Ch 149

Phelan and I stayed briefly at our Great Aunt and cousin's home as both women decided to return indoors and nap until Fabell's two sons returned from town.

Both women were fluent in German and Danish, and although Ingrid said very little to either of us, she expressed her adoration for my brother and thanked us both for visiting their home.

"Take the organ if you like," she said to me as she took my arm and I walked her back into their house. She shuffled along the grass, her feet never once lifting from the ground. With her poor eyesight and unsteady steps, she clutched my arm, thin fingers digging into my flesh as I guided her up the stairs.

"A very generous offer, one that I greatly appreciate," I said before Phelan could tell her it wasn't feasible to disassemble and move the instrument across Europe.

"Will you visit again?" Fabell asked.

"If there is time," Phelan assured her once he had escorted her into her bedroom.

A younger female caretaker dressed in white appeared in the hall and took over for us. She seemed particularly pleased to see my brother and blushed when he acknowledged her.

Gammel Ged was resting near the old dog when we walked down toward the road, chewing on the end of the rope, while the attack rooster, Vred Hane, stayed near his flock and crowed once in warning. He puffed up his feathers as if to emphasize his point, but didn't bother giving chase.

"Our hotel room should be ready," Phelan said. "If you'd like to take supper with Hilda and Toke, we can eat first and then enjoy our baths and relax for the evening."

Once Phelan mentioned a quiet night back at our hotel, I yawned. For thirty-six hours of doing nothing more than sit on a train, I was more exhausted than I expected and looked forward to soaking in hot water.

"What time do they eat supper?" I asked, fishing my watch from my pocket.

"Within the hour," he answered.

"They eat supper at four?"

"They're in their eighties, Kire. Ingrid and Fabell are napping as we speak and Toke and Hilda will be in bed for the night no later than seven."

I couldn't imagine sleeping at seven. For years I had stayed up until three in the morning, sometimes bent over my desk with a pen in hand, willing my muse to deliver a musical score like no other. Some nights, frustrated by the lack of inspiration, I walked alone through the city, hands in my pockets and head down late into the night when the pubs were closed and the streets empty.

When I retired at three, Madeline usually woke to start her day around five, irritating the hell out of me by humming as she heated her coffee and made breakfast, waking me in the process. I swore she rattled pots and pans around for no other reason than to disrupt me as she disliked my schedule and thought I would remedy my ways and adhere to her schedule.

"Toke should be calmer by now," Phelan mentioned.

"Good."

"I apologize for the argument earlier," Phelan said. "He is as prideful as they come. Did you know he broke his ankle last summer?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"Ingrid." He paused and looked me over. "You are not as surprised as I expected. Did you know?"

"Hilda told me."

Phelan came to an abrupt halt. "And I suppose she told you not to tell me?"

I hesitated, having no desire to be embroiled in an argument with my brother while on holiday.

"She doesn't want you to worry," I explained. "But I intended to tell you anyway as I assumed you would worry regardless."

"They need to hire help," Phelan said firmly. "Both for the farm operation and domestic duties. They are well past the age where it's safe for them to continue on as they did years ago. Hell, at my age I would be considering retirement if I owned a farm of this size and I'm forty years younger than the two of them."

"I believe they are aware of their needs."

"Then why does he insist on carrying on alone? First the fractured ankle and now a fall from a ladder where he could have broken his ribs or his back. And then what?"

Phelan looked at me, but continued speaking before I could reply.

"Those are merely two examples of Toke's pride, which will be the death of him if he doesn't hire someone to tend to the herd and the death of me if I have to increase my visits to keep an eye on him," my brother muttered more to himself than to me. "It's too dangerous at his age, but God forbid he listens to me. Why listen to reason when you can be trampled by twelve cows and be found hours later by your wife, laid out in the dark?"

I said nothing in return, preferring to stare straight ahead and allow Phelan to grumble to his heart's content. As it was, I doubted he wanted my opinion on the matter.

"You disagree?" he asked at last.

"Of course not."

"Then why haven't you replied?"

"What would you like me to say?"

"'Yes, Phelan, my handsome and exceptionally intelligent older brother, you are correct as always.' What do you think I want you to say?"

"You are correct," I said. "The rest seems unnecessary."

He sighed, annoyed by my response. "We will speak of it later."

The house came into view and we walked the rest of the way in silence, with Phelan kicking a rock down the dirt road to entertain himself. He trudged ahead of me once we stepped onto the footpath and opened the front door without knocking.

