Chapter One:
Once Upon a Time
There once lived a kind-hearted man who loved his wife and little daughter very much. In the silent hills of Scandinavia, he made an honest living, and every evening when his work was done, he would sit by the fireside with his beloved wife and cherished daughter and delight them with favorite stories from his youth and enchanting melodies on his violin, for he was a gifted musician. Every time he would play, his little daughter's eyes would brighten and she would rest her chin upon his knee to gaze at him in wonder as he expertly guided his bow over the magical strings. She shared his joy for music, and he taught her to read notes long before she learned her letters.
The happy family lived like this for six pleasant years, until tragedy struck and the kind-hearted man's beloved wife died unexpectedly. His dear little daughter was too young to understand, yet seemed to share his loss in her own little way. She would not be separated from her father, so in interest of his much loved daughter - who was now his entire life - he turned to his music to support them both, traveling the countryside with his enchanted violin. He was well loved for his talent and frequently solicited to play at feasts and weddings and other joyous occasions where people like to gather and enjoy well played, joyful melodies. When he would play in the streets, his little daughter would often join in with her singing, which he always encouraged, for her young voice was as pure and clear as a heavenly being's.
As they traveled from town to town, the kind-hearted man would tell his daughter fairytales - enchanted stories - to help pass the long hours. Her favorite tale was the story of Little Lotte, who heard the voice of the Angel of Music when she slept in her little bed. Perhaps that was because they shared the same name and looked very much alike. Indeed, they were alike but for one exception: Charlotte-Christine had yet to hear the greatly coveted voice of the Angel of Music, unlike her fairytale counterpart. You see, the Angel of Music was only heard by those who were meant to hear him - those who had a pure heart and a good soul and who longed to enrich the world with their music. Once the Angel of Music was heard, the hearer was endowed with a supernatural ability to play the kind of music that is only heard in the heavenly realms. Little Charlotte was convinced that her father had heard the Angel of Music, and he promised her that one day, she too would hear his voice. How she longed for that day to come!
Time passed, though the years were considerably kinder to Charlotte than to her father, whose knuckles had swelled and twisted with a degenerative disease from years of over-use. He was little able to produce the same enchanted music from his violin as he was ailing, thus father and daughter fell on hard times. As they wandered through the French countryside - for their musical wanderings had taken them far from their native Scandinavia - an aging and well-endowed professor took pity on them and along with his wife, welcomed the ailing violinist and his pretty young daughter into their home. The days were spent quietly and the evenings were filled with song, for Charlotte's voice grew purer and more heavenly with her age, and her father still retained a hint of his old talent on the violin. They spent many happy months in this way, with the good professor and his wife as their gracious benefactors, until the day when the good professor's age caught up with him and he passed away suddenly. Charlotte and her ailing father left then, not wanting to impose upon the professor's grieving wife. The professor had kind-heartedly bequeathed a portion of his estate to the ailing violinist and his daughter with an angel's voice, and with his provisions, they left to settle in a quiet place of their own in the French countryside. They made a comfortable home for themselves in a quaint cottage on the outskirts of a provincial town, where Charlotte cared endlessly for her ailing father and he did his best to keep up the homestead, though it was impossible without the help of a few strong young men.
"Lotte," her father would often ask her as she doted on him, "are you happy?"
"Yes, Papa," she would reply, "I am always happy as long as I am with you." And nothing could have been more true, for her father was her world. Though she always bore a secret longing to break free from an ordinary life and live like the heroines in her father's fairytales. She longed to live more freely, she longed to sing, she longed to hear the Angel of Music whom her father had promised would one day sing for her.
How long, she would wonder, how long must I bear life with grace and humble gratitude? How long before I see the fruits of my quiet submission? Then she would look to her father, from whom she drew her life and strength, and realize that her care for him was no sacrifice and reproach herself for her complaining, thinking, I'll never hear the Angel of Music with such selfish thoughts as those!
The good professor had left them with a comfortable sum of money, therefore Charlotte's father was able to hire a few hard-working boys to help with the upkeep of their home. With the freedom this provided her, Charlotte began to take walks into the surrounding woods to satisfy her longings for escape. They were only short walks at first, and she would only venture just past border of trees that surrounded their little home, but as time passed, she began to venture further and stayed away longer. She did a good deal of thinking on her woodland walks, and sometimes she would sing as well. For as much of the forest that she explored, however, she would not venture into its heart, for she had heard tales from the village that it was enchanted.
One afternoon as she wandered, she came across and old, overgrown pathway, lined on either side with wild rosebushes. Drawn by their scent, she was compelled to follow the forsaken path, driven by an unknown force. She thought she heard music somewhere, like the playing of a distant violin, but she decided that it was only her imagination. Something deep inside of her warned her to turn back, but she ignored it, telling herself that it was a beautiful day and a delightful little path, and the wild roses were so rich and wonderful that it would indeed be shameful to waste it all in turning back. From the angle of the sunlight that filtered through the trees and the sweet and heavy scent of the roses and the thick, lush undergrowth all around, Charlotte thought the path resembled the faery paths which her father had so expertly described in his stories so long ago. She continued on, in an unassuming happiness. She was soon met with an odd sight: despite the brilliant light of mid-day, the wood had darkened considerably and a mist rose up in the path before her. Through the misty shade, Charlotte thought she could see an old stone tower rising above the trees, crumbling from the neglect of time. Like the beacon of a watchtower to a weary traveler who had lost his way, Charlotte was drawn to the stoic spire and advanced towards it, curious and trance-like. She suddenly found herself standing in the courtyard ruins of some ancient castle, shrouded heavily in mist. Her eyes darted around, casting suspicious glances into the unending shadows. All was dark, like the grey dusk of evening after the sun has gone down. She could hear nothing but her own breath. All was silent, all was still; yet still she had the acute sense that she was being watched.
She tried her voice uneasily, offering a wavering "Hello?" to her dark surroundings. She received no immediate reply, but then she heard it - a low tone nearly inaudible at first but growing sweetly and steadily, resting in her ears, then suddenly at her feet. It grew into a gentle, melodious song - sung with a voice and yet without words - and she looked about in vain for the owner of the magnificent voice until she realized that the song was not of human origin. It was distinctly coming from beneath her feet; the ground was singing! She caught her breath, half in horror and half in wonder, her hand flew to her throat, and then she turned and ran.
