For those of you who haven't seen, I've added a couple more chapters to Giver of Life. Sorry if updates are a little slow lately. Each chapter takes anywhere from 3 to 6 days to complete. Thanks for sticking with me!
Chapter 13
Before she left that evening, Madeline made certain I was aware the condition of her feet would prevent her from rehearsing for a few days, which also meant she would not be paying me a visit. I paced myself with food and occupied my time with sketching, sorting through music, and clearing the path to the enormous furnace hidden behind the mountain of wooden crates.
Days passed uneventfully. I became somewhat restless now that a full three weeks had gone by since I had left my lakeside apartments. While there was plenty of work to be done, I was in no mood to toil for hours on end and instead entertained myself with less productive tasks.
The lake in particular interested me as it was far too dark within the cavern to see where the water met the cave wall on the other side. I stripped down to trousers and waded into the murky depths with a candle to light the way. I treaded water, candle held above my head, and continued well past where my toes could reach. Every few seconds I glanced back at the shoreline illuminated with two dozen candles on brass candelabras before I swam further into the darkness.
There was a gentle current to the water, I realized, and as I swam further out the temperature turned much cooler. The airflow became stronger as well and hissed through the unseen cave above my head. I reached my free hand out, legs scissoring through the cold flow of water until the tips of my hand hit something hard beneath the surface.
Wide-eyed, I immediately startled and pulled back, certain I had encountered a serpent of the deep. I wrenched back so hard I nearly extinguished the candle, and my jarring actions caused my face to bob beneath the gentle waves while hot wax splattered onto my fist. Before I could register what had happened, I sucked in a mouthful of water and began to choke. Desperate and alone, I flailed about until my toes skimmed the bottom of the lake. With one hand I propelled myself forward until the balls of my feet found solid ground and my head remained above water.
I coughed until I managed to expel the water from my lungs, then looked back and discovered the shoreline on the other side was further than I had expected, yet still visible. What I had thought had been a straight line of swimming had actually been quite off course, and once my eyes adjusted to my surroundings I realized I had swam a good two hundred meters at least.
Waist-deep in the water, I glanced around and discovered the other side of the lake had a shoreline as well and did not abruptly end with a cave wall as I had imagined. The object I had hit with my outstretched hand bobbed in the lapping water, and as I held out the candle for a better look I realized it was a small overturned boat.
"Daae," I whispered. The pirate had left behind a modest vessel for me to discover.
After weeks of utter boredom, the discovery thrilled me to the core. I pulled myself onto dry land and realized how impractical a single candle had been been for my excursion.
I walked dripping wet several feet along the shoreline to where two thin metal poles jutting out of the lake marked a boat ramp. I shivered as the cool air seemed to exhale an unseen breath against my naked torso. With one arm wrapped around my body, I discovered a crack in the natural wall wide enough to lodge the candle. Not the most suitable of light sources, but given the circumstances I felt quite satisfied with my resourcefulness.
Once I took a step back, I wondered about the enormity of the cave on this side of the lake. The meager light provided few details, and I hoped once I had the boat righted and on dry land I would have enough candlelight to explore a bit before I needed to return across the lake.
With both hands free, I slid back into the water and to the boat, which I guided to the ramp. Once positioned, I grit my teeth and pushed it as far as I could out of the water, but the sharp rocks along the bottom were slippery and made it difficult to find traction. I feared slicing my foot open and, given the distance I was from my side of the lake, I wasn't sure how I would swim back in the dark with only one good foot.
The vessel was also much heavier than I had anticipated, and despite my best efforts, the task proved fruitless as the capsized boat was still very much underwater.
Out of breath, I pulled myself onto dry land once more and stared at the boat. The pirate and his ship would not best me, I told myself. In my mind I pictured a man with long, thick hair rowing a boat with a dozen women surrounding him as he whisked them away to his secret abode. By candlelight he romanced them one by one and seduced them into his arms. I imagined them drinking wine from golden goblets, women stretched out on silk pillows as they sighed and listened to him play the violin. He would give an exaggerated bow before his harem begged him to join them.
I had seen my fair share of women seduced by lesser men while I traveled with the gypsies. Often when no one remembered I slept beneath the last wagons with the dogs, Garouche's youngest son or one of the other various young men would bring a wide-eyed girl from the town into the camp late at night and sneak her into his tent or into the woods. I wondered if Daae had such exploits within the Opera House, if he won the favor of unsuspecting young women only to break their hearts.
"What happened to your boat?" I wondered aloud. My voice echoed through the shadowy cavern. "And how long has it been like this?"
I imagined my uncle would have been very disappointed in the owner for leaving the boat in such condition. With a deep sigh, I made one last attempt to bring the boat ashore by lifting the front end. Squatted down at the bottom of the ramp, I lifted one side and put all of my strength into turning the boat upright, but the coating of slime coupled with the damaged wood made the task impossible.
The boat slid from my grasp and I hopped back to avoid crushing my toes. With a tremendous, reverberating crash, the warped wood split into several good sized chunks and hundreds of smaller splinters. In the same moment, the candle I had lodged into a crack came loose. From the corner of my eye I saw it fall and heard the wax clatter against stone as the flame went out.