"Grandsons," Hilda said as she lifted her head and greeted us with a smile from her armchair. She set aside the stocking she had started to repair and climbed to her feet with a bit of effort.

Toke sat beside her, hands folded and eyes closed. He stirred, but didn't open his eyes, preferring to mutter something incoherently.

"Supper time," Hilda announced in Danish. She looked at me and Lan and shook her head. "Far too thin. My beloved Phelan needs a wife and my dear Erik, does your wife cook for you?"

"Julia makes plenty of food for our entire family," I assured her.

"But is she a good cook?" She pinched my side and frowned. "I will send you home with some of my recipes for putting meat on these pitiful bones. She will thank me later."

"You will not hear the end of it, I assure you," Phelan said to me as we took our same seats around the dining room table. "Every single time she wishes to stuff me like I'm off to market."

It was early enough in the day where the sun illuminated both the parlor and the dining room through the windows on the west side of the house, but still Hilda had placed her best brass candelabras on either side of a floral centerpiece that appeared freshly picked with flowers and herbs. A burgundy runner with gold tassels completed her setting.

Toke took his place at the head of the table and inhaled, nodding in approval of the meal while Hilda extended her hands and asked Phelan to lead a prayer, which he did with a bit of reluctance.

"We give thanks for this wonderful meal prepared by the greatest cook in all of Denmark, Hilda Ostergaard."

Hilda looked to me and I whispered a translation, to which she immediately gasped and smiled at Phelan, clearly flattered by his words.

"And we count our blessings for Toke's good health despite numerous challenges he places upon himself, most of which he will not divulge, purely out of his obstinate nature," Phelan continued.

"We give thanks for your good health," I translated when my grandfather asked what was said.

Phelan opened one eye and looked at me from across the table. "And I am immensely and eternally grateful for the time spent with my brother this week, surrounded by our gracious family, who has welcomed us into their humble home."

"Tell Phelan that I give thanks to God for safely bringing my beloved grandsons to Skyderhelm," Hilda said to me. "It is a blessing to have our grandchildren home, the two wonderful men my Gyda raised. May she rest in peace and watch over her boys."

"I–"

Phelan stared at me. "What did she say?"

"It is a blessing to have her grandchildren home, her daughter's sons," I said.

Phelan eyed me suspiciously, but nodded nonetheless.

"Amen," my brother said.

Once all prayers were said, our grandmother made certain every dish was passed around the table and ample portions scooped onto plates. If the servings were not to her liking, the dishes were passed a second time while she carefully observed.

"My beloved grandson," Hilda said to me. "Remove your mask and eat in comfort."

I started to speak, but she reached toward my face and I turned away, nearly choking on my food in the process.

"Don't," I managed to say.

"Hilda! What on earth are you doing?" Phelan asked.

Our grandmother frowned. She looked quite bewildered by her request being denied and looked from Phelan to me.

"I want to see my beloved grandson's face, his whole face, not a mask," she said in Danish. "Please, you aren't comfortable wearing that thing."

In turning away from her I sat facing our grandfather, who had not stopped eating his supper, but eyed the covered side of my face. I fully expected my grandfather to demand I do as my grandmother said, to remove my mask at their dinner table if I wished to dine with them.

My flesh prickled and I looked away from him, staring at the edge of the table runner, feeling as though I were on display again in such an intimate setting.

The sensation was far worse than the traveling fair where dozens of people craned their necks for a look at the monster. There were so many people stuffed into the humid tent that most of the time I found it impossible to focus on one or two individuals. They were simply a wall of strangers, people whose visages I would never see again once they filed out of the tent.

I knew my grandmother stared at me, perhaps gravely disappointed when I turned from her, and I fully expected that my grandfather eyed me suspiciously, wondering what I hid beneath the mask.

"Leave him alone," Toke said to my utter surprise.

She reached for me again and I leaned away from her. "Please," I said. "Please don't."

"Hilda," Phelan said sharply.

She touched the left side of her own face. "Show," she said in German. "Show his face to me. That is all I want. To see him."

Phelan placed his fork on the side of his plate and took a sip of wine. "Erik does not need to remove his mask for anyone."

"But I am his grandmother."

"It doesn't matter if you're the Queen of Denmark," Phelan said firmly. "He is your grandson and deserves your respect."

Hilda finally conceded and our meal continued in uncomfortable silence until everyone's plates were empty. Tea was exchanged for wine, and once the dinner plates were cleared, I dreaded the conversation that would follow as I fully expected she would continue to ask me if I would remove my mask.

