute she was bouncing him on her knee, reveling in his crooked smile and garbled first words, impressed by his deep stare from dark intelligent eyes and how everything was mommy. If she fed him, he had to feed her, insisting upon pushing a Cheerio between her lips and giggle madly when she made a show of eating it. If she tickled him, he had to tickle her, wiggling his strong and tiny fingers under her chin until she laughed raucously. If she was sad, he'd sit quietly in her arms and let her be. Now at nearly ten years old, Tristan, a.k.a. T.K. didn't seem to have much use for mommy anymore. In many ways she applauded his independence – he would be fine if some tragedy caused her to be prematurely taken away from him. In other ways, it broke her heart – where had her baby gone? She prayed that his desire to be separate from her would be temporary, and that someday he would understand how wide and deep her love ran for her only child, and that he would appreciate it and return it twofold.
She quickly dialed her favorite taxicab company and ordered her ride. The kindly dispatch person apologized that it would be more than thirty minutes before her cab arrived, reminding her how busy Friday nights could be. She considered trying to get a bit more work done while she waited, but exhaustion had begun to overwhelm her. Her neck and shoulder muscles ached and burned from bad posture, and her legs were slightly stiff from sitting too long. It was all she could do to stand and collect her few belongings.
She turned off the lights, locked the room, then walked as quietly down the hall as she could. She cursed the squeaking wood floors that announced her every step, and hoped that she was not disturbing the Stealthy Bugger.
She was not aware of his nightly routine, as she was usually gone long before this hour. She was not sure if he was an early to bed, early to rise kind of man, or if he was a night owl, hanging out in his library reading mysteries or technical magazines. She wondered if his tastes ever ran to the more male-oriented magazines, but for some reason she could not see him indulging in that kind of thing. It seemed wrong somehow. She imagined he would read The Art of War, or perhaps Russian literature. Maybe Dickens or Victor Hugo, or Chaucer.
And then she heard it. It was a sound that both warmed her heart and chilled her soul. His voice was like nothing she had ever heard, not in her entire life. The language was strange and beautiful. She stopped and listened, letting the complicated but soothing melody take wing in her imagination. She stepped closer, wanting desperately to hear more, and more clearly. Another step and she was right at the library door. She peered in and saw Mr. Greenleaf. He was sitting on the floor, lost in his song, eyes closed, head slightly raised, making those incredible sounds.
And suddenly, to her chagrin, he was finished. She stood there, trembling, her own eyes squeezed shut and brimming with tears, a hand on her chest, wondering what had just come over her. When she opened her eyes, she found Mr. Greenleaf standing before her.
She nearly fell back, startled, embarrassed, caught. She could barely read her employer's expressions. She was sure there was anger, but there was something else, something she could not fathom or discern.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice quivering. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I was just leaving and I heard you...singing."
Mr. Greenleaf said nothing, only stared at her.
"I've never heard such .... I'm sorry."
"You leave at five thirty."
"I wanted to work a little later tonight. My son is away. I don't like being home when he's away. So I stayed. I'm sorry. You don't have to pay me the overtime."
"Money is not my concern. My privacy is."
"I understand."
"Do you?"
She'd never heard such sternness in his voice before. She wanted very much to stand up for herself, to tell him he cannot talk to her that way. But she could not find the words.
"I do," she said finally. "It won't happen again. My cab should be here soon. I'll wait outside."
"Nonsense," he said as she reached for the door, "the evening is quite cool. Stay inside. Your driver will alert you upon his arrival."
"Okay, you're sending me mixed messages here. You're telling me I shouldn't be here and now you want me to stay till the cab comes. I'm confused."
"Better you be confused than cold. Come into the library. There's a fire."
* * *
Ten minutes into her wait, and there she sat in a deep red leather chair. Mr. Greenleaf stood by the fire. She watched the light dance in his eyes.
"What were you singing?" she finally asked, not really expecting much of an answer.
"A song I learned many years ago."
"What language was it?"
"A dead one."
She wanted to let it lie, but her curiosity was too much to bear.
"Whatever you were singing, it gave me chills."
"I'm sorry."
