Christine dans Deux
An Alternate Multiverse - A Phantom of the Opera Story
Nyasia A. Maire
© 2006
DISCLAIMER: See Chapter One
Chapter Seventy-Seven – Angel of Truth
The cloud of ash soon flies free of the whirlwind, leaving only the woman standing within its center. She unveils her eyes as she raises her heavy lids, her eyes dart about and she lifts her head. Suddenly, all goes still. She stands alone beneath an absolutely clear azure sky, her feet hidden in the rich green grass of the hillside upon which she stands. She sees the sun high in the sky, but feels none of its warmth. She stands basking in its light, but feels nothing.
Then, she hears voices. She is not as alone as she thought. The voices are high, clear and young. Full of the promise of a thousand or more tomorrows. The children scramble past her, holding hands as they make their meandering way to the summit. One, a dark-haired boy and the other, a girl with curly chocolate-brown hair.
"Tag! You're it!"
The giggling girl taps the boy's arm, lifts her skirts and runs away from him in a zigzag.
"Hey!"
The boy's surprised reply rings out across the hillside and after a bemused expression flits across his face, he begins to chase after the girl.
The woman watches as the two race through the grass, she watches them her mouth unsmiling and eyes sparkling with unshed tears.
"But, this is not the place where it all began. Why am I here?"
Her mouth unknowingly issues the words at the same moment as the girl begins to scream.
Turning away, she tightly squeezes her eyes shut and covers her ears with her hands, the woman walks blindly away from the sight of the horrible memory.
"No. No! Not here. This is not right! I need to start at the beginning. This time is one of my failures. I cannot start here. Please, not here!"
She closes her eyes. Her mind suddenly feels as if her body is turning cartwheels and she just knows she is not where she was. She is somewhere … some when else. She cannot feel the sun's glow penetrating her eyelids. It is cold and slightly damp. She opens her eyes.
♥○♥☼♥○♥
She looks about her and nods.
"Yes. This is where it all began."
The woman stands in the corner of a small room built of rough-hewn stone blocks. Her eyes drawn to the familiar comfort of the large stained glass window of an angel. The room is bereft of life, but not for long as the steadily growing pitter-patter of feet attests. A girl enters the room. She looks like the girl, who moments before, had first played with and then been assaulted by her best friend as she screamed in abject terror. The girl in the chapel's clothes are somber; a charcoal gray, long-sleeve blouse and a simple, long, plain black skirt without a scrap of lace or frill to soften its look. The girl on the hillside's clothes were a joyful riot of color; a bright yellow peasant blouse with bright red, green, violet and blue swirls of embroidery and a royal blue skirt embellished with swirls of bright yellow embroidery. The woman's sigh catches as an involuntary sob hitches in her throat.
"Focus on this girl, not the other. This is where everything goes wrong. This is where it can be made right. So much depends on the next few moments. Please, God, please? Help me! Help us all!"
As if in response to her pleas, a poem flashes through her mind ….
"Wait a minute! I do not have to have someone save me. I can do this. I am not stupid. This is my life, do I want to live it or have someone else tell me how to live it? There is a poem … I am the captain of my fate? No, that isn't quite right. What is the name of that poem? The one about controlling my fate with an unconquerable soul? Something like that. Think, woman! Think! Yes! I have it! It is called, 'Invictus' by William Ernest Henley. Invictus, from the Latin, meaning 'unconquered' … hmmm …."
"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be,
for my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced, nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance,
my head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears,
looms, but the Horror of the shade,
and yet the menace of the years,
finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
how charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."
The woman hears the words of the poem run through her mind and along with the words flows something new, something good. She is in control of her life. She does not need anyone telling her what to do, what to feel, what to say, what to wear, what to think. She is not stupid, but can make stupid mistakes. It is okay to make mistakes. It is okay to say, yes or no as she sees fit. It is her god-given right to make her own decisions, right or wrong. It is with this new conviction burning in her breast that the woman turns her eyes back to the girl.
The girl with the sad, brown eyes walks to the rack of votive candles, draws a taper out of a box hanging from the front of the rack, touches the taper to a lit candle and solemnly lights three candles. Blowing out the taper and replacing it in the box, she kneels upon the cold, hard flagstone floor and bows her head in prayer. Her lips move as she silently mouths the words, soon her words escape from her mouth in whispers. She pauses, as if waiting for an answer. When no response is forthcoming, she sighs and begins to beseech the heavens, raising both her eyes and voice upwards.
"Papa? Papa? Can you hear me? It is me, Christine. I am living in Paris now with Madame and Meg Giry at the Opera Populaire. Maybe you did not know where I was, so that is why the Angel of Music has not come to me. Papa? You promised to send me an angel. You promised! I am so lonely! I miss you so! I have been good. I do everything that Madame tells me to do, but I hate it here! The other girls are so mean. They called me a liar, Papa! Really! And, you know I would never lie. I hate … well, no I would not do that, but I do not like liars. Lies hurt everyone … the person telling the lie as well as the person to whom the lie is told. And they said I was telling a lie when I said you told me that angels are real. They said my father would never say that because grown-ups know it isn't true. They said you would never promise to send an angel to me because you would know that angels are not real. So, that meant I was lying. They tease me all the time. A few of the girls like to pull my hair. One girl, Agnes, pushed me down and I skinned my knee. It hurt, but … oh, Papa! You promised …. Papa, why?"
