The Dark Continent

I do not believe I would have agreed to go to Africa, if it had not been for Christine. She had been my reason for staying, but after our encounter, after spending the night wrapped in those divine arms, I was forced to realize that it was ridiculous, hoping to see her again when I could quite obviously never win her affection. I had possessed that chance, once, and had lost it. It was high time to abandon hope and descend into the nightmare that was the rest of my life.

While it would please me to be able to take credit, I must admit that it was Henri who came up with the story that permitted me something of a life in the public eye in Africa. We would say, he decided, that I was an eccentric and somewhat vain Frenchman—and, he would add rather snottily, that was not the part that required imagination—who had been mauled by a lion, and chose to wear a mask rather than subject society to my horrendous scars.

The rumors were easily spread; Henri had no small amount of experience in moving amongst the gossip circles of servants. They are, he tells me, easily intrigued and easily duped. I quite steadfastly refuse to take credit for those words, either, but that is less in favor of honesty, and more in favor of avoiding any kind of household melodrama.

The plantation that had been promised was much more than Bradbury had led us to believe. It was the kind of house that I would have hoped to purchase for us in another few years. Henri was, needless to say, thrilled...

-O.G.

It was hot, beneath the heavy cloak that enshrouded Erik's figure. Even in the night, this land seemed to swelter at unbelievable temperatures. The carriage came to a halt, and the carriage door swung open. A fussy man, much smaller than Erik or even Henri, gestured for the two within the carriage to come out. Henri climbed out first, bearing two of many luggage cases. Erik followed, making an imposing figure indeed in his dark clothing, with the hood wrapped tightly around his face. The tiny man gawked up at him for the slightest of moments, before regaining composure and shutting the carriage door.

"My horse, a white stallion. He was to be—"

"Yes, yes, Monsieur, he arrived this morning. A fine animal, if I do say so myself."

Erik moved onward, following Henri. The boy had been here for a few weeks, ensuring that most of Erik's things were properly settled in, and that the house was made ready, and had then returned to London to fetch Erik and Erik's personal effects. As the tiny man fell behind, Erik moved up close to Henri.

"Monsieur?" he questioned.

Henri smiled, and nodded. "They heard you were French, and thought it would be best to refer to you with a French title."

Erik's lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. "Is it wise, to flaunt that I am French in such an English-dominant town?"

Henri merely laughed, and led Erik into the house.

It was a grand thing—the foyer alone revealed that. It was, of course, nowhere near the grandeur of the opera house, but Erik imagined with no small amount of personal joy that the house rivaled that of the viscount's.

"Your suite of rooms is on the third floor." A pause. "Well, actually, your suite of rooms is the third floor. I arranged it so that you would have the entire thing to yourself. The staff will, of course, come and go, but—"

"Where will you be staying?"

A knowing smile, and the boy patted Erik's shoulder. "I'll be on the second floor, the rooms next to the stairwell. If you need me, I'll be but a moment away."

Erik relaxed visibly, and turned his eyes to the somewhat intimidating staircase. I hope we are not still living here when I get on in my years, he thought, with something of a wry smile to accompany it. How would he ever navigate to the third floor, in his twilight years?

"I'll show you to your rooms." The two suitcases were set on the floor; two servants immediately rushed forward to attend to them. Henri instructed them to see about the rest of the luggage as well, and then started up the staircase slightly in front of Erik.

And Erik, of course, followed. He was beginning to feel like something of a dog, these past few days. Anywhere Henri directed him, he went; and anywhere Henri told him to stay, he stayed. "Which one of us is the master of the house, again?" he muttered under his breath.

"Hm?" Henri asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Nothing."

The stairwell that led to Erik's floor was locked securely. Henri paused to unlock it, and then handed the key to Erik. "I have a copy," he assured him, "but I will not, of course, use it without your permission."

Erik nodded, and allowed himself to be led once more, up a slightly narrower staircase. Lamps perched on either wall every few feet, illuminating their progress. "This staircase seems too long," he commented. Henri replied with a mischievous smile.

