It seemed like hours later (which it always does when stuck in one space with nothing to do), before he returned and found me sitting against a wall.
"Let's go."
"What about Christine?"
"What about her?"
"I'm not leaving without her."
"I'm afraid you are."
I picked up the dark undercurrent to his otherwise business-like tone, but as usual, ignored it. "I can't just stand by and pretend nothing's happened."
He took a menacing step towards me. "For your sake, you'd better."
I predicted I was setting myself up for another confrontation, but didn't care. I didn't think I could live with myself without my ever-present conscience gnawing at me if I left Christine without making sure she was alright.
"Just let me see her!"
"Stay out of my affairs."
"She's here against her will, isn't she." It wasn't a question.
"It's none of your business. This is the last warning I'm going to give you…LET'S. GO."
"No! I would rather die than abandon a friend in this drainpipe you call a house!"
"Done!" He hissed, on me as quick as lightning, my arms locked in his unrelenting grip. All struggling ceased when a slight creak from the door announced the presence of a bystander. Christine's pallid face witnessed our violent display with absolute shock.
"Maggie?"
I was first to react. "Christine, are you alright? Has he hurt y—,"
"Christine, go back to your room," the Phantom cut me off.
"Maggie, what are you doing here? How do you two know…Erik, what's going on?" Christine demanded.
"Ah, fancy that. The ghost has a name." I sneered.
"Mademoiselle Buquet was just leaving." He spat slow and deliberate, catching my gaze to make sure I understood. I caught the drift.
"No, I'm not. Not without Christine. If she is here of her own accord, surely she'd be allowed to come back with me."
"I can't." Christine spoke, almost too softly to hear.
"Very well," I felt my temper starting to rise, which sometimes caused me to slip into the habit of using my homeland's informal jargon, "I'm stayin' right here 'til ya do."
"No! It's not like that." Christine explained, catching Erik's movement. "I can't return with you, Maggie, but I'll be fine—trust me."
I didn't. I was aware of just how dangerous this man could be, what he could do, and I wondered if she knew the same.
"You heard her, Mademoiselle Buquet. She's here of her own free will and wants to stay. I suggest you leave."
How could I when this nagging feeling ate away at me? It didn't feel right at all. The Phantom's rigid frame, brimming with tension to where he was nearly shaking…Christine's darting gaze, anxious posture…It was a lie. We all knew it. I couldn't tolerate lying ever since the summer I turned seven. That was the summer I was declared 'saved' by our local church. Ever since that day, it was as if God installed a mental and emotional block against all things dishonest that I encountered. In short, I wasn't a very good liar, and I couldn't stand being lied to.
I swallowed, choosing my words carefully. "I'm sorry. My conscience won't allow it."
"Christine," his words were slow, misleadingly calm, "go…to your room…now."
She was reluctant to leave us alone but with one glance at his frightening eyes, obeyed. "Please, Erik," she murmured on her way out, "please don't hurt her." His gaze softened the slightest bit, but hardened again once she shut the door.
"You best be grateful. Had she not made such a request in your favor, I don't believe anything would've restrained me from throttling you."
"I consider myself warned." I replied stoically.
"Wise." He strode quickly over to a desk against the wall, opened a drawer and rooted around, his back to me, blocking my view.
I pushed my luck. "But it doesn't mean I'll stand for it."
His head turned, gleaming eyes narrowed. "I suspect you very much enjoy balancing on the borderline of life and death, Mademoiselle."
"No better way to live," trying to repress any hint of fear in my voice.
"Or the sure-fast way to die." To my aggravation, he began circling me like a half-starved vulture teasing its prey. "Now, are you going to come quietly, like a big girl, or will you make this difficult?"
"If you dare even touch me, I swear to God—," my threat went unheeded however, when a strong, bittersweet-smelling cloth came out of nowhere, covering my nose and mouth, smothering my lungs in burning fumes. My world started spinning like a merry-go-round at suicidal speed. Light dimming into black again. I was getting awfully sick of black.
