I hope you all love Phelan Kimmer as much as I do. He's a character that I don't always know what he is going to say or do, but he is always fun to write.
Ch 148
Lan had made no mention of our Great Aunt living in Skyderhelm, much less an extended family that lived in close proximity to our grandparents. With Toke and Hilda's blessing, I walked out of the house and down the stone path to the road where there was not a house in sight.
I turned back toward my grandparents' home, intending to ask for clarification, and saw Toke in the doorway. He pointed to the left and said, "A ways down."
I took a breath, deciding a ways down was not a very specific form of distance before I set out along the road, having no idea if my brother and our relatives were a mere half-mile walk or five mile distance.
Whether it took me a few minutes or the better part of an hour to reach my destination made no difference to me as I was thankful for the distraction of a clear autumn day in the country.
I had grown accustomed to the hustle and bustle of Paris, the sound of progress with trains, wagons, and carriages providing a constant buzz outside of my bedroom window from dawn until late into the evening.
Even my nightly walks were filled with noise in the distance whether it was the taverns and restaurants bursting with music and laughter from their patrons or dogs barking in the neighborhood.
I shielded my eyes from the sun with my hand and surveyed my surroundings. The terrain gently sloped up and meandered around a bend, following an endless stretch of pastures with no hills or mountains for as far I could see. The breeze whispered through the fields, warm and sweet with the scent of wheat and barley. The crops had turned golden, the fields ready for harvest as summer came to an end.
I thought of the home outside of Calais where my family would spend the warmer months, away from the noise and stifling crowds of the city. No plumes of smoke from the factories or noise from public houses would ruin our tranquility. We would be surrounded by the chirp of crickets at night and birdsong during the day along with my music and our own conversation. There would be nights spent reading together in the parlor after supper and mornings enjoyed outside in the garden over tea and a light breakfast.
The countryside would provide endless inspiration for my music and time spent together. I smiled to myself, content with the possibilities the future would hold for myself, Julia and the three children who would grow up both in Paris and our new summer estate, surrounded not only by our immediate family, but Meg, Charles, their twins, and hopefully frequent visits from Madeline, Claude and Apolline, and my brother.
Eventually a little yellow house came into view, with two red barns and a silo peeking out from behind the line of trees like a landscape painting come to life. Three horses grazed near the fence, one of which decided to walk with me toward the house, its black tail swishing back and forth.
"You are a fine fellow," I said to the chestnut horse, which snorted and continued alongside me on the opposite side of the fence. "A fine lady," I corrected myself. "My apologies, mademoiselle."
Perhaps Lisette and Alex would enjoy having a couple of horses along with riding lessons. Out of all the animals Alex had begged me for from camels to a giraffe, he had never asked for a pony–not even after visiting with Amelie Batiste and her family. I imagined he and Lisette would nearly burst with excitement if we added a pair of ponies to the estate.
I thought of the dangers Hilda had described in forbidding her son to ride a horse and the worry that accompanied rearing a child. I thought of Julia and her current condition, of how we were thirty-six hours and hundreds of miles apart from one another.
My heart beat faster with thoughts of childhood and danger, of giving Lisette and Alex everything I had been denied at their age while also increasing the likelihood of bumps and bruises.
Two dragonflies zipped past me, darting across the road and back again. They moved up and down, the clatter of their wings like the pages of a flip book creating an animation.
I paused on the side of the road, removed my mask, and wiped my forehead as I observed the insects.
Instinct told me I should not have removed my mask, not in broad daylight and not in an unfamiliar place. There was no one around, I reasoned, and the terrain was flat enough where I could have easily seen someone approaching.
Slowly I allowed myself to relax, my mask held loosely in my right hand. Taking a deep breath, I stood and watched the insects float along the breeze together, their paths crossing as they dashed back and forth several feet in front of me.
I remained still for a long moment and observed the two unexpected visitors. The sunlight was warm and welcomed on my exposed flesh, the breeze rustling my clothing as I stood alone, mesmerized by their delicate ballet.