When they gained the top, Erik stood on a balcony, looking down half a story at an expansive library. Rich reds and golds colored the room. A large oak desk, fine-quality office chairs and slightly more decorative sitting chairs occupied the room, aside from the book shelves that lined the walls.

"Your mouth is open," Henri said mildly. Erik's teeth clicked together as his mouth was shut. Henri chuckled, and turned to walk down the gradual, curving staircase to the left; there was an identical one, on the right. "The other rooms branch off of this one. The door on the west is the hallway leading to a bedroom, and a small study. There's a dry sink—they haven't got any running water, yet, as you may or may not know. The door to the east is a drawing room; large windows, airy paintings, and other such happy things. It's got a few other things in it, for you to occupy yourself with. It looks out over the main entryway of the plantation."

"You know I don't like light."

Henri sighed, and gave him a stern look. "There are curtains, of course... but I do wish you would at least try to enjoy the view."

"At night, perhaps," Erik said, as he stripped of the suffocating black mass and draped it across a chair. "What of the door to the north?"

Henri did not answer; the corner of the oak desk was suddenly very interesting.

"Henri?" Erik was beginning to think he did not want to hear the answer, but his curiosity would not be denied.

The boy sucked in a breath, let it out, and sucked it another. The words came tumbling from his lips, flavored with the third-class accent that Erik had thought he had rid the boy of.

"I'm sorry, but I heard the rumors—everyone was talking about it in London, all the time, especially at the theatre—and you always wanted me to go to the theatre—and they used to whisper about it and make jokes and then when Christine came, I knew, because I'd heard the story so many times that I could practically visualize her already, and she looked exactly like they'd said, and when you two were together and I heard you fighting and she said that—"

Erik held up a hand, and the boy stumbled into silence. With a weary heart, Erik asked, "What is in the room, Henri?"

The boy, white as a sheet, turned and walked to the northern-most door. He slid the doors open, and struck a match. Candles were lit, and then he retreated from the room. Erik took a deep breath, and stepped in.

It was similar to the moment just before sleep, when one is nearly in the world of dreams, but still has one toe in the door of consciousness, and the sensation of falling tricks one into snapping oneself into wakefulness again. The sensation was fuzzy, dim, almost unidentifiable, until suddenly it occurred to him that he felt as if the floor had dropped out from beneath his feet. A jolt, and the floor came slamming back up against the soles of his feet, leaving his senses reeling.

The room was dark, lit only by candles. No windows, even, to supply a finger of light from behind their curtains. Directly in front of him was a giant pipe organ, with candelabras situated perfectly along its back. To his left sat a grand piano, with candles on the walls to either side of its bench. To the right was a music stand, with a violin case beside it.

"Turn around," Henri murmured softly.

Erik took several steps into the room, and then turned. Henri gestured towards the ceiling; Erik raised his head to look above the door. There, in a painting as large as the piano, was the Opéra Populaire, as seen from the Rue Scribe. Erik's breath caught in his throat, and he fell back onto the organ bench. He lowered his face into his hands, and fought desperately to choke back his sobs—to no avail, however.

Henri rushed forward, kneeling beside the bench and placing his hand on Erik's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I thought you would... I thought it..."

Erik nodded, and Henri fell silent. "I know... I know you meant only good, and.. perhaps it is a good thing. Perhaps I was never meant to escape it. Perhaps it is fitting, that I should be entrapped by its memories for an eternity."

Erik wept, and Henri sat awkwardly at his side, with that one hand placed on his shoulder.

"How can he not like tea?" An exasperated sigh; flour puffed up into the air as she slammed her hands down on the counter.

Henri scrubbed his face mercilessly with his hands, and shook his head. "It doesn't matter how he manages it. The point is that he doesn't."

"But how can he not like tea?" The woman, his head cook, fixed him with a deadly glare. "Everyone likes tea."

Henri migrated to the cupboards, and withdrew the good brandy he had hidden in the back corner. He ignored the looks of disapproval he was receiving from the cook, and poured what was probably much more than a healthy amount into a glass. He threw his head back, downed it all in one swallow, and poured another just like it.

"The Master is not everyone."