When I woke again, there was a cold compress administered to my face, only it was Jacques kneeling over me, no phantom. Although my thoughts were more jumbled and my vision more fuzzy than after the first time I had fainted, I still recognized the cracked concrete walls of my room.
"Jacques…" My voice was disgustingly dry and cracked as the chalk sketches on those walls; I barely recognized it.
"Well, good 'morrow, sunshine!" I was starting to worry myself sick over you."
I put a hand over my sensitive eyes, a headache wanting to break right through them. "Jacques, not so loud…I feel…I feel like hell," I moaned.
"I'm sure. No one ever felt on top of the world after being out cold for two days."
"Two days?" I shot up—wished I hadn't—and my weak undernourished body wobbled before crashing back down on the mattress.
"Take it easy, girl. You're not going anywhere anytime soon."
I vaguely recalled the chloroform-soaked rag wielded by someone more ghost than man…a misty, hostile lake… "Why didn't you wake me up?"…a stone well… "Believe me I tried." …a coffin…Christine… "He drugged me, that miserable son of a b—,"…wait a minute. "What did you call me?" My mind felt so damn heavy like the brain itself weighed as much as a small baby.
Jacques knitted his eyebrows in confusion. "I didn't call you anything."
"Yes, you did. Go back, what did you say?"
"Believe me, I tried?"
"Before that."
"Uhh…take it easy?"
Girl. "Girl!" It clicked, even through the mind's fog it all crash-landed into place. Jacques didn't know. Jacques shouldn't have known. My hands flew to my head; the cap was gone, some of the pins holding up my thick curly hair had fallen out, leaving long wisps of it clinging to my neck and shoulders. Next, my eyes traveled downwards, relieved to find all my clothes still intact.
"How long have you known?"
"Not long at all. I found you the night before last, slumped against the guard rail of the catwalk. It sure took me a good minute to recognize you. After getting over the initial shock, I picked you up and hauled down here. There was nobody else around. You were lucky I was late getting out of the theatre that night. From where I was below, I almost didn't see you."
I rested my hands on my stomach, flexing my thumbs in distraction. "Did—does anyone else--?"
"—your secret's safe with me."
I smiled a little. "So…what do you think?"
"Well, I still think you're an odd duck like I did from the start," he grinned. "I must say I'm not quite as surprised as I ought to be, I guess. I think you make a much more agreeable woman than you do a boy."
I turned my head to look at him. He was serious, even in his attempt to show humor. I don't know what kind of reaction I had expected, but it sure wasn't that. I had expected him to pummel me with questions or make a scene, at least. But he was unusually calm, composed.
"Well," he sighed, "better go let the boys know how you're getting along. They sure had their suspenders in a twist, worrying about you when you didn't return from the cellars. I told them you were "recuperating" but didn't give any details."
"Thank you, Jacques. You're a good friend."
"I am curious though. Just who was it that did that to you?" He pointed to the scrape on my cheek bone.
Should I tell him? No. One life-threatening secret for the day was enough. "Just a man…some stranger from La Vie En Rose…never saw him before."
He studied me silently, debating whether to believe me or not. Finally he blinked and shook his head to clear his thoughts.
"You ought to be more careful in those kinds of places, Sidney…by the way, while we're on the subject of honesty, is that really your name?"
I shook my head. "It's Maggie. Don't let it slip now, and don't fuss over me, I can take care of myself, thank you."
"Yes, I can see that," he smirked sarcastically, glancing over my less-than-satisfactory state of health.
Ignoring that, I asked if Joseph had ever mentioned me. He leaned back on the door; arms crossed, and sighed, searching his memory.
"Jo was a talker, no doubt about it, but never about himself. He kept information on his own life private and we never pressed him."
"Humph. Probably too ashamed is why…" I muttered.
"Now why would he have felt ashamed?"
"Oh. Never mind."
"Even though he never spoke much about having a family, I don't think he was ashamed of you."
It hadn't been exactly what I was referring to, though I wouldn't be surprised if I were partially the reason Joseph never mentioned us. I had undoubtedly been a thorn in his side the past several years.
"Well," Jacques pulled me out of my reverie, "get some rest. I'll be back later with some dinner."