While the table was cleared, Phelan attempted to ask our grandfather about the cows, but Toke was either not interested or had difficulty with the translation.

"Sweets!" Hilda exclaimed as she returned to the dining room. The light from the windows cast a golden glow around her and she looked ethereal, like an angel delivering cake from the gates of Heaven.

She proudly carried a layer cake slathered in vanilla frosting and topped with fresh raspberries dusted with sugar, which she placed near the centerpiece.

Toke's eyes lit up at the sight of dessert. "Ah, you made lagekage." He rubbed his palms together and gave a jubilant chortle. "I want a slice. Two slices, my dear wife."

"Everyone will get a slice," Hilda assured him. "One each."

"But you will give them the bigger pieces," Toke pointed out.

"No fussing, husband. Be still," Hilda argued.

"You will give them more. You say they are too thin."

Given that his wife held a knife in one hand, I was surprised by Toke's insistence to argue his point on the size of his cake slice, but his juvenile strategy proved effective as Hilda granted him the largest piece.

"Yes," Toke said in childlike glee as he cut off a large portion with his fork and stuffed it into his mouth. His eyes closed and he smiled, nodding in approval.

"Grandfather has a sweet tooth," our grandmother said. "I must keep an eye on him or he would eat nothing but cake."

I couldn't recall the last time I'd enjoyed a slice of layer cake. Julia preferred making tarts and muffins to cakes, and her cousin's bakery specialized in different types of breads as well as cookies and scones. Cakes were made by special order and was sadly not something Julia decided we needed.

The raspberry layer cake my grandmother served, however, was most definitely needed, and after a single bite I could see why the decadent dessert pleased my grandfather. The raspberry jam with layers of homemade cream filling and white cake that melted in my mouth was heavenly.

"This should be served daily," I said.

Toke readily nodded and patted the table with his fingers. "Twice a day."

"Twice. I agree."

"For breakfast and supper."

Hilda made a face. "No, no, too much cake for an old man. Toke doesn't need sweets."

"Lan, cake twice a day?" I asked.

"I'm not much for sweets, but this is unmatched when it comes to taste. If we are taking a vote then, yes, you both have my support."

"We are all in agreement, cake twice a day," I said lightly, grateful the focus was no longer on me.

"At least for the duration of your visit," Toke added.

"Grandsons!" Hilda admonished. "Shame on you for siding with Grandfather."

"Wife will not allow me cake daily," Toke said to me. "'Special treat', wife says, 'I will only make it for your birthday.' And do you know what? For my eighty-sixth birthday in August she forgot." He shook his head in dismay. "Forgot to make my cake!"

"A tragedy, to be sure," I agreed with him.

"I made your cake the day after your birthday, remember?" Hilda asked.

Toke gestured with his hands. "It was small, fitting for a child, not an old man like me."

"Does my beloved grandson have a sweet tooth like his grandfather?" Hilda asked.

"She wants to know if I have a sweet tooth," I said to Lan.

My brother grunted. "I'm surprised you didn't ask for the whole cake."

"Give Erik another piece," Toke said to Hilda.

Hilda placed a sliver of dessert onto my empty plate and smiled at me and her husband.

I was glad for the similarity between my taste and my maternal grandfather. I knew virtually nothing of my own father save for his reliance on dark liquor and his raging temper. I had no recollection of ever sharing a treat with my uncle and my mother was too distant for me to know her preferences. Phelan was not one for sweets and Alex brought candies into my bedroom to share not because he desired caramels and chocolates, but because he wished to share a moment of my time.

"Do you play an instrument?" I asked Toke.

"No, no instruments," he answered as he picked up his plate and scraped off the last of the jam and frosting with his fork.

I found myself mildly disappointed that our similarities ended with an affinity for cake as I had hoped to speak to him of his favorite compositions or what instruments he owned.

"Grandmother," I said, turning my attention to the other side of the table. "Do you have a fondness for music?"

She looked me over and smiled to herself and I wondered what crossed her mind when she gazed into my eyes. "We used to sing a long time ago," she answered. "Little songs."

"I'm not sure what you mean by 'little songs'."

She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "You know, the little songs."

"Sing one for me," I requested.

Hilda pursed her lips, her cheeks turning crimson. "No, no I cannot. My voice is not good anymore."

"I'm sure you sing beautifully, like a nightingale."

Like my mother, I wanted to tell her, sweet yet untrained, the voice of someone who wasn't a master of music, but still enjoyed singing and whose voice I found pleasant. I had always loved when she sang to herself, flaws and all, because it was the one person I frequently heard.