She snatched his second glass out of his hands, and tossed its contents down the kitchen drain.

"Hey!" He lunged towards it, as if he could stop it. "That was good brandy..."

"How do you expect to keep the run of things around here if you're drunk? Hm?"

He crossed his arms over his chest, and glared sulkily down at his shoes. "I wasn't going to get drunk, madam."

"Oh, you weren't?"

"No."

She rolled her eyes, and began packing away the brandy. She slipped it into the folds of her skirt, and moved back to the bread dough on the counter. She was a thick woman, old enough to be Henri's mother—a young mother, but his mother nonetheless. Grey hairs peeked from beneath the cap she wore, and something about that simple detail endeared his heart to her.

Henri dropped down onto one of the stools positioned around the island, and dropped his arms onto the counter. He allowed his head to lower down onto his forearms.

"Oh, sit up, lad. You're a man of authority now. You've got to look the part."

He groaned, and scrubbed his face on his arms. "Don't want to."

He felt firm hands gripping his face, and slowly pressing him into an upright position. "The Master expects his butler to be on top of things, lad."

Henri looked up into her dark face, and snorted a bit of laughter through his nose. "Yes, I suppose you are right."

"O' course I'm right," she cried, before turning back to the dough with a slight smile. "Now, quickly, before others come in. What's the matter with you?"

One shoulder lifted in a shrug, and his head shook back and forth. "I can't say."

He heard a patient sigh, and could almost feel her look of sympathy—but, when he glanced up, he found her to be, for all appearances, absorbed in her work. "So, then," she said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "what does your master like, for eating—and what in the name of God am I to give him to drink with it, if not tea?"

The first few nights of Erik's presence in the house were long ones; for nearly a week, Henri had very little rest, and what he did get was no more than briefly-snatched naps upon the small love-seat in Erik's library, while awaiting further commands. It was not that Erik was unfair—quite the contrary, he often begged Henri to go to sleep. His loyalty was that which surpassed even the desire to sleep, however, and he could not bring himself to leave Erik, when he knew that the man needed his aid.

When they had moved to the apartment in London, very little had needed doing, after their belongings had been situated. Erik had not been particularly distraught over anything; by that time, he had recovered enough from his opera-house days that he knew how to shove his emotions into some tiny, secret box, and put on the best of faces for Henri. However, having to leave Europe completely, and being spurred to do so by the less than ideal treatment by Christine—all of which was made worse by the shock of what Henri had hoped would be a pleasure—had left him in a terrible state of emotional weakness, and Henri knew how to do nothing other than complete his every wish and whim.

Erik soon learned not to make passing comments in front of Henri; if he even breathed the slightest note of disapproval, Henri went to extremes to mend it. In one of their more quiet moments, as Henri sat dozing off and Erik read a book, the latter made the mistake of mentioning a dislike of the curtains in his bedroom. His complaint was a valid one; it was not that he so minded the aesthetic aspect of them, for he was not one to quip about appearances—naturally—but, rather, they were a little too light, and somewhere in his room there was a draft. He was not complaining about the draft, either, he explained, for the draft kept it from getting too stuffy in his room, and thus did he rather like it. However—and this was the point he was trying to make—the draft stirred the curtains, because they were so light, and would often allow large slivers of light into the room—and, as silly as it may be, he could not sleep when there was light in the room.

When he awoke the next evening—he slept during the daytime hours—there were new curtains hanging across his window, securely hung, overlarge for their windows, and almost too heavy for Erik to draw back. When he inquired as to their inexplicable presence, Henri lightly replied that he had put them there, with no help at all—this was not said in a bragging tone, but rather slipped out, for Henri's tongue tended to become loose when he had not slept much.

Things did, eventually, settle down with Erik, and Henri received several good nights of rest, before being again launched into lunacy, by the superstitious nature of the staff. It was largely African—there were one or two white servants, who aided Henri in overseeing the Africans, but that was it. As Henri had been told, the blacks were terribly absurd and backwards in their thinking; news of the master sleeping during the day was enough to drive them to suspicion. When more than one maid returned from cleaning the floor with tales of hearing an unearthly music pouring forth from the north room, it was enough to convince the entire staff that their master was some sort of demon.

