Desolation Dreamed Of

Of Fables and Fioritura

Christine placed another bead shakily on the tip of the expectant needle. The Opera Ghost…surely not. He didn't exist. He was a topic for Cecile and Isabelle to gossip about while they lived out the rest of their meager existence bent over needles, threads, and costumes beneath a grandiose opera house. He wasn't real. It had been her fault.

"The beads popped off?" Her words acted as a knife, cutting through their conversation.

Cecile turned her head in Christine's direction, stopping mid-sentence.

"Oh yes dear!" she giggled softly, keeping an eye on Geneviéve. "Everything simply fell apart right on top of her. Screamed something awful."

"They'll blame me," she whispered back after a moment, a new fear rising in her throat at the thought of an imperfection. "It was my fault."

"What?" The elderly woman gave her a questioning glance.

"I helped to bead the headdress," she started, voice catching. "She was angry with me about her dress—she'll turn to me in an instant."

"She won't hardly remember your name, dear," Cecile soothed, placing a gnarled, clement, hand atop Christine's shaking fingers.

"She'll have me fired." The thought sent her blinded eyes roving about The House, as if searching desperately for a vision she had lost so many years before.

Fired meant no room and board. Money, payment, it was something she had never experienced for her services—a home and food was all she was ever given, all she needed. And an angel. She had been given an angel. But what good would a messenger of God be to one with no livelihood? No home? One who would surely die of starvation or disease within months? Her hand continued to shiver at the morbid thoughts, and only Cecile's concerned breath kept her mind from wandering too far into this morose prediction.

Then, as if reading her mind, a whisper echoed through my head in placation. "Hush. Calm yourself." And that was all that was needed to clear her mind of such thoughts, at least until she finished her work. And so, with a much steadier hand, she grabbed another bead and threaded it adroitly as a mask of temporary contentment glazed over her features.

As each hour passed, worry gradually drifted back into her being. In fact, she could feel her fingers shaking against the cool concrete walls as she navigated to the dressing room. She tried to hear his voice in her head, telling her to be still, but Carlotta's words from the day before kept cutting into her senses. When her hand finally met the doorknob she had been searching for, she entered quickly and found the chair at the far end of the room, sitting down with haste. Her breaths were shaky and labored, as if trying to restrain the tears that were threatening to break over the barrier of her eyelids.

Steady now.

She had to calm down. She couldn't sing like this to save her life—the aria she had worked on for so long would sound like nothing but a jumble of poorly executed trills and messy ornaments. More than anything, she needed to hear his voice again and she needed to hear that it would all be alright—that he would protect her and keep her safe.

On cue, he spoke. "What is it today, child?" he asked, his voice cool and rich.

Christine's head rose and she stared ahead in silence for a moment. Pulling a curl behind her ear, she began. "I heard that Madame Guidicelli's headdress fell apart, and that all my little beads fell off and bounced all across the stage." She paused for a moment, closing her eye with a deep breath. "I only fear that Madame Guidicelli will blame me and get me fired. I don't know what I would do, Angel!" she exclaimed, opening her eyes suddenly in wide fear. "I have no skills to speak of and I've never been out in the real world by myself! In Sweden, I had my father, and here I always have a home and food. And I have you," she finished quietly, frowning. "If I were to lose my job, I would have nothing." Her hands gripped the sides of her chair as if bracing herself for something unknown. "I don't want to leave here," she said almost inaudibly.

"I don't want you to fret over such things, my darling." His voice came right next to her ear after just a moment, and her hands loosened their grip on the chair, visibly relaxing at the sound of his voice. "You never have to worry. I'm here to protect you."

A ghost of a smile drifted across her lips as she let silence surround her. Calmness came over her as she heard her breathing slow to a shallow and measured pace. "Angel?" she called out when she was finally satisfied with the sound of her own breath. "Will you tell me a story like you used to? Before we sing?" The question was a tentative one and she didn't full expect acquiescence. There were no words to alert her that her request had been granted. He simply began and transported her into a new world where there was no Carlotta Guidicelli.

"There was once a poor, provincial family—a father, a mother, and a daughter—who possessed only a mill and a magnificent wild apple tree that resided just behind it. They lived from day to day, struggling for food and commodities, never confident in whether they would live through every week."