I stared at the ceiling after he left, futilely waiting for sleep that would not come. How could I sleep, knowing I'd left Christine down there…alone…with him? So, I stared at one of Joseph's sketches, though how he drew it on the ceiling so well was a mystery to me. Russia: St. Basil's Cathedral. Apart from the wretched weather, it was one of the most incredible places I'd ever seen. Apparently Jo felt the same way, judging from the detail to the drawing. Unfortunately, we had arrived in Russia at a bad time.
The country was suffering. The lower-class was starving and worked long days while being paid shite. The Jewish communities were treated harshly and sometimes persecuted. The Tsar's empire left no room for any real political party system. Therefore, he and his armed forces intimidated and tormented the people, forcing any sign of reformers to hide underground. There was always some secret organization or other, plotting to overthrow the government. Guess who had decided to join them. I never pictured Joseph as an activist, at least not for any country but his own. But there he was, speaking their language, dressed like them.
Unfortunately, the government had no time or patience for radicals. After many years of failed negotiations, Russia declared war on Turkey, and so it was in the birth of the Russo-Turkish War when groups like Joseph and his men were caught and given the choice of prison or serve in the Russian army. Acting on instinct for self-preservation, Joseph chose to fight. In the long run however, Russia's army was just no match against the mightier numbers of the Turks. Many died. Joseph nearly would've.
When I first discovered him, he was undoubtedly shocked I'd managed to track him this far. But then he shouted, threatened, implored me to leave and go back home. I refused, but he shut me out. The next day when I came back to try again, he and his group had moved on. I stayed anyway. I was in the city's crowd when I saw them haul my brother away, and I followed them discreetly as they marched to fight the Turks. It was when Jo was caught in a crossfire wounded and separated from his fellow men that I made myself known. This time he didn't complain. We hid out in an old church where I dressed his arm. It wasn't terribly serious; the bullet hadn't gone in very deep so with borrowed tweezers, wine, and some hearty swearing on Joseph's part, I dug it out. The rest of him was more or less scraped and bruised. We fell asleep there. The next morning I woke to find him gone.
I turned on my side to face the wall, tracing the chalky image there with my finger. Galway...home. For as long as he'd been away, he hadn't forgotten it like I suspected he had. It was a comforting thought. I saw the small hill our house rested on, the lake at the bottom of that hill. Mum's garden…even the patch in front of the house where Kessy once tried growing ox-eye daisies. The rough drawing also showed the path down to the bridge where we shared so many lunches and secret plans and ambitions for the future; ambitions we could never share with our pig-headed traditionalist friends and family.
An old song jumped into my head. It was a popular jig throughout the district called St. Anne's Reel.
He was stranded in a tiny town on fair Prince Edward Isle
Waiting for a ship to come and find him…
I closed my eyes, imprinting the image of home behind my eyelids, which was soon clouded over by the lilting tune that produced another familiar image: The Devil's Dowry, a favorite pub of mine and Joseph's, and occasionally Da…*
The old out-of-tune player piano in the far corner next to where the musicians were performing. Through the obstacle of cigar smoke and homey smell of pipe tobacco and a fresh shot of whiskey, I could see him up on the performer platform, bow flying over the strings of the cherry wood fiddle; the initials J.B. etched elegantly along the ribs.
He said, "I've heard that tune before somewhere but I can't remember when,
Was it on some other friendly shore, did I hear it on the wind?
I could see the regulars lounging in their booths; the bartender's rag constantly polishing whatever was within reach; my da's face when I joined in the frivolity by dancing on table tops.
Was it written on the sky above, I think I heard it from someone I love
But I never heard a sound so sweet since then…
Our da was a great man. While Mum constantly harassed me about propriety and my filthy habits, Da was more laid back and left me alone about such things unless Mum was about to expire from overwrought nerves, which was more often than not, trying to keep up with four reckless children.
"Maggie, get down from that table, you goose. Are you trying to send your poor mother to her grave?"
"Awe, she'll never know, she never comes down here." I sat down next to my papa.