"No! It's a good thing. Definitely a good thing. You should record it." She instantly felt ridiculous. Despite the long white hair, he was hardly the rock star type.
"Record it?"
"Yeah, you know, put in on CD. I'm sorry, it's a ridiculous idea."
"CD. Yes. I'm mildly familiar with it. Compact disk. Digitized recorded music. Would you purchase it?"
"Yes."
"And listen to it?"
"I'd wear it out."
"Why?"
"Because it's beautiful. It stirred my heart. It's the kind of thing you want to hear again and again."
He smiled. "You'd be the only one."
"You don't know that. Once it got a bit of airplay...."
"Airplay?"
"The radio. You know."
"I'm afraid I don't have one. I did, many years ago, but I didn't like much of what was coming out of it."
Charlita nodded. "Yeah, music isn't what it used to be. I'm into old school."
"Old school?"
"You know, Motown. Seventies rock."
"Unfamiliar to me."
"Oh, come on. You've heard the Supremes, the Temptations. Smokey Robinson?"
"Are they Seventies rock?"
"No," she cried. "Where the heck have you been?"
"If you are considered an aficionado of 'old school', I'm afraid my 'school' is far older than yours."
"What...Fifties? Fourties? Benny Goodman? Older than that?"
"Keep going."
"A fifteenth century madrigal?"
"Closer."
She tilted her head so that she could see better the smile that was playing at his lips.
"I'm afraid I don't understand much of modern music," Mr. Greenleaf confessed. "It's all about falling in love...or rather lust...and then falling quite quickly out of it. Love songs are of great importance to every culture, but they've become quite superficial and not particularly romantic these days. I've heard songs long, long ago that are so deeply stirring that you cannot bear to move a full minute after the song has ended. Songs that so deeply penetrate your heart and soul that it becomes a part of you. Songs that compel you to dare climb a mountain, fight a fear, or to take into your arms the one you love and declare you devotion no matter what consequence is borne of it. Songs that let you know that when you cry, you do not cry alone."
His voice trailed off, lost in some memory Charlita wished she had privy to. What a memory it must have been.
He caught himself and turned away from the mesmerizing fire and gave her a weak smile. "I get carried away," he said in apology.
"Feel free to go farther."
"You know, there was one modern tune that remained with me for a brief spell. I did not much like the music, but the words were quite compelling."
"Do you remember how it went?" Charlita asked.
"Some of it," he confessed, and ran a hand through his hair, trying to conjure up the words. "I believe I'm paraphrasing, but it went something like this. 'Do not push me, because I stand upon to the edge. I am trying not to lose my head."
Charlita's eyes narrowed as she pried the lyric from her memory. When finally she remembered, she laughed so hard she nearly fell from her chair.
Greenleaf looked a touch embarrassed.
"Oh, my gosh," she said, reclaiming her wits, calming the raucous laughter that had claimed her. "Oh my GOSH, that's a rap song."
"Rap? Yes. Perhaps."
"I believe the rest is...It's like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder how I keep from going under."
"That's the song!"
"You do not look like the rapper type."
"Perhaps not. But you have to admit, the sentiment displayed in that particular rhyme is quite indicative of the times. One needn't be a "rapper" to appreciate it. And I'd appreciate it if you'd forget about my sorrowful attempt to "rap."
Before she could answer, she heard a horn blaring outside.
"That's my cab."
"Ah," he said quickly and came to her side, a gentleman waiting to escort her to the door. "I bid you good night, Miss Huffington."
"I enjoyed chatting with you, Mr. Greenleaf."
"So did I," he said. His surprise at this was not completely masked.
Charlita smiled. "Have a good weekend."
"Weekend? Oh, yes, it is the weekend already, isn't it? Then I shall see you Monday."
He waited at the door until the taxi pulled off. He stepped back inside, closed the door, and nearly shuddered at the sudden chill. A heaviness descended upon him, weighing him down, one that was usually omnipresent but strangely forgotten for the short time while in the presence of his employee. He knew what it was immediately and fought not let his heart be overcome by it.
Loneliness.
End Chapter two. Light and fluffy now, but it gets harsher later. Please respond and I'll keep going.