Out of all of the fears that had plagued me for as long as I could recall, the one that caused me the most anxiety was the idea of being alone. Many nights, fighting through the pain of fresh welts and bruises, I wondered what would happen if I died in the cellar, my last moments spent curled up beneath the stairs. I would agonize over how long it would be before my father discovered my body and if he would bury me in the grave he had marked for me years earlier or if he would toss me out like refuse into the woods.
I had feared once my uncle passed that I would die without anyone at my side, that I would rot away, my bones carried off by vultures and wolves with no one ever knowing I existed.
In Persia I had dreaded the thought of being executed before hundreds of people, my body covered in lashes and face exposed for all to see, with not a single person mourning my death. The last sounds I would ever hear would be their taunts, the hatred of criminals and royalty alike.
One of the dragonflies landed on my mask, resting briefly on the nose. I didn't dare move my head, looking at the insect from the corner of my eye, memorizing the long, thin shape of its blue body and the iridescent glint of light on its delicate wings with their pattern that reminded me of stained glass. It was oddly beautiful, its color rich like a living jewel.
I smiled to myself as the dragonfly took flight, and just as swiftly as they had paid me a visit, they disappeared into the pasture, weaving their way through the wind toward their next destination.
I remained still for a while, enjoying the peace that came with the open land and the ability to be comfortable in my own skin.
As I stood on the side of the desolate road, I realized I no longer feared loneliness as I had in the past, that being in my own company didn't make me feel dreadfully anxious or lonely.
Hundreds of miles away in Paris, my family waited for my return. A ways up the road, my brother was visiting other relatives while behind me, my grandmother prepared supper for her husband and her grandsons when we returned later in the afternoon.
No matter if I turned around or continued straight ahead, someone was waiting for me, and the thought, though overwhelming, was nonetheless welcomed.
oOo
The horse that had followed alongside me stopped once the resident donkey trotted toward the fence line and brayed, signaling my arrival at the house. The beast continued its obnoxious call until the mare wisely turned and trotted back to her companions, leaving me to find my way on my own.
I fit my mask into place and continued past the donkey, nearing a flock of little white and red hens that strutted around in the grass near the house, pecking at the ground in search of insects. They slowly parted as I approached the dirt path, clucking in protest as I invaded their preferred spot for lunch.
A rooster, which I didn't see until the last moment, came screaming out of the bushes directly at me, claws extended and red wings fluttering in a blur of feathers, comb, and sharp claws.
At the last moment, the rooster flew past me, its path curbed by an old, one-eyed farm dog that bolted after it, awakened from its nap beneath the shady trees. The rooster landed on a fence post, wings extended and golden eyes carefully watching me and my proximity to its flock of hens while the dog barked several times and wagged its tail, clearly proud of himself.
No sooner had I turned to pat the dog on the head when a billy goat bleated and charged at me, head down and horns ready to plow into me at an alarming speed.
Thankfully the goat stopped short several feet from me thanks to the rope around its neck, which was frayed in several spots but thankfully still secured to the tree. My heart still beat wildly from the near- disastrous encounter.
"My God, what is wrong with these highly irritating creatures?" I muttered under my breath, deciding I much preferred Paris to the rural life in Skyderhelm with its attack roosters and charging goats.
Alex would have been quite amused while Lisette would have been horrified by my plight. Bessie, I was certain, would have hid behind me, deciding she would much rather be protected than be the protector.
Perhaps life in the country was not as tranquil as I had first imagined.
The old farm dog wagged its tail with such force that his entire back end wiggled. He panted,waiting for me to continue petting his head as a reward for his assistance, which I gratefully obliged.
"Ah, there you are," my brother said as he rounded the corner. "And causing a commotion with that damned rooster and Gammel Ged, I see."
"Gammel Ged? The goat's name is Old Goat?" I skeptically asked. The yellow-eyed beast remained on the end of his tether and stared at me, pawing at the ground as if he wished for a second challenge.
