A Trip

Christine woke at the bright and early time of 7 a.m. Understandably, she was tired. And her unenergetic state was not aided by the fact that she had stayed awake until 1 a.m. listening intently for piano music.

Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she put on some of her casual clothes and headed to the stables. She met another stable worker, this time an older man, probably the father of the boy she met yesterday.

"Bonjour," he greeted. "My name is M. Rockford. My family works the stable and tends to the horses. Mme. DesChanels has informed me that you would like to go riding today."

"Yes, I would like that very much," she replied, immediately comfortable with the man's easy-going nature.

"And which horse do you want to ride? Any preference?"

"Nacre," she said, without much hesitation.

"D'accord. A good choice, miss, if I do say. I will teach you how to tack her up, that way you will be able to ride her whenever she is free for your entire stay."

Christine's face lit up at his generous offer. For the next half-hour, Christine was M. Rockford's pupil. She intently listened as he explained what each piece of equipment was for, proper grooming techniques, and the correct commands to use. The pearly gray horse stood patiently as Christine learned, only drawing attention to herself for a pat or food.

After practicing a bit in an outdoor arena, both Christine and M. Rockford were confident that she would perform flawlessly. Nacre and Christine seemed made for each other. The horse obeyed Christine's every command immediately upon receiving it. They worked as if they had been horse and rider for years. M. Rockford told her to stay on the paths and sent her on her way with a smile.

She walked the mare down one of the many paths leading into the woods. She tried to remember her path, but she lost track. Luckily, Nacre seemed to know them instinctively. Christine was confident that she would arrive home.

The forest was beautiful. Christine was convinced that it was the original Garden of Eden. The trees were tall and full of sun-splattered green leaves. The different shades she saw reminded her of the eyes she had gazed into 10 years earlier. The same depth of both color and soul could be seen in the green canopy hanging over Christine's head. A small brook flowed in the distance on her right and Christine made a mental note to follow it on her next ride.

The forest thinned out and Nacre stepped into a long, flat stretch of valley. She felt Nacre tense expectantly beneath her, and for a moment, wondered if the horse could read her mind.

"Let's go, Nacre!" She nudged the horse with her heels, let loose the reigns, and flew. Trees passed at an almost alarming speed. The wind whipped Christine's curly brown hair back and her amber eyes started to sting and water. Her body moved with the horse's. Their muscles tensed and flexed together. If a person had been present to witness Christine's ride, they would have sworn that horse and girl had merged, creating one beautiful creature.

Christine felt a freedom she never had before and loved every second of it.

'This is how I want to spend my days,' she thought. 'This is what I want. I want to be my own person, free to do what I want, when I want. Everyday, I want to fly like this.'

Nacre cantered around the valley and ended her run at the entrance to the woods. They took a different route home; one that allowed Nacre a well-deserved drink of crisp water.

Two hours after she left, the mare and the girl arrived back at the stables. She met with M. Rockford once more. She told him about her ride and he showed her how to rub the horse down. She then led Nacre out to her paddock.

"I'll see you tomorrow, I hope," she said to the horse, giving her an apple. Nacre happily accepted the parting gift and after chewing, went to go roll in the dirt.

XOX

He resolved to stop thinking of her. Because of this, Erik had been completely uninspired that evening. He tried to compose, but a wall had been put up in his mind. He tried to play, but his fingers stumbled along the keys. Even when he did strike the correct note, it sounded out of tune and sour in his ears.

He got no sleep.

The second day of his new resolution was the second day of no inspiration. He almost cried in frustration.

'What cruel fate has destined to torture me? Thinking of her is torture, but yet I can compose. Not thinking of her is torture and I lose my inspiration. Which is the lesser of two evils? Which is the lesser torture?'

To clear his mind, he ventured into the stables.

'You hope to see her again,' jeered one part of his mind.

'No, no I do not. This is simply to clear my head,' the other part rationalized.

But he knew which one was correct.

XOX

He waited for silence underneath the trapdoor. Unfortunately, that silence never came. The shuffling of the old stable worker was soon joined by a fresh-sounding step and the hooves of a horse.

'Must be his wife,' he thought, wondering how he could scare the couple away. He slowly opened the door and was about to noisily knock over a bucket when he heard the most beautiful, and slightly familiar, voice. It was a natural voice, unaffected by pretentious airs and condescending lilts that were often developed by those visiting the château. It had a pleasing tone and pitch. Just from the way she talked, he could tell she was a singer. He fought the temptation to rise above the stable door to get a peek and instead imagined how he could, no would manipulate her voice to perfection.

'But where have I heard this voice? Where?'

Erik heard her soft stride get fainter. She was leaving the barn. This was his queue to follow. He quickly re-entered the trapdoor and took the appropriate turns to put him on the balcony above one of the château's entrances.

That was when he saw her.

'She's here. After 10 years, she has returned. She remembers. She must. I have to see her, to talk to her, to have her.' "Christine…" he whispered.

He saw her pause mid-step and look around her. She glanced up at the balcony and stared right where Erik was standing. He was confident that he could not be seen. He lurked in the shadows all of the time, of that he made sure. And after so many years of practice, it became second nature to him.