I cursed loudly and stood motionless for several seconds, startled by the sudden darkness. Body rigid, I shuffled toward the water's edge, careful to drag the soles of my feet against the rocks rather than step onto splinters. I clenched my teeth and felt my way into the lake, my gaze trained on the distant twinkle of candlelight.
Fear coiled around me as the dark water lapped up against my chin and lips. I gulped in air and frantically swam against the current, which suddenly seemed more powerful, and pulled myself toward the lights. Twice my head went under, hair plastered to my face as I resurfaced and dreaded what would happen if I lost sight of the shoreline ahead of me.
An eternity seemed to pass, but at last the darkness gave way to the glow of a dozen candles illuminating my apartments. Relief washed over me the moment my feet touched the smoother surface on my side of the lake and I knew I had succeeded in swimming across. I glanced back at the distant shore and frowned, disappointed my adventure had come to an abrupt end yet satisfied with my discovery and thankful I had survived crossing the lake in nearly complete darkness.
I stripped out of my heavy, wet trousers and wrapped a towel around my hips. Goose flesh covered my bare arms and I shivered as I rifled through my dry clothing. From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a floor length mirror and paused.
It had been weeks since I had dared to look at my own image. My breath caught in my throat as I turned and faced the young man in the oval mirror. My hair was still dripping wet and in need of a trim as it reached my shoulders. I stepped closer, one hand securing the towel around my hips while my free hand combed through wet strands of hair. Eyes narrowed, I examined my scalp, surprised to find hair growing back from where Garouche had so easily pulled fistfulls out over the summer.
My heart beat faster. I met my own eyes briefly before I gingerly pressed my fingers against the pink flesh where I had hit my head falling down the stairs. The scar was not as bad as I had expected, and if my hair continued to grow, it would be virtually unnoticeable.
The skeletal figure had vanished, the sunken eyes, pronounced hips and protruding ribs had disappeared. My rail thin arms and legs had been strengthened by moving heavy boxes and furniture. I held my right arm out and marveled at the sinewy appearance of toned muscle beneath flesh. I was not as bulky as the strong man Eros from the circus, but I was satisfied with my transformation from a living corpse to an ordinary teenage boy-albeit with many more scars from switches.
And yet despite how much I had changed in weeks, I was still very much the same. Light eyes stared back at me, the glimmer of satisfaction extinguished once I set my gaze on the scars that had dictated my life. No amount of weight gain and passage of time would change the wounds I had possessed since birth.
After several agonizing moments of examining the scars, I grabbed a sheet and draped it over the mirror. I turned my back on my obscured reflection and thought of the handsome Gustave Daae and his many female companions. I thought of Garouche and the rest of his cruel family, of my abusive parents and my kind uncle and of Amelie Batiste, who had not seen my damaged face.
My Uncle Alak and Madeline were the only two people who had seen my unmasked flesh and had not recoiled in horror. Chest heaving, I turned on my heel and tore the sheet off the mirror. For a long moment I stared back at the monster, challenged the beast to reveal the reason my uncle and Madeline had treated me differently.
For many years I had no understanding of why my mother shrieked in horror and my father beat me several times a week. It was not until I was six or seven years of age that I first saw my reflection in a dirty oval mirror my father had shoved in my face.
Look at yourself, you filthy bastard.
He held a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back so hard I was surprised my neck did not snap. With tears threatening, I stared, wide-eyed at the bruised, swollen left side of my face and the scars on the right. I remembered with painful clarity the horror I felt seeing my misshapen bottom lip, the dragged down appearance of my eye, and uneven flesh across my cheek like flesh that had been stretched too far over bone. The face of a monster, I had thought, I had the face of a monster.
And I deserved to be feared and loathed and punished for my terrible existence. Suddenly the heavy hand and belt striking me over and over made sense. The evil needed to be beat out of me, my father said, and I wanted nothing more than to be rid of whatever wickedness he swore was within my small body.
For year the punishment continued and the only change within me was my broken spirit turned into numbness. No amount of blood letting, bones breaking, or bruises issued changed the evilness my father saw when he looked at me. After a while, the beatings became routine and I forgot why he struck me. One glance in the mirror and I was acutely aware of why he loathed me.
As swiftly as anger and desperation had threatened to take over my emotions, the sensation subsided and I forced myself to take a deep breath. I relaxed my clenched fists, dropped my shoulders, and stood up straighter. Green eyes stared back as I lifted my chin and looked myself over one more time.
I would not be bested by the titles I had been given by Garouche or my father. I would be whatever my uncle and Madeline had seen in me. Imperfect, I knew, but if they had seen worth, I would find value in myself, just as my uncle had told me to while we traveled together.
I left the mirror uncovered, turned away, and dressed for bed. From the corner of my eye I saw my reflection at a distance and strangely the hatred I felt for myself seemed less prominent.
That night I had no dreams or nightmares, at least none I could recall. The stranglehold of the past had loosened its grip and I slipped free, if only for a moment. The wickedness my father spoke of never surfaced, and for that I was grateful. Perhaps he was incorrect after all. Perhaps I had the potential to be more than a monster.