Hilda took a deep breath and hummed a simple tune, bobbing her head as she did. I tapped my fingers on the table, joining her in song, before she started to laugh. "Little song!" she exclaimed. "You understand?"

"I do," I said. "Little song is–"

Toke's fork clattered onto his plate. Immediately I turned to face him and saw him sternly staring back at me, his bushy, white eyebrows furrowed and ice blue eyes unblinking. From the corner of my eye I saw my brother shift in his seat.

"We do not sing," Toke said firmly.

"What did you ask?" Lan questioned, looking from our grandfather to me.

"I asked if they favor music."

"I should certainly hope so given that is how I was able to locate the two of them," my brother replied.

Toke continued to study me with his hardened eyes and I feared losing his favoritism as swiftly as I had earned it.

"My beloved," Hilda said gently to me. "You make big music."

"You mean to say I write operas?"

She nodded readily. "Famous music."

"Have you heard my operas?"

"Oh no, of course not," she answered. "Not here, not in little Skyderhelm."

I turned my head to the side. "Little music, as you said, do you mean folk music?"

Hilda's eyes brightened. "Yes, yes, our little music in our little home. Not big music, small."

"You do not make our kind of music," Toke said under his breath.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You play city music, meant for city people," Toke explained. "People with fur wraps and satin tophats, not cows and field plows."

Judging by his tone, I assumed he was not impressed with the type of music he assumed I composed.

I had never thought of my orchestrations as being exclusively made for listeners in larger cities and found myself somewhat insulted by his insinuation that my music was not meant for someone like him.

"I compose my own music," I said. "For anyone who cares to listen, no matter where they reside. I would play for all of Skyderhelm, same as I would play for all of Paris."

Toke appeared unconvinced.

"We have never heard your music, but when Phelan said you are a famous composer, I hoped one day to meet you, to have you play for us," Hilda said.

"My violin is back at the hotel," I replied.

"We have never heard it because we are not city dwellers," Toke grumbled. "We are good people, hard working people, not city folk with too much time on their hands."

My grandmother remained undeterred by her husband's harsh tone. "Because there is nowhere to listen to his music here in Skyderhelm. My dream is to hear my grandson play his music for us, even if we are only farmers, not city folk in a big theater made of gold."

"I would be honored to play for you," I assured her.

"Big theater is not a necessity," Toke groused. "Those palaces are only for those with the time and funds to waste on frivolous entertainment. Sitting around all evening on silk cushions, drinking wine, makes people soft and lazy."

Luc Testan's scathing reviews of my music paled in comparison to my grandfather's harsh opinion. I found myself not simply insulted, but deeply hurt that my grandfather thought of my music–my life's work–as frivolous and unnecessary.

"It has been necessary to me," I said under my breath.

Phelan looked at me with his eyes narrowed. "What did he say now?"

"He thinks theater and music are frivolous and unnecessary."

Phelan shrugged. "A waste of time just like my art."

"He has called your art a waste of time?" I asked my brother.

"From what I have been able to piece together, if it isn't back-breaking labor, it's useless. He approves of sculpting, but only the harvesting of rocks, not the actual chisling." Phelan grunted. "My next art show I am tempted to place a jagged rock on a pedestal and see if the critics are beside themselves at the raw beauty."

"Why music?" Toke asked. "You are tall, you could be strong. You could use your hands like a man."

I wasn't entirely certain how to answer his question. Music was intimate without the necessity of being personal. I could share my innermost thoughts and feelings, I could write a symphony that I had bled all of my passion into and still avoid being seen or known. For years I had given countless audiences a map of my very soul and yet no one knew my given name or anything about me.

"You don't like music at all?" I questioned.

"Not anymore," he answered gruffly.

"That is a shame to lose your love of music," I said.

Toke grunted. "There is no time."

"You used to hum to yourself when you milked the cows," Hilda pointed out. "We could hear you sing from the kitchen on summer days when the girls and I made supper."

Toke scowled at his wife.

"The first songs I recall hearing were small music," I said. "Rough and imperfect music on instruments with broken strings and pianos out of tune."

The sound carried across the village on summer nights when the conditions were right. It was difficult to hear from the cellar and I was certain I had escaped simply to hear the groups of performers in the taverns.

"I recall hearing a song called The King of Skyderhelm."

Our grandfather's features briefly softened before he crossed his arms and looked away, grunting. I noticed his injured arm didn't bend completely and assumed it was still tender from his recent fall.

