The Angel of Music

by aeipathy.

Disclaimer: I don't usually like writing fanfiction, or reading it for that matter — because nearly all of it ends up being either sappy fluff or pointless smut, but certain stories draw me in and make me want to embarrass myself by writing my own clumsy renditions of them. This is one of those situations. I'm not as familiar with all the renditions of The Phantom of the Opera as I would like to be, but I suppose I'm basing this on a number of them and merging my interpretations. Nonetheless I'd be very appreciative if you'd tell me what you think of my attempts.

Part One

The rope had been looped tightly several times around a wooden stake at the far end of the cage, so that there was little slack; it stretched taut and straining through the dusty air inside the bars to where it bound the creature's hands together by the wrists, palms facing together in a cruel mockery of prayer. Periodically the rope would leap and twitch, making an audible creaking sound of protest, as the bedraggled boy struggled to free himself, rebelling frantically against the horror shining in the faces of his spectators — it seemed to constrain him more than did the rope, more than did the looming form of the gypsy showman who dared to stand inside the cage with him, armed with a switch if the worst should occur.

She was called Giry by her peers and superiors alike; she felt that her given name was too frivolous and didn't suit her. Her overcoat was made of wool, but it was old, beginning to wear thin at the elbows — unlike the majority of the other girls she never attempted to affect wealth when her reality was a childhood with only the necessities.

However, it seemed that even the necessities had been withheld from the creature imprisoned before her; though the outlines of his muscles belied strength, his skin seemed pulled over them as taut as the rope that confined him. The canvas bag, knotted at two corners, had been pulled from over his head, revealing a long, matted tangle of dark hair, thick and clotted with dirt — but towards his temples, it grew thinner and disappeared altogether. His face was turned to the side as he wrestled with the rope that burned his wrists.

It was nearly impossible to guess his age from the face, as the features were so horribly distorted: his complexion was the same dirt-streaked olive as the rest of his skin, but the shade varied, mottled by what looked like scar tissue, uncreased and shiny. His nose disappeared into his face, forming a smooth plane into his cheekbones, and his eyes seemed permanently stretched wide to an abnormal degree, the dilated pupils and irises darting around in rage and clearly unwanted fear — a few scant hairs were no excuse for eyebrows, and his lips were nearly nonexistent, of the same texture and shade as the rest of his face, twisted and pulled back over nearly canine teeth.

Plain to see, that he had been denied much more food than would keep him alive; also that he was considered too low for ordinary clothing, as he was dressed simply in a pair of tattered trousers cut off at the knee — only enough to hide his indecency, not to make him feel in any way comfortable or concealed; the rest of his body was normally formed for his age (it indicated, where his face failed, that he was perhaps no older than Giry, and that he would develop further yet), but it inspired more horror in her than his face — it was horrifying in that it was untouched by the same decay, in that it was balanced and finely featured and had no similar deformity. It was a perfectly human body, neither indicative of disfiguring damage nor of uncommon comeliness. What was most beautiful about it was that it was normal, it was whole and unmarred; what was most revolting about it was that it was a daily reminder of what he might have been, the life he might have led.

But despite its normality he seemed to loathe it as well, burdened by the shame of it, and even while he recoiled against the rope he was crouched, trying to keep his back to everyone at once, shrinking into himself to hide his flesh.

Giry felt her overcoat excessive all at once, ashamed of it as he was of his body — she was ashamed of possessing it at all, while its threadbare appearance and worn edges disappeared from her mind. The subject of the exhibit had probably never been treated with a coat at all, let alone one as decent as hers.

"If you haven't dropped a coin in the hat, the monster is not for your eyes," said a voice over her shoulder suddenly, reminiscent of both a mix of old carriage gears and the grease used to soften them.

She turned abruptly to find that the showman's partner, a gypsy as well, was smiling grimly at her. His hair, long and lank and thin, was parted unevenly over a tanned, visible scalp, and he was thrusting a battered, upside-down hat at her. Her eyes were drawn uneasily first to the gaunt fingers gripping the brim of the hat, the color of the dirt under her feet and under the untrimmed fingernails — then to the flash of light caught by the coins at the bottom of the hat.