Phelan shrugged. "I have no idea what his name is, but that's what I call him, although I'm somewhat surprised that he hasn't been referred to as Sunday night stew with how he behaves. Meanest old goat in Denmark, as far as I am concerned. Aren't you, Gammel Ged?"
The goat snorted and pawed at the ground, which I took as a warning that he did not like the name my brother had assigned him.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Visiting. What are you doing?"
"I went looking for you out of concern."
"You needn't be concerned."
"Of course I need to be concerned. You stormed off," I pointed out. "And you've been gone for an hour."
"Yes, I suppose I did storm off and I apologize. Come," Lan said, nodding toward the back of the house. "We don't have to stay long, but I would like you to meet Ingrid and Fabell, our Great Aunt and cousin." He placed his hand on my shoulder. "Who thankfully are quite benign compared to their attack rooster and goat."
oOo
"They are quite hard of hearing, possibly more so than Toke and Hilda," Lan warned me as we walked toward the rear of the home.
"Wonderful. I feel as though my voice is already strained from shouting all morning with Hilda."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said–" I stopped myself before I finished and shook my head at my brother. "You are impossible. Worse than dealing with a child."
"Far worse," he agreed, grinning like a mad fool, clearly proud of himself for nearly tricking me into repeating my words.
We rounded the corner where Great Aunt Ingrid and her daughter, Fabell, sat in the midday sun, their faces shaded by small, somewhat frayed white umbrellas on thin poles that were attached to the backs of their chairs.
There was a small folding table between them with two cups of tea and a pot of water beside a tray of sandwiches and half-eaten cakes.
The two older women looked more like sisters than mother and daughter, such was their ancient appearance. To put it simply they were old, perhaps the two oldest looking people I'd ever seen in my entire life, and I had once traveled in the fair with a gentleman from China billed as the oldest living person in the world. Ingrid and Fabell far surpassed him, at least by appearance, and as I approached I wasn't certain who was the mother and who was the daughter.
I thought of the myriad times I had relentlessly told Madeline that she was ancient to me despite the seven year age difference between us. My God, you walk as though the reaper is upon your back. Next year you will turn one hundred, correct? You were born before France was a country.
Madeline's aching knee often made her walk with great care through the house, and the cane she had used since her ballet injury long ago added to her appearance of being quite aged, but in truth she was often more youthful than me–at least in her mind.
You are as cantankerous and crotchety as they come, she would tell me. Or, instead of grumbling at me from under her breath, she would strike me in the shin with the tip of her cane and hobble away.
"Ingrid," Phelan shouted in German. "This is Erik. My brother. Say hello."
Our Great Aunt turned her head to look at me, her light eyes clouded over. She stared in my general direction and nodded, but didn't speak, and her slow movement as well as her large, hook nose reminded me of a tortoise.
"Fabell," Phelan shouted to our aunt's daughter. "This is–"
"I heard," the younger of the two groused. Her voice sounded like the croak of a frog.
"Good, at least one of you can still hear me."
"You're the one who writes music, yes?" Fabell asked me. She leaned forward, her cane clutched between both of her bony hands.
"I am."
"Speak louder, young man," she croaked.
"I–"
"He is," Phelan answered loudly on my behalf. "Come now, you are aware I only have one brother, Fabell. Who else could it possibly be?"
Her face lit up. "Oh, how wonderful! Will you play for us?"
I looked around their back garden as if an instrument might appear from the hanging flower baskets or fields behind us. "I'm afraid I don't have my violin."
"Is that all you play?" she asked, sounding quite disappointed.
"No, I could play almost any instrument," I answered.
"What did he say?" Ingrid shouted.
"He said he doesn't have his violin," Phelan shouted.
"What about an organ?" Fabell asked.
I turned to Phelan, who shrugged, before stepping toward the two older women.
"Do you have an organ on the premises?"
Ingrid lifted her thin, liver-spotted hand and pointed at the barn.
"You have an organ in the barn?" I questioned, my brow furrowed.