And, of course, once your staff suspects you, you are watched with an intensity that the greatest of Napoleon's spies could never imagine accomplishing. It was not long before several of the staff had seen, in windows, or shadows, or even dreams, the half-masked face. This was not special on its own, for the rumors had already been installed about the lion mauling; however, it was always reported that, within that mask, there were eyes of flame, and that the lips could part and, from that ghastly mouth, could pour forth a music that could only have belonged to one who had sold his soul to Satan himself.

Henri had the aid of the cook, in dispelling these foolish rumors, and without her he very probably would not have convinced anyone of anything. After all, he spent a large portion of his time on the Master's floor, and had, of course, arrived with the Master—thus, did it not make sense to assume that he was in league with the Master and his evils?

Fearing an uprising, or at least a more obvious attempt at catching glimpses of Erik, Henri began persuading him to take his dinner downstairs. And then, his lunches, for Henri was trying very hard to place him on the cycle of a normal person, rather than this nocturnal nonsense. When Erik was comfortable eating a late breakfast down in the kitchen—which took nearly three months to accomplish—Henri felt rather proud of himself. It was not, however, until Erik had been swayed to venture out into the sunlight that Henri felt he could have died happily.

Naturally, it took nearly six months before he could get Erik to go fully into the light, but it was made easier by constant mentions of César, and how he so missed Erik's steadying hand. Small visits to the stable were the beginnings; Erik would nearly rush from the shelter of the front doorstep to the stable, and from there into the gloom of César's stall—he refused to allow lights, while he was within. He said the hazy air appeased him, and the smell of the hay nearly wooed him into sleep; it was not at all difficult to convince him to spend more time there.

Henri—or rather Cook, by way of Henri's behest—enlisted the help of some of the grooms, for their next planned conquest of Erik's nature. It started with a simple murmur, but quite soon each and every stable hand that passed by was mentioning it, and the stable-master would even pause by César's door and have long talks with Erik about it.

"Lovely morning today, Monsieur," the man would say. The French word sounded clumsy on his thick tongue, and Henri had almost literally seen Erik wince when some of the servants spoke it.

However, Erik would move to be on the opposite side of César from the door, and then steadily reply, "Yes, it is," in tones so quiet as to be nearly indiscernible.

The man, with a name that Henri had long given up pronouncing—and thus, had begun to be called "Jim", for Henri had always been partial to that name—would lean his arms on César's stall door, and smile at the stallion for a long time, before speaking again. "It's a shame," he would say quietly—as if Erik were not intended to hear it.

There would follow a tense moment of silence, before with a slightly offended note he would ask, "What is?" Henri imagined he thought his ownership of the stallion was being challenged.

"Well, look at 'im, Monsieur." Another wince. "He's not nearly as sleek, and muscular, as he was when he got here. He's getting fat, from sitting around all day."

"Someone should ride him, then," Erik would suggest quietly.

"Well, we would, Monsieur—" The wince was less pronounced this time; it always was, when Erik had heard it a few times in the span of minutes. "—but no one can really handle him. The bo—" There was an awkward pause. "Mister Henri, he says that you handle him beautifully, that he'll do anything you ask."

Another silence would follow, in which Henri—who was listening from a few stalls down, while Erik believed him to be attending to duties within the house—was unsure whether Erik was offended, or pleased. When he spoke, Henri was near certain it was the latter. "He is not too hard to handle." It was a humble offering, an attempt to push attention away from himself. Erik was still unsure how to interact with the servants; while he easily took command over Henri, he did not like to do so with the Africans, and was slow to allow them to speak to him as if he were their superior.

"Oh, no, Monsieur—" There was almost no wince, now. "—that's not at all true. I've put some of my best boys on that horse, and we can barely get him to walk in a circle for us!"

This was, of course, a slight exaggeration; Jim had tried one boy, and he had not been a particularly talented boy, and César had only misbehaved mildly. Of course, Jim had ridden him a few times with no trouble whatsoever, and Henri had even found the time to indulge himself, once. The problem was not that César was any real trouble, but that no one really had the time to pay him. There were other horses in the barn, kept for various occasions, and exercising César—who required quite a lot of exercise—was just not at all reasonable.