She covers her face with her hands and begins to weep. Her small body shudders as spasms of grief pass through her small body. She throws herself to the floor, prostrating herself before the angel, which gazes silently down upon her from the stained-glass window.
"Papa? When will the angel come? I just know you would not tell me a lie. You would never lie to me. Oh, Papa … when?"
Her tears run dry and after a time, the only sound is the soft blubbering and sniffling of the young girl. Another sound slowly begins to build inside the chapel. It is a man singing with a voice so splendid, so divine that it could easily be mistaken for one of the celestial chorus. The girl lifts her head from the floor, her face shining with the remains of her tears.
The girl strains to catch the words of the song, but she cannot. All meaning, all time, everything is lost in the heartbreakingly beautiful voice. The song continued long enough for the girl's tears to dry on her face.
The woman listens to the singing, remembering and thinking.
"This is the moment when fate set its course for us. This is the moment that must be set right, but how?"
At last the song ends, leaving the chapel in silence. The girl wipes the salty grit of her tears from her face.
The woman rushes to the girl and whispers into her ear.
"We are all God's angels. Human still, but angels as well."
The girl pauses and the woman returns to the corner of the room. The girl tosses her hair back over her shoulders as she calls out.
"Hello? You sing so beautifully! That was wonderful! Thank you so much. Hello? Are you still there? Please do not go. I need to speak with you. Hello?"
She waits in the silent room. Her lower lip trembles and begins to push out in a pout, but she bites it instead. She tries again.
"Hello? Hello? My name is Christine. Are you there? Hello? Please do not leave! I want to be your friend. You sound as lonely as I am. Would you be my friend?"
Silence. Then a quiet sneeze. The world shifts and all is changed.
"Ahhh! I know you are here. Please come out. I am nothing that you need fear. We can sing together, although you sing much better than I can. Maybe you can teach me to sing. Please? Hello?"
A shuffling sound echoes in the chapel. A grate in the corner of the room clanks and then begins to swing away from the wall, issuing a protesting shriek as it moves. The girl swirls around to stare into the inky dark of the air vent.
"Hello, my name is Christine. Who are you?"
A shadow emerges from the hole and unfolds itself into the shape of a young man. His black cloak robbed his body of form at first, but standing, Christine sees that he is simply a tall, lanky boy. He appears to be four or five years older than she, but it is difficult for her to tell because half of his face is covered by a white mask. He stands with his hands folded in front of him and seems to be staring at her intently. Christine scrambles to her feet. She brushes her hands down her skirt to remove the dust and smooth the wrinkles. She slowly walks to the boy and stops directly in front of him. She smiles up at him and holds out her right hand to him.
"Hello! My name is Christine…Christine Daae." A shy pause as she wiggles her hand at him. "Hi! What is your name? Would you like to be my friend?"
The boy looks up from the floor and into her eyes. His eyes follow hers to look at her tiny hand. His mouth's grimace slowly transforms from a pinched frown into a shy smile. He takes her hand in his, bends over it and places a soft kiss upon its back. He stands, straightening his back to his full height, but never lets go of her hand or stops looking into her eyes. His smile broadens at last reaching his eyes.
"Hello, Christine. I … well, my name is Erik and I would very much like to be your friend."
Their hands shift as they seek closeness, their fingers entwining. Her brown eyes radiate pure delight as she pulls Erik down to sit next to her on the floor. Raising their joined hands, she considers the sight for a moment, then speaks softly.
"Erik, my father made me a promise just before he died. He promised that when he was in heaven, he would send the Angel of Music to watch over me and guide me. Well, my father died four years ago and I have been waiting and praying every day of those four years. I am 12 years old today and I was going to give up. I was going to admit I was a fool, but not any more. While I know you are not an angel, you do sing like one. I think that maybe, angels are just people, just like everyone else. Except they can see when people need help or maybe, just a hug. They are the special people that help when they do not have to do it. I think that you may be my angel, Erik. And yet, you seem as lonely as I am, so maybe, I am your angel as well."
Christine leans her head against Erik's shoulder. She closes her eyes, her lips turning up into a gentle smile as Erik unconsciously wraps his arm protectively around her shoulder. He, too, closes his eyes and begins to smile.
The woman watches the two with joyous tears streaming down her cheeks. Her sight dims. Frowning, she swipes away the tears with the back of her hand, only to find it is not her tears which blind her. And with that realization, she finds the truth that lies hidden within the darkness of each human soul…we are all angels. Then, the darkness surrounds her and swallows her in its embrace until she knows no more.