"But people do talk," he reminded me.
"And I should care?"
There's magic in the fiddler's arms and there's magic in this town
There's magic in the dancer's feet and the way they put them down…
"Maybe so. You're not such a little girl anymore, Magpie."
My face fell. "Don't you start, too."
His hand curled around his stein. "I'm not startin' anything. Just sayin'…you can't lead this sort of life forever."
People smiling everywhere, boots and ribbons, locks of hair…
"What else would you have me do, don a frilly apron and chase after 10 or 11 o' those little maggots before I reach 18? Track down an unconscious husband in a piss-pot like this?"
"Of course not, Mags. I'm not hell-bent on marryin' you off, like your mother is. I'm just tryin' to tell ya not to get stuck here. Sometimes you go thousands of miles just to learn one thing you couldn't learn at home. You're a beautiful young woman, Maggie, and there's nothin' wrong with showin' that sometimes. It doesn't make you any less smart."
The sailor's gone, the room is bare, the old piano's setting there
Someone's hat's left hanging on the rack
The empty chair, the wooden floor that feels the touch of shoes no more
Awaitin' for the dancers to come back…
"I wish the rest of the world saw things that way."
"You were just born in the wrong time, Maggie," he chuckled. "Come back in fifty years." Da never failed to cheer me up.
"What's going on in fifty years?" Joseph plopped down at our table, panting and stealing a swig of Da's brew.
"Da says I've been born in the wrong time."
"Ah, well no arguin' there."
"Shove off."
"I mean it! You're startin' a trend. For all we know, you may not even have to wait fifty years to see it catch on. I'm sure every liberal-minded woman in the world can't wait to look like you."
He nodded at my apparel. I looked down at my filthy bare feet through the stringy tendrils of hair that escaped their bun, clinging to my face, sweaty from dancing. I was wearing a dress all right; my favorite one and Mum's least favorite. But the way I saw it, a dress is a dress. However, I wore Jo's hand-me-down slacks underneath, rolled up above my knees. I playfully shoved Jo for teasing me and our laughter died away. The scene changed to a grey and dismal day.
Rain threatened to break upon the village any second. We were all once again gathered at the Devil's Dowry, but under different circumstances. There were no wild jigs, no laughter, no playful banter…no joy. Outside, I leaned against the building, watching the milky white sky. Someone inside was drawing out the last few measures to "Danny Boy". I didn't look up to see who came out the door and shuffled up beside me, lighting a cigarette. I knew it was Joseph.
"I hate that song."
"You used to love it."
"Used to. Now, I hate it." Silence.
"Wish you'd stop smokin' those things, especially on a day like today."
Jo smirked. "Now, why on earth would I want to do that? Maybe I'd rather leave this fine earth rotting from the inside-out."
"Now, that's bitterness talkin', not the tobacco. It would make him happy to see those things go."
He threw down his cigarette, smothering it with his boot. "Take a good look, Maggie. Nothin's going to make him happy now."
I glanced over at the church, fully aware his body was still in there, waiting; waiting for us, for someone to take him home. "What are you going to do now?"
He stared down the street. "I don't know."
It was the first time I'd ever seen him look so—lost. His eyes, frozen, as he searched every nook and cranny of his mind for something…something to say, somewhere to go, but too tired and worn out to do so.
"I'm going back in." I waited a moment before peering through the window to watch him hug Da. Mum's closest friend, Mrs. Riley, sat with her, providing clean handkerchiefs. Mum wore her best black dress—her only black dress. I wore one too, for sake of argument, which neither of us had energy for that day.
Then Joseph stepped up to the performer's platform, fiddle in tow. He closed his eyes, shutting out the others that watched silently. The first sweet sounds of our favorite tune, "Give Me Your Hand", crept through the stale air of the pub. It was the tune Joseph and I used to sing together; the first one I played in front of an audience on the ebony pennywhistle Da got for my birthday.
I looked back at the church, which seemed to stretch far away before zooming in, halting right as my face met the door, which was open a crack. Behind me, I could hear the music change to St. Anne's Reel and wondered why. I didn't want to go into the dark church alone, but didn't want to go back to the pub either. It sounded almost joyful and this was certainly no time to be joyful. Danny died today.