Erik did not really reply to the man, though Henri could almost feel his interest hovering, thick, in the air. He knew as well as Erik did that the Opera Ghost longed for an excursion into the plantation and its surrounding properties, on the back of his trusted equine partner. César was getting no younger—and, truly, neither was Erik—and Henri's best guess at why Erik had avoided it was merely his distaste for open air, which Henri was slowly ridding him of.

Henri, really, was not quite positive how Erik had developed it. He knew that the man had not always lived beneath the opera-house—after his own revelation as to who Erik was had surfaced, his master had begun handing him little tidbits of his past, slowly retelling his life's tale, though Henri was not quite sure his heart could bear it. The best Henri could guess was that all his time beneath the opera-house had forced him to forget the pleasures of sunlight, or perhaps that the light was associated too closely with Christine, and thus was an uncomfortable indulgence.

"Well, Monsieur, I did not mean to intrude. Take your time with him; he always is happier after one of your visits." The big man patted his hand on the top of the door, and walked away. When he moved past the stall Henri was lingering in, he glanced at it and flashed a yellow, gap-toothed grin.

It was only a few days afterwards that Erik broached the subject to Henri. They were seated in his library, Henri once again sprawled on the small love-seat, Erik pacing back and forth in front of one of the shelves. Henri knew he was slowly working his way through the library, moving by way of alphabetical order; most of the books were about Africa, various works on hunting and conquering the Dark Continent. There were others, scattered throughout. Henri had found that Erik had a taste, every now and then, for totally pointless fiction, and quite thoroughly enjoyed poetry.

Henri also knew, for a fact—and intended to use it against him one day—that Erik had cheated, in his alphabetical-order plan, and read one of the Whittier collections.

"Is César truly in need of work?"

Henri started, and looked at Erik for a long time. The older man had a pained expression, as if he were thinking about something that was truly uncomfortable. The panicked thought occurred to Henri that Erik may be thinking of selling the stallion.

Cautiously, he answered, "So I've been told..."

Erik nodded, and paced for another moment, before turning to face Henri. A deep, nervous breath was taken. "Would you ride with me?"

Silence yawned, as Henri's mind tried hard to grasp what he had been asked. "You mean.. now?"

"No, no, of course not."

Henri relaxed, some.

"I'd like to wait until it was dark."

The relaxation was immediately sucked away from him, and he was left floundering in mild horror. Africa, at night? Alone? He shivered. Had the man not been reading the horror stories of man-eaters and other terrors of the continent? "Are you.. sure?"

Erik sagged, and shook his head. "No, I am not, but the man... What is his name?"

Henri laughed. "I've been calling him Jim. I've no idea how to say his real name, but he doesn't seem to mind it."

A nod, and a slight chuckle. "He had best not; he cannot say 'Monsieur' any better than I can say..." Erik floundered. Henri doubted there was much at all that Erik could not say, but he merely nodded to prod Erik along. Another nod, and a shrug, and the man continued. "He said—Jim said—that César needed work, and that.. no one was able to ride him."

Henri could tell he felt uncomfortable; Erik seemed very afraid of sounding as if he were bragging of any of his talents, unless that talent were singing. Erik had no qualms whatsoever, of speaking of his singing in gracious tones, but Henri could no more blame him for that than he could blame him for being reclusive. "Yes, that was the truth; he refuses to obey anyone's hand, but yours."

Erik nodded, and resumed pacing. "Is night.. not a good time to ride?"

"No, no it is not."

He sighed. "When is a good time, then?"

Henri hesitated, and glanced at his wristwatch. "Tomorrow.. before breakfast, perhaps?"

Erik's eyebrow shot up in the air. "That is rather early, don't you think?"

"Only for you, Erik." He grinned, and then continued. "Besides, it will be a good time—late enough that there will be light, but early enough that the heat will not yet be too dreadful."

