II
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"Stop running … so fast! … You're not … playing … fair!" Christine called out breathlessly to her friend as she chased him over the wild and windy barren hill. He had earlier diverted her attention from their race to their favorite spot by tugging her scarf over her eyes and stealing a head start – as if he needed one!
Erik jumped atop a flat gray boulder, and grinned down at her. "Ah, but my Little Angel, when have I ever played fair?" He jumped down like a cat, his body long and limber as he again raced for the top of the hill of tall stones, this time turning backward as he ran, taunting her. "Come, Christine! I thought you wanted to be a dancer. You must run long distances to work those flaccid muscles."
"Ohhh!" She growled, wondering how he didn't fall over his own feet when he did that.
But he never fell, and he always won. Of course, he was a good four or five years older, she guessed, though no one really knew since he didn't even know his true age. But her legs had grown longer now that she'd turned twelve, and they were most certainly not flaccid!
Now that the snows had finally melted and winter no longer kept them bound indoors, she could run almost as fast as he could. Though he would always be taller, especially if he kept growing, as he did each year that passed. While she was still much too short, and that was so unfair.
"I . . .would … much rather be . . . a singer," she called as she tried to pick up speed.
"What's that?" he cupped a hand to his ear. "I can't understand you when you keep gasping for breath." He laughed and whirled back around.
Infuriating! That's what he was. Why did he never seem to lose his own breath, no matter how long or hard or fast he ran? Of course, she knew he did, but right now he seemed more wildcat than human.
He stopped abruptly near a large cluster of rocks they usually climbed to reach the summit. With a burst of speed she crossed the distance, throwing her slight weight against his back and her arms around his torso, but he was too strong to tackle to the ground and she only caused him to stumble forward a step.
He had grown very still.
"What is it?" She moved around him to look at his eye, which was both somber and angry behind the eye-hole of the cloth tied around his face, then dropped her gaze toward the ground where he stared.
"Oh, look!" she breathed in delight.
A nest of baby animals, pink and without fur, nestled together in the protective crevasse of the flat stones for warmth. She wasn't sure what they were, they were too tiny to tell, but she thought they might be hares. A short distance apart from them, another baby lay, smaller and shriveled, not as plump as the others. The mama was nowhere in sight.
"I hope she didn't … get eaten by a wolf," Christine panted, not paying attention to Erik who bent to the ground. He stood quickly. She looked up then gasped.
"Erik – no!" She grabbed his arm with both hands, trying to keep him from hurling a fist-sized stone at the poor little creature.
"Why not?" he asked bitterly. "Its mother doesn't want it. See how it lies apart from the others? Unprotected. Alone. Because it's ugly. A FREAK." His mouth pulled into a thin, angry line. "It doesn't deserve to live."
"It doesn't deserve to die either!"
"It would be kinder to the creature to kill it," he growled.
"How can you say that?" she cried. "How can you be so mean?"
"Because I'm the devil's child, that's why!"
"STOP IT! I don't care what they called you at that stupid gypsy carnival. You're no such thing! You're my friend!"
He wrenched his arm away from her and brought it higher and back to hurl the rock.
"NO!" she screamed, rushing at him.
He quickly sidestepped her then threw the rock with a vengeance. It landed a foot away from the poor little animal. She knew had Erik wanted to, he could have easily killed the creature. His aim was never off.
He backed away, tears filling his eyes that were now wild and distraught. He clapped his hands to the sides of his head, clutching fistfuls of hair, as if past memories were now his tormentors. What she could see of his face contorted in agonized fury, his eyes squeezing shut.
"Erik?" she whispered, frightened and worried by his strange behavior.
"AGGGHHH! DAMN YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID TO ME!"
With a hoarse, animalistic cry, he fled from her as if he'd not heard her quiet question and somehow she knew his curse hadn't been directed toward her.
"Erik – wait! PLEASE, WAIT…! STOP!"
Christine ran after him, still exhausted from their earlier run. "Please, stop!" Her voice came raspy. Still she ran until her legs trembled so badly that she fell. On hands and knees, she watched him flee down the rocky hill as if the ghost hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. And maybe they were. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"ERR-IIIIK!"
A sudden storm split the afternoon sky, now boiling with dark clouds, and the rain fell in torrents. She knelt on the sodden earth, her hair plastered to her face, her tears mixing with the rain.