I was so confused and didn't understand why. Coming to a decision, I pushed the door open the rest of the way. It sliced through dark water that rose from the floor at least a foot high. Dead ahead, Danny's coffin sat up on the altar. All I could think was that I had to get to it before the water did, before it was ruined. I waded shin-deep down the aisle, nudging floating hymnals out of my way. About halfway to the altar, I noticed the source of the water was coming from inside the coffin, leaking through the cracks. The music swelled, closing in on me, changing key to match the sinister water growing ever higher. The echo of a familiar little boy's voice accompanied it.
…A little boy says, I'll take your hat
Leap, the heart inside him went, and off across the floor he sent
His clumsy body, graceful as a child…
I wildly looked about but saw no one. "Danny?" I called out. No answer. I took a hesitant step and the singing continued.
…The empty chair, the wooden floor that feels the touch of shoes no more…
"Danny," I called again, "is that you?" Again I was met with silence. "It sounds like you, but it couldn't be." I whispered to myself. I was standing in front of the coffin now. The violin stopped. The only sound was rushing water. I had to get the lid open, see if Danny was there, yet I was afraid to touch it. A gut-feeling told me to let it be. But I had to make sure Danny was okay, that the flood didn't spread; I had to make sure everyone else was okay. I just had to make sure…
So, I threw open the lid and stood back as black water gushed out, overflowing the casket. My hand flew over my mouth, stifling a sob. The fresh lily-white corpse of a little boy lay there, Sunday suit soaked through, bluish circles under the eyes that stared in open horror into the chapel ceiling. Bloodless lips opened in a silent scream that would echo forever in my ears. And I heard the singing again, this time coming from the deep cavity of that mouth.
…A walk along the street in the wintry weather
A yellow light, an open door, and a "Welcome friend, there's room for more…"
And then his head lolled to the side, directing those lifeless eyes into mine. Only now they were Joseph's, noose still around his neck.
…And then they're standing there inside together.
Strong hands grabbed me, dragging me into the coffin. I screamed and the lid slammed shut.
Next thing I knew, I was on the floor of my room, thrashing at the blankets covering my head. I lit a candle as quickly as possible, chasing away the dark and anything that went with it. A nightmare. Another goddamned nightmare. Suddenly, that room—its memories, its drawings—became too confining and I felt claustrophobic. I stepped into a pair of slippers Christine had given me, since she had a newer pair, pulled a blanket around my shoulders and fled that room and all the horrors it brought me.
I didn't run very far before I finally collapsed on the staircase in the first cellar. As much as I disliked being in those dark cellars alone, the House would undoubtedly be dark and lonelier still. Darkness and emptiness. It seemed nigh impossible to outrun it. Everywhere I go it follows close at my heels. There was still a torch lit along the staircase, which was comforting. I let the blanket slip down my shoulder some, exposing the silvery white nightgown Meg had lent me that night we'd all come staggering back, exhausted and slightly intoxicated from La Vie En Rose. It was a summer gown so it was rather chilly albeit more practical than sleeping in one of Joseph's old shirts.
I sat on those steps, leaning my head against one of the balusters, thinking about the dream and the events of the day that contributed to it. And that bloody song going round and round in my head like a music box left open. The happy memory of the song and those that once sang it was now a bitter and twisted one. My tired eyes gazed absently down the stairs, a tear escaping from one of them. I didn't care. There was no one to see me cry, no one to hear me softly sing the last verse of St. Anne's Reel.
"And the fiddle's in the closet of some daughter of the town
The strings are broke, the bow is gone and the cover's buttoned down.
But sometimes on December nights, when the air is cold and the wind is right,
There's a melody that passes through the town."
But someone did.
Author's note: super long chapter for super long absence.
*Da: so far as I know, it's the Irish equivalent of saying Dad.
I'm planning to have some more Maggie/Erik interaction in the next chapter.
This is more or less a better glimpse into Maggie's background.