"My husband was a pastor," she said, her froggy voice nearly identical to her daughter.
That didn't quite answer my question, but Phelan and I exchanged looks. Together we walked toward the barn in search of an organ I doubted existed in good enough repair to play.
"Were you planning on returning to our grandparents' home or did you expect me to wander down the road and find you?" I asked.
"I was about to return when you happened to run into a bit of trouble with a rooster and a goat."
"How was I supposed to know there was a rooster and goat guarding the premises?"
"I suppose you would not. Although after how this morning went, I'd prefer a run-in with Gammel Ged and Vred Hane to arguing with Toke over his use of ladders and such. That man is absolutely as stubborn as that loud donkey."
We approached the barn and I turned to face my brother. "Gammel Ged and Vred Hane?" I questioned. "You have named them Old Goat and Angry Rooster or that is what our Great Aunt and cousin call them?"
"My names and they are quite fitting, unless you have better names for the demon animals, Kire?" Lan asked, lifting a brow.
"I suppose not."
"Good," he jovially responded. "Now, let's see what's inside of this dilapidated barn, shall we?"
He gripped the metal handle, the screws of which were quite rusted and loose, and the barn door groaned as it opened. Everything on the farm seemed to be well past its prime from the owners to the animals and the barn. The red paint had peeled off in large sheets, the wood beneath green with moss, and there were enough spaces in the rotting wooden siding to allow light into the interior. I looked up and noticed a small hole in the roof that illuminated the dirt and straw beneath our feet.
Several birds flew out from the loft as we entered the barn, and we were greeted by the putrid smell of rotting hay and damp.
"Is it just Ingrid and Fabell?" I asked, covering my mouth and nose with my sleeve as we walked through a swirling dust mote. It seemed far too big of a property for two elderly women to tend on their own, but my grandparents still ran a dairy and harvested barley with no outside assistance.
"Fabell has two sons, who are blacksmiths in town," Phelan answered. "They close their shop in the spring to plant and in the fall to harvest. Outside of that, they don't spend much time here from what I understand.
He stood with his hands on his hips and looked around the barn. There were multiple wooden crates and various items hidden beneath dust-covered tarps alongside a mud covered plow, horse tack, and other farming tools.
"Well, this appears to be a lost cause…" Lan sighed.
"There, in the corner," I said, nodding toward the back of the barn.
Phelan skeptically eyed me.
"I can see the pipes from here," I said.
He followed my gaze and nodded. "That's the organ?"
"It might be in several pieces," I said as I walked across the length of the barn and tugged at the corner of the tarp, which was much heavier than I had anticipated thanks to several stones keeping it in place. I dug my heels into the dirt and the draping slowly gave way to a colossal pipe organ.
Dust flew up, creating an impressive cloud that wheeled toward the ceiling and loft above us, disturbing several more birds, an owl and more mice than I cared to count, all of which scurried out past our boots and squeezed through the spaces between the wood panels.
We left the tarp in a heap and stood marveling at the sheer size of the abandoned organ.
"Have you played one of these before?" Phelan asked.
"I have. I actually constructed one many years ago."
My thoughts were drawn to the fifth cellar of the Opera House and the pipe organ I had discovered disassembled. The pipes had been gathered in separate piles bound together with rope and placed in several long crates. One of the wind chambers had been cracked and the keyboard broken. I had no idea where it had come from or how long it had been abandoned, but I'd dedicated three months to restoring the instrument to its former glory.
"I have no idea why I would be surprised by this information. Of course you constructed a gigantic organ in your spare time. Why wouldn't you?"
"I had nothing but time," I muttered as I stepped toward our discovery and took a visual inventory, surprised that the pipes seemed to be intact and the keys in decent repair. The wood frame was in perfect condition despite being housed in a barn, and I assumed the tarp had saved it from water damage.
"This organ was in the Opera Populair, I assume?" my brother asked.
"Yes, in scattered heaps through the cellar, which was a sort of grave yard for instruments and props that were no longer in use."