A pause, as Christine took in the small prologue with delight. A true smile had even crept onto her face, perhaps from the story or perhaps from the sound of his voice saying the words.

"One morning as the father was chopping wood in front of the mill, a mysterious man approached him. He was gaunt and elderly, walking with the aid of a cane. 'Why are you chopping wood there?' he asked as his spindly legs came to a halt a few feet away from the father. The old man gave a toothy smile and inched closer. 'I'll make you rich if you'll only give me what is behind your mill there. You'll never have to worry about money ever again.' The words were tempting, and the father was eager to accept. An apple tree was nothing compared to the riches this old man offered. Quite pleased with his good fortune, the father rushed back to his wife to give her the good news. After recounting his story, she spoke in horror. 'That was no old man you spoke to. That was the Devil! He was not referring to the apple tree behind the mill, but our daughter who is playing behind it as we speak!

"The girl was beyond beautiful, and lived with the fear of God within her. When she heard of her father's encounter and the subsequent deal that was made, she washed her body and drew a circle of chalk around herself. The Devil arrived and realized that he could not reach her when she was cleansed and inside the circle. He ordered her father to keep all water from her so that she could no longer clean herself and would therefore be his. When the girl realized The Evil One's plan, she wept on her hands to keep them clean and stay free. The Devil, never to be outdone, ordered her father to cut off her hands, in hopes that she could not clean the blood from her body and would therefore be his."

Christine gasped and grasped her hands together, rubbing at her fingertips as if treasuring what this girl would soon lose.

"Her father was shocked, but after many threats, he came to his child and told her that this was the only way for him to stay safe. Being a devoted child, she presented her hands to be cut off. But, she outdid the Devil, and wept so much that she kept her stubs of arm clean of blood. The Devil abandoned her in anger, declaring that he had lost his right to steal her away."

"What an awfully sad story," Christine said with a small frown, furrowing her brow.

"That is only the half of the story, my dear," he replied.

He is smiling. I can hear it is in his voice. Do angels smile?

"The girl decided to leave her home in search of compassionate people who would accept her even with her…" There was the smallest, minute pause there, before he picked up almost without a hitch. "Differences. Only a few days through her journey, though, she began to get hungry and sought out an orchard. She came across a royal garden full of pear trees and looked at them in envy and hunger, for a moat surrounded the garden that she could not cross. Just as she was about to leave, though, an angel appeared before her and rewarded her for her devotion to God and parted the waters so that she could cross into the garden. She approached one of the pear trees and took a bite of one of the hanging fruit, reveling in its flavor.

"Meanwhile, in the castle just behind the gardens, the King watched out the window as a young girl crossed through his moat and took a bite of a pear with little concern for whom the orchard belonged to. After reflecting, he decided that it must be an angel, for how else would the girl cross the moat without a trace of water on her? He left his castle and trekked to the garden where he found the girl taking a final bite of the hanging pear. 'Are you a spirit?' he asked simply without any pretense. She looked over at him and shook her head slowly. 'I am only a mortal who was forsaken by all but God.' He reached up to grab another pear, holding it up for her. 'I will not forsake you.' He brought her back to his castle and allowed her to live there with him. Despite her deformity, he realized that she was still beautiful and more importantly, incredibly kind. No less than a month later, he made her his wife and they lived happily together until their deaths."

"What a beautiful story," Christine murmured, bearing an expression of pure contentment. Confusion flashed across her face, though, as she asked a question that was burning in her mind. "But why would a father do such a thing? Cut off his own daughter's hands?"

"I suppose so that he would not be taken away to hell by the Devil," he replied simply.

"But he made the deal. He should have to pay, not her."

"Some people are selfish, Christine."

"Oh." Neither said a word for several moments as she contemplated his tale briefly. "Am I the girl?" she asked, looking up once again. "And are you the angel?" She sounded excited, now—a child thrilled to have realized the hidden meaning. "I will never find a king, but what a fanciful and charming thought!"

"Let us begin our lesson, child," was his only reply, and she couldn't identify whether he was pleased by her observation, or bored her childlike demeanor. She stood up, nonetheless, and took a deep breath before beginning myriad scales.

The story of The Girl Without Hands is a Grimm Fairy Tale, though I only told half of it. Thanks for all of your reviews, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

-Christine