She had only a few coins on her person and felt no real desire to part with them — the fact that all the other girls of the ballet, who were flocking around the bars of the giant cage, had already dropped in a coin without even thinking of it, did little to increase that desire. She could easily have walked away from the exhibit and to another, but she felt drawn to the cage, to the prospect of moving closer and seeing more, however morbid the idea; she felt drawn to the pitiful creature to which all other eyes were turned, a pull as strong as the rope keeping him in place. With a nod, she reached into her pocket and withdrew her purse, taking out a single coin and dropping it into the hat.

"I thank you for your generosity," the gypsy breathed, with an overly gallant bow. "Feel free to get closer to the cage, mademoiselle — the monster may appear fierce but is contained quite skillfully by my partner. You need have no fear."

Giry said nothing. She could always trust herself not to speak rashly, but at the moment she felt compelled to share her opinion with the gypsy about the exhibit and the injustice of the boy's imprisonment. She nodded again, once, and moved quickly away from him, towards the crowd gathered around the bars.

Taunts and insults came from the assembly of spectators, curses dripping with disgust, horror, and perverse intrigue. Giry looked from one person to the other, finding the gaping sadism on their faces more appalling than the deformity of the creature they demeaned. Clearly they feared him — mothers shielded the eyes of their young children even as they joined in the cacophony of hatred — but the rope and the bars between them made it much easier for them to volley their epithets and outcries.

"Oh, its face!"

Alerted by the cry of a little girl, who then proceeded to burst into tears and bury her face in the skirts of her mother, Giry thrust herself forward, squeezing between the hefty bodies of two men before her, and found herself pressed against the cage. To steady herself she raised her hands to grip the bars, her face nearly caught between them, and she found that she was so close to the creature on the other side of them that she could make out the scabbing lacerations on his back, the still-evident results of the showman's attempts to "contain" him.

Her typical composure melted away at that sight, sinking beneath the surface of rising indignance and anger — her hands tightened around the bars until the color fled from her knuckles and was replaced by whiteness.

Suddenly the creature turned, as though sensing her presence behind him; still pulling back from the rope his torso twisted, his head revolving to look over his shoulder sharply at her.

Giry felt her heart seize, but she didn't move; she felt held by the intensity of the so-called monster's eyes as they locked on hers. However, he was unable to maintain contact with her for more than a moment or two — he seemed to become consumed with hasty fear, as though looking at any member of his audience for too long would be another submission, and he looked away, turning round again. His foot slid in the mud and his leg buckled, his weight coming crashing down onto his haunches — he seemed unharmed, his praying hands still in mid-air, and immediately he resumed struggling as the showman advanced toward him as though dancing around a malignant cobra.

In that instant she had made contact with his soul (or so it had felt like), and the memory of what his eyes had poured into hers was enough to keep her still and silent even when the showman brought the switch down on the side of the creature's arm to try to urge him back onto his feet.

In his eyes there had been fear, naturally, the fear that would come of being bound, unable to move when a much stronger and larger person is bearing down upon one with a weapon; it was natural to fear dozens of gawking eyes, the disgust and aghast shock that they all bore. But more powerful than the fear was naked fury — his resentment for those who had gathered simply to stare at him seemed to bristle under his skin as well as in the depths of his enormous eyes. Between bursts of desperate motion he shot glares of pure contempt at the gypsy showman, seeming not to feel the pain that the switch had inflicted on his arm, though the flesh welled and reddened rapidly. It seemed clear from the hot loathing in his eyes as they darted through the audience that he would willingly slaughter each of them, repay them for his brutal treatment at their hands.

When the two men behind her began to move away, drifting backwards, Giry found herself forced to support her weight by her hands on the bars, rather than by her feet and by the girth of the men — the crowd was beginning to leave.

The gypsy's voice sounded far away, raised though it was, almost sucked in and devoured by the continued murmuring and jeering of the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I ask you to step this way to see the next exhibit — should you look upon the Devil's Child for too long, you might find yourself cursed with the hatred of his Father, Lucifer himself, and I would wish that upon no patron of mine. Please, this way, this way."

One by one, then in small groups, the onlookers began to move away from the cage — some reluctantly, still desiring to get a closer look at the creature, and others gladly, relieved by the newfound opportunity to turn away, to pull their children from the bars. Giry released the bars and stepped back, eyeing them: a man passed her with his shoulders hunched, his face darkened by stormy guilt; an elderly woman with a concerned face crossed herself hurriedly before disappearing out the flap of the tent. The gypsy stood alongside the curtain, ushering the patrons through, until no one remained but himself and Giry, who approached with the same reluctance as some of the others had done, but with none of their morbid greed.