"Oh, Erik," she sobbed in a whisper, dropping her head forward in defeat.
Slowly, she stood and walked back to the little nest. She took the poor, withered, hairless gray creature and tucked him inside her bodice, pulling her coat tighter, trying to keep him warm against her skin though he was so cold. Silent and forlorn, she trudged down the hill. The rain had lessened by the time she approached the gates leading into the courtyard. A strange horse and carriage stood in front of the doors. She was halfway across the pavement when one of them suddenly opened.
Berta came running from the house, despite the rain and her fear of banshees, and embraced her, smothering her in her hold. "Christine, Oh, Christine – my poor dear child!"
"What is it, Berta?" Fear clutched her heart. "Is it Erik?"
"Erik? No, child. It's ..." Tears swam in the housekeeper's eyes. "It's your father ... His heart. It was so good, but it just grew tired and gave out. He's ..."
"Pa -pa ...?" Christine's eyes widened in horror as she stared at Berta and slowly called out for him. Not wanting to hear more, she backed away from her old nursemaid in disbelief, ignoring her, then turned and bolted for the door.
"Pa-pa?"
He wasn't in the main room or in the kitchen or in the parlor or in his library.
"PA-PA?"
She ran upstairs and found him lying in his bed. A strange man with thick black whiskers and long sideburns stood inside the room. "Papa?" she whispered, almost afraid to go near as she glanced at the unsmiling stranger then back at her father. His face was the color of the ashes in the hearth.
"Come here, my Little Lotte." His grating voice didn't sound like himself either, but his eyes were Papa's, gentle, brown and caring, and she ran to the bed, pressing herself against him.
"You must promise me … you will be a good girl." His hand trembled as he gently stroked her head. "I must go … to be with your mother."
"Go? No, Papa! Why?" Tears trickled down her face as she looked at him. "I don't want you to go!"
"Shh. There now. You must be brave and strong … and if you are very good … I will send you the Angel of Music …"
"Papa – no. Papa, please don't go, please don't leave me," she wailed quietly, again and again, burying her face in his shirt.
Suddenly his body stiffened as hard as a board and he let out a strangled gasp. "Papa?" She looked at his face. His eyes were turned toward the ceiling in pain and did not blink.
"Get her out of here," she heard the strange man order gruffly.
"Come, child..." Berta's hands went to her shoulders, pulling her away.
"NO!" She screamed and broke from her hold, running back for the bed, falling to the mattress to hug her father's still form. "No, Papa … NO! … Papa … Papa, come back! Stay with me, PLEASE stay with me," she whimpered.
The stranger's arms roughly pulled her away. Suddenly she found herself outside Papa's room with the door shut in her face. She gripped the latch and pushed it down but it wouldn't budge. She screamed until her throat burned and pummeled her fists against the wood until her hands stung, but they wouldn't let her back inside. She turned to see Henri watching. He didn't glare or smirk, but his pig eyes were stony and cruel.
In despair, she whirled and ran down the stairs and outside the manor, uncaring of the rain that again fell harder, running as fast as she could until her lungs burned, toward the stables, running until she pitched forward in a pile of hay and there, curled up into a ball.
Remembering the poor little hare, she fished him from her bodice. He too, was gray, as gray as Papa's face, and as still and cold as before. With a shaky hand, she laid him down gently and covered him with a blanket of hay. "I-I'm so s-s-sorry … P-p-papa will t-take care of you now," she whispered. "H-he takes care of all God's c-creatures." Then she covered her face with both hands and wept, her entire body shaking.
A large gentle hand grasped her shoulder from behind.
"Christine …" His voice came quiet, tinged with sorrow.
Whirling around, she threw herself into Erik's arms.
"N-n-never go a-away," she begged him, her voice trembling as her body shook with the chill and with grief. She moved her head against his chest to look up at him. "P-promise me, Erik, n-n-never leave me! P-p-p-promise me . . ." She buried her face in his wet shirt that smelled of his scent and the wind and the rain and the moors. "I-if you do, I'll die too."
"I'm here, my Little Angel," he whispered against her ear, his hand stroking her dripping hair as he embraced her just as tightly. "I'm here …"
She wept violently against his chest, taking comfort in him as she burrowed in his strength.
Only later did she realize he never promised.
xXx