"And your home," Phelan said under his breath.
He sounded somewhat irritated by my words, but when I glanced in my brother's direction, his expression was one of melancholy.
"The night I escaped from the traveling fair," I said without looking at him. "I ran barefoot through the streets wearing nothing more than tattered trousers and a burlap sack covering my head, having no idea what I was doing or where I was headed."
I could feel him staring at me from the corner of my eye, digesting the scenario I described.
"You are thinking of a cellar like the one in Conforeit," I said. "This was not a small, confined space."
"What was it?" he questioned.
"An enormous cave," I answered. "The floors were heated from the natural spring that flowed beneath the Opera House and bubbled into the lake. It had high ceilings in some parts and the acoustics were almost better than the theater itself."
"It must have been dark," he commented.
His voice was still quite rough, not with anger, but with concern for the life I had lived without him to protect me. I knew if he would have found me when we were still young, he would have sacrificed his own comfort for mine, giving up meals so that I would not go hungry and sleeping on the floor so that I would have a bed.
"I had plenty of candles and a furnace, and there was light across the lake."
He grunted, unsatisfied with my reply, and I turned to fully face him.
"That night, when I fled with a stranger, I started with nothing, Lan. My trousers were torn and stained, my stomach was empty, and I stood no chance of surviving on my own. The fifth cellar was supposed to be temporary, three or four days at most while I waited for the traveling fair to leave Paris."
"What made you decide to stay there? Underground?"
I briefly lowered my gaze. "Because," I said, forcing myself to meet his eye. "It was the only place that I had ever slept without waking to the sound of footsteps pounding down wooden stairs or the sound of a metal door opening and someone standing over me, angry as hell and wishing to take their frustration out on me."
I paused and swallowed hard, remembering the nights I tinkered with old clocks and revived the time pieces and the stockings and gloves I repaired. I was able to spend hours piecing together a clock, oiling the parts and fitting springs into place without once dreading the sound of my father approaching or Garouche growling my name.
"I made a forgotten cellar into a livable space, one furnished with a wardrobe and linens, a full pantry, violin, and an organ I restored. By no means was it a palace, but it was mine and I was proud of what I built for myself–and despite the darkness and the loneliness, I had peace. It was a feeling I'd never experienced before."
Phelan took a breath. "I suppose given your affinity to music you must have been in your element living near the Opera House."
Near wasn't quite the correct description, but it was evident that Phelan was not comfortable with my prior living arrangements beneath the theater and I had my doubts he would ever accept my time there. I had little desire to continue speaking of my past and cleared my throat of dust, deciding to change the subject.
"Where did you and Joshua live in Paris? I don't believe you've ever said the location of the flat his aunt owned."
"Seventeen-fourteen Rue de Carnie," he answered. "A little under a mile from the Opera Populaire, almost directly across the street from La Petite."
I furrowed my brow. "What was La Petite?"
"You've never heard of La Petite?" Phelan questioned me as if I were mad. "It's a garden cafe, once famous for its weekend entertainment. From seven until three in the morning there was music, dancing…women," he said, wagging his eyebrows. They had a very large wooden sign on their roof of a woman in a red dress holding a shovel. She was La Petite Mademoiselle. Surely you've seen the sign." He gestured with his hands. "Blond curls, blue eyes, she had enormous… never mind."
I stared blankly at him, having no recollection of the sign he described.
Phelan's eyes bulged. "This does not ring a bell or perhaps blow an organ pipe?"
I crossed my arms. "I am beginning to think La Petite is some sort of delusion you conjured up."
My brother sputtered from the insult. "Delusion indeed. It's still open, but the new management turned it into a dull little garden restaurant that only serves breakfast and lunch. The food is good, but the women aren't as entertaining, shall we say? And poor La Petit Mademoiselle, it is rumored she was turned into firewood. May she rest in peace," he dramatically added.
I shook my head at his words. "And you were a regular at this establishment prior to the new ownership?"