A long moment of thought followed, and then more nodding. "Yes, yes, I suppose you are right." The man granted him a grateful look, before moving to the book he had left sitting in his usual chair, lifting it, and then seating himself. He seemed very much pleased, to have removed himself of that burden.

Henri found himself smiling affectionately, as he allowed his eyes to slip shut again.

Erik looked for a long while at himself in the mirror. It was a full-length mirror, one that he had never before imagined bearing to look at himself in. He had always avoided mirrors, and he had at first been mortified when he had discovered this one hanging in his bedroom. He had seriously considered asking Henri to remove it—this was an improvement from his original reaction to it, which was to smash it into one thousand pieces—but had slowly begun to appreciate being able to observe his clothing. It was not that he was particularly vain, but it was much easier than craning one's neck in awkward directions, trying to ensure that no embarrassing mistakes had been made.

This particular set of clothing, he was not sure he had a liking for. The riding trousers were uncomfortable, and the shirt and jacket seemed as if they would have him sweating before he even set foot out of the door. He sighed resignedly. Henri had insisted this was what gentlemen wore while riding, and thus would Erik wear it as well. The tall boots were retrieved and pulled on, and a comb employed to sweep his hair back from his face. He did not intend to wear a riding hat; it was too hot. Henri also insisted that hats kept one cooler, in this country, but Erik paid him no heed.

He moved to the window, and drew back the curtains. The world was foggy this morn, and clouds hovered in the sky besides. It was lucky; he did not care to ride beneath the intense light that he had glimpsed only briefly. He could not imagine existing beneath it for more than a few seconds.

He heard Henri moving about within the library, and moved to meet him. He had applied an extra coating of adhesive to the inside surface of his mask, for fear that the stress of riding would tempt it to fall. Henri was standing near his desk, surreptitiously eyeing the papers lying there. Erik cleared his throat, and Henri near leapt into the air, trying to clear the desk and look as if he had been observing other things. With a frighteningly innocent air, the boy smiled.

"Ready?"

Erik looked at him for a long moment in silence, allowing him to grow uncomfortable, before pointedly moving to the desk, stacking the papers, and putting them within a drawer. A key was drawn out, and the drawer locked, before Erik nodded. "Yes, quite ready."

They went down to the stables, and received a greeting from Jim and several of his grooms. It was all Erik could do not to squirm beneath their gazes. César was already saddled and waiting, as was Henri's mount—a lovely bay gelding, nearly as tall as César, but not nearly as thick. He was a wiry horse, built more for speed than strength and elegance.

The two men mounted, and Henri took a slight lead as they trotted down a lane. César was difficult; through the small, forward-seat saddle, Erik could feel his muscles corded and bunched, as he tried valiantly to obey his rider's command to remain in a steady trot. Naturally, he desired nothing more than to burst forward into a gallop, overtake the courser—which could probably only be accomplished if the bay were held back—and allow his legs to fully stretch. Instead, however, he did several dance-steps that Erik was not sure he could get the horse to repeat if he tried.

After what Erik approximated to be fifteen minutes of steady trotting, César was cooling down. After being so long out of work, the horse could not expect to go for very long without tiring. Erik pressed him onward, however, sucking every last drop of volatile energy out of him, before calling to Henri that the stallion needed to walk. César immediately dropped his head, stretching it low and forcing the reins out of Erik's hand.

They walked until the stallion had regained his breath—the courser seemed to have no trouble keeping up the pace, and even seemed eager to up it a bit—and then turned and upheld a steady trot all the way back to the stables. It was a short ride, but neither Erik nor César were up to much—yet. As Erik untacked and rubbed down the horse—he insisted on doing it himself—he murmured praise and happiness with the horse's behavior. The stallion flicked a lazy ear in his direction, and listened patiently. On his way out, Erik paused near his head, and set a hand to the thick muscle just behind his poll. "I will come back soon, and often," he promised, and the horse rolled an eye at him.

Erik wondered whether the stallion was pleased, or affronted.

"As Henri had been told, the blacks were terribly absurd and backwards in their thinking; news of the master sleeping during the day was enough to drive them to suspicion." No offense intended; trying to capture the mindset of the day.