The gypsy smiled at her again, a skeleton's smile. "I can sense your fascination with our creature, mademoiselle."

Giry averted her eyes, but said nothing. She could not deny the truth — she was every bit as fascinated by the creature as all the others were — but at the same time, she felt for him overwhelming pity, an ache in her chest and stomach that made her feel loathe to leave the cage.

Sensing her shame, her sympathy, the gypsy tsked at her, his bony finger wagging slowly back and forth. "I must caution you not to feel such pity for him. He is human, woefully, but afflicted with a deformity that binds him not to earth, but to hell — he is not of our flesh, nor of our same spirit. He speaks only to threaten and curse, and shows no signs of common intelligence. It is a kindness, that we favor him with this life — were he out of our protection he would be killed on sight, for his twisted soul shows upon his face and makes very clear his Father's heritage."

Giry found herself speechless. The words built up in her throat like bile and threatened to spill from her mouth, but she kept her lips tightly shut, unwilling to offend. Even her faith-filled upbringing could not lead her to believe that the creature in the cage was descended from the Devil, and in his eyes she had seen not only intelligence, but a spirit more powerful than any she had encountered. It was impossible for her to express to the gypsy her inexperienced rage, that he thought he was doing the boy a "favor" by locking him up, beating him, and displaying his hideousness to the world.

The gypsy did not seem to mind her silence. He gave a bow. "Forgive me, mademoiselle, but I must hasten to the next exhibit — other curious spectators like yourself are awaiting my narration. The Devil's Child must be untied until the next showing, and I fear his reaction to your presence when he is not bound, though bars will still keep him from you. Please follow me."

He smiled slyly at her a last time, his cracked lips spreading to show yellowed teeth, and then disappeared behind the curtain, holding the coin-filled hat close to him as though cradling a baby.

Her heart heavy, Giry made as though to follow him, but couldn't bring herself to leave. She paused, turning to look back a last time at the creature.

Inside the cage, the boy seemed to have wilted now that the crowd had left him and the gypsy had backed away. Instead of struggling to remain on his feet, he had slunk down onto his haunches a second time, finally feeling the pain of the blows dealt to him during the show, and he leaned back heavily against the bars, his shoulders slouched, his face hidden by his mane of tangled hair.

Shooting him a last look of contempt, the heavy, stout gypsy tucked the switch beneath his arm and walked slowly towards the door of the cage. Giry noted discreetly the way he walked — how he kept his front to the boy at all times, as though suspecting that the moment he turned his back the creature would leap upon him. The gypsy bent and began to pull the loops of rope off of the wooden stake in the corner near the bars, his movements erratic as though he was prepared to run out of the cage the moment the rope had been loosed. There was a final loop left on the end of the rope that he kept in his hand as he moved towards the door — he refused to let it go even as he unlocked the door, put the key back in his pocket, and prepared to leave. He was taking no chances.

Giry felt even more disheartened by the caution with which the gypsy moved; clearly he had absolutely no humane trust for the creature. All of a sudden, though her absorption with the boy remained, she felt that she couldn't keep her eyes on the scene any longer — her stomach was twisting with sickness.

Possibly, with time, she would be able to forget the events of the day. Exhaling deeply, she tightened her fingers in the pockets of her overcoat.

Before she could leave, she saw both the gypsy and the boy turn suddenly in the corner of her eye — they had each neglected to notice that anyone else was present and had so been startled by the violence of her sigh. She looked back unsurely, and then saw the eyes of the boy slide from her to the gypsy, and they seemed alive with piercing thought — it almost seemed that his body was tensing like a cat's, his weight shifting onto his feet, his crouched body tightening.

Giry could have cried out; she could have done something to warn the gypsy. But again her voice failed her, and this time she had to wonder whether she would have said anything had she held the strength to do so.