"Kong Toke," Hilda whispered.

"The Good King," Phelan added.

The memory had faded, my mother's native language little more than gibberish to me as a child listening from the top of the cellar stairs, but her voice and a small song had been my introduction to music so many years ago. If she had given me nothing else, she had kindled within me a fondness for music when I was surrounded by darkness and fear.

"It was nonsense," Toke grumbled.

"Ask if he remembers the song," Phelan said to me.

"Do you remember the melody?" I asked our grandfather. "The words?"

Toke blinked, and for a brief moment, his gaze was filled with remorse. Swiftly his eyes hardened and he cleared his throat, allowing his anger to replace whatever grief still heavily rested in his heart.

"No," he said firmly as he pushed back from the table. "I don't remember anything about that nonsense."

"Toke," Hilda called. "Yes, you do. We both remember. Please, let us teach the boys, same as you taught our children."
"I said no. It is time for bed," Toke said over his shoulder as he disappeared into their bedroom and shut the door.

oOo

Phelan and I walked back to our hotel, which was a little over a mile from our grandparents' farm. Two younger women in a buggy pulled by a single black horse passed us once the town was within our sight, both of them waving to my brother. They giggled when he nodded at them as if the small gesture delighted them to no end.

"Do you know them?" I asked once we were choking on the dust left behind from their transportation.

"Probably not," Phelan answered. He shook out his left hand and grit his teeth.

"Is your hand bothering you?" I asked.

"It always bothers me."

"Yes, but–"

"The bellows," he answered. "It stings a bit worse from the pressure."

It hadn't crossed my mind that his part in making the organ work would cause him discomfort.

"If I had known–"

"I should have worn gloves. It's my own fault."

The Swan Hotel was one of the first buildings we approached and was connected on both sides by a restaurant and candy shop, aptly named The Swan Restaurant and The Swan Confectionary. Further down there were other businesses including a flower shop and a cobbler, both of which were apparently owned by other families.

Every business was brightly colored with the hotel itself being egg yolk yellow and the restaurant medium blue. The candy shop was pale pink with light yellow trim and two white stairs leading to the entrance. All three had signs in the shape of water birds.

"The whole town is quite charming," I said. "It reminds me of the paper dolls and their houses Liette collects."

"Wait until you see the inside," Phelan commented.

I looked from the hotel to the train station located further down the road.

"I would like to see if Julia responded to my telegram," I said.

"By all means."

Phelan waited outside of the hotel on a bench while I proceeded down the street and to the train station alone.

Several people issued long looks in my direction, and I felt the heaviness of their stares on the masked side of my face. My jaw tightened, but I kept my chin up and eyes focused on the train station doors and the throng of people walking in and out of the building.

I wondered if people ever grew tired of their uncouth behavior, if blatantly staring at a stranger ever became less of a novelty. Over the years I had seen the same gawks directed at men on crutches missing legs or those who had lost eyes. I'd seen a younger boy unable to use his legs crawl through the streets to the safety of a doorway, taunted by children his own age and adults alike.

Many had treated me as though the scars I'd had since birth also made me deaf. They would shout in my face, voicing their hatred as if they were the first person to ever think of such pathetic insults. The cruelty of it all–the beatings and the callous remarks–were done and said in broad daylight and no one reprimanded the bullies taunting those of us who had been born or made different through birth, tragedies and accidents.

Lost in thought, I entered the train station and suddenly forgot my reason for walking into the building. I looked around the spacious interior and found a small boy holding both of his parents' hands staring at me.

I briefly stared back at him and he leaned into his mother's leg, hugging her tightly once I noticed him. Absently she picked him up and settled him onto her hip while her husband examined their train tickets.

"Is that man on stilts?" the child asked. "Are you on stilts?"

The mother kissed his head, but didn't answer as she spoke with her husband. I shook my head and met the child's eye and he smiled back at me before hiding his face in his hands.

The three of them walked toward their platform and I turned toward the periodical stand and telegram booth where the woman at the counter was staring at some distant point on the other side of the station, twirling her pencil while lost in thought.

"Good afternoon. I sent a telegram earlier in the day," I stated, startling her from daydreams.

"Yes, I remember," she said, staring at my mask.

"Good." I looked down at the counter at a small plaque that gave pricing details. "Was there a response?"

She turned from the counter to the wall behind her with multiple slots on a long shelf with the letters of the alphabet beneath them. Only a handful of the slots were