"A regular nuisance, perhaps. I was sixteen and drawn like a miserable moth to a deadly flame to that damnable sign."
I walked around behind the organ and discovered the metal apparatus connecting the organ pipes to the bellows were welded into place.
"Do you think you could play this?" Lan asked.
"Of course," I answered.
"Of course," my brother mumbled.
"But you would have to open and close the bellows in order for there to be enough airflow to play the notes." I motioned for him to follow me around to the back of the organ where the bellows were located.
Phelan scratched his forehead. "Do I get musical credit for playing such a crucial role?"
"If you insist."
"Of course I do."
Thankfully the organ was not as enormous as some I had read about in ancient cathedrals where the instruments had hundreds of pipes and dozens of bellows that required the labor of fifty men to keep them operating. The one within the barn utilized two that were side-by-side and easily controlled by one individual–or so I assumed. Most likely whatever church had housed the organ employed two men to keep the pipes sufficiently supplied with air for the organist.
"This takes as much skill as keeping a fire from dying," Phelan said when I attempted to show him how the bellows worked. "I do not believe I will need a full tutorial."
We were unable to locate a bench, but there was a stool that looked ready to collapse at any given moment, which we left in the corner. I flexed my hands and stood in front of the keyboard, familiarizing myself with the layout as it had been quite some time since I had played anything with keys.
"Are you ready?" Phelan asked as he popped out from behind the organ, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, displaying his well-toned forearms.
"I suppose," I answered.
"Well, get on with it," he replied.
The first notes sounded miserably flat as the air rumbled through the pipes. Dust spurted out, as well as a dead bird, that landed beside me, and I paused, disheartened by the initial sound.
"I think there's a hole somewhere," I said. "Probably in one of the bellows from the sound of it."
"And here I thought you were passing gas."
I rolled my eyes at his juvenile words and heard the same sound again as he pumped one of the handles. Unable to contain myself, I snorted with laughter as his observation was childish but correct.
"See?" Lan said, peeking out from behind the organ. He grinned back at me.
"You are a child," I groused.
"Try again," Phelan insisted. "I'll force more air through, this time without laughing."
I took a breath and played several chords, jumping as the music streamed through the pipes with better clarity. I had to press the keys harder than I initially expected, but the second attempt was much more promising and I found myself engrossed in the act of playing, my thoughts harkening back to the days when I played without ever recording the music on paper, allowing the notes to flow through me freely, my mind wandering.
Learning to play an instrument with keys had taken me far longer than the violin. Remaining seated proved more difficult as I often wandered through my apartments with my violin, my movements guided by the music. The organ was more confining and the bench was too low for me to ever be truly comfortable. After a while, I raised the organ and stood, finding that my shoulders were more relaxed and the music came easier to me.
At last Phelan emerged from behind the organ, his forehead beaded with sweat and chest heaving. "I believe it would be far easier with two people or if you played a shorter composition."
"Perhaps so," I agreed. "But you did a fine job on your own."
"I appreciate the flattery," he said, clapping me on the back. "What was that, if I may ask?"
"Nothing in particular."
He narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean?"
"I made it up as I went along."
Phelan blew air past his lips. "Your musical genius is exhausting, but I admit you did a fine job for your first performance in a barn."
"First and probably last," I said, wiping my dust covered hands on my trousers.
"I do believe your audience enjoyed the music."
I turned toward the open barn doors, spotting our great aunt, cousin, the farm dog, and the goat, who appeared to have chewed through the rope around his neck. Ingrid and Fabell clapped with as much enthusiasm as I would have expected for people of their age while the dog scratched its neck and the goat chewed on the end of the rope dangling from its mouth.
"I cannot wait to see how this audience compares to the one in Paris next month at the Golden Palace, little brother," Phelan commented.
I shook my head, eyeing the goat as it lowered his head, then turned and trotted away. "I do believe nothing will compare to Gammel Ged's approval."
Adding an author's note that dragonflies are seen as a sign of hope :)