Twisting his hands, the creature gripped the rope leading from his own wrists and gave a sharp pull — the gypsy, unprepared, found the rope jerked out of his grasp, and began to turn immediately, his hand straying toward the switch under his arm. But the creature moved faster, making a clumsy but accurate toss with the rope, and the noose-like loop at the end of it lashed and caught the gypsy around the neck. Giry felt her body harden like a statue, her eyes wide, her teeth biting into her lip — had she screamed, the other gypsy, the spectators, would have come running.

The gypsy staggered, snared, and the switch fell from his hands to the straw and mud at the floor of the cage. He lost his balance and toppled over, heavy as a tree, the weight of his body seeming to make the entire cage vibrate. Immediately the creature was upon him, his much lighter weight nonetheless like a small boulder on the gypsy's chest, and as Giry watched in horror the creature tightened the noose, pulling it with all his strength — the muscles in his arms shifting beneath the dirty skin, he pulled so hard that she thought the gypsy's eyes would fly from his head. The gypsy's body struggled and thrashed wildly beneath the creature, almost throwing him off, showing the same violent panic that the boy had displayed during the show, but there was nothing he could do.

The gypsy's arm flew up and clouted the creature on the side of the head, and the boy stumbled off the gypsy's chest. However, the gypsy's arm flopped back down helplessly, his fingers scrabbling, and the rope remained tightly around his neck, cutting off his breath. The noises choking out of his strangled throat were almost enough to make Giry ill — but they stopped, dying away, and the fingers stopped their twitching.

For a long moment there was silence — Giry stood unmoving, staring at the cage, and the creature held the rope still in his hands. His hair was again over his face, hiding his expression from Giry's face, but his similar stillness, his trembling arms, indicated to her that he was shocked by his own actions: horrified but at the same time filled with hesitant joy, uncertain of his new freedom, terrified that it would be again stolen away from him. Releasing the rope, he glanced over and reached out haltingly, picking up the canvas sack which had formerly hidden his face from the audience, the holes cut in it for his eyes gaping back at him silently.

Giry heard the other gypsy's voice in the distance suddenly, far on the other side of the curtain, but he sounded unsure himself, as though wondering why his partner had not yet appeared — and Giry felt a wave of fear.

"Quickly," she said, her voice low. "Go!"

The creature's head snapped up and he stared at her, remembering her presence suddenly. His eyes seemed even larger, their amber-brown color suddenly intense in the light, and his mouth was closed tightly, his face full of blank confusion.

Giry's feet moved at first of their own accord, one before the other, and then she became conscious of her actions and gained control of them, quickening and hurrying to the door of the cage. It was still slightly ajar, as the gypsy had been preparing to go when the creature had noosed him, and though her fingers were shaking as badly as were the boy's, she pulled the door open and rushed inside. The creature, at close range, looked no less frightening, but at the same time more human — he was nothing more than a boy.

She stopped suddenly, no more than three paces from him. However, it was no longer fear that made her keep her distance; surprisingly, she was in no way concerned that he would show violence to her as he had the gypsy. Perhaps it was a fear that she would have been right to harbor, but her mind was absent of anything but urgency.

"They'll come and see this at any moment. We must leave, now." Her voice was even but not calm.

She knelt and found herself staring into the open-eyed face of the dead gypsy. She would simply have pulled the rope from the boy's hands, but the knots were beyond her experience, and the only other option was to take the rope from around the gypsy's neck and carry it with them. Though she was a composed child, disturbed neither often nor easily, she had to close her eyes as she reached out blindly and managed to lift the gypsy's head, loosening the noose and pulling it out from under him.

As though unable to recognize his own liberation, the creature stared at the open door, torn between the urge to move and the fear of the possibility of moving.

Giry felt uncharacteristic panic welling up as she rose to her feet and began to back away, clutching the rope in her hands. She hurried out the door, but noticed when the rope became taut that the boy hadn't moved, and alarmed, she looked back at him, her brows drawn in confusion.

"Come," she commanded frantically, as though instructing a dog. "Quickly!"

She gave another pull to the rope, and the boy seemed to come out of his reverie, blinking rapidly with his deformed lids, his eyes growing moist. He needed no further commands, and suddenly he bolted with more force than she had expected, nearly knocking her to her feet as he raced out of the cage and past her. The noose was still in her hands, and she was jerked along behind him, staggering in an effort to keep up as he picked up an edge of the tent and slid out under it, dragging her with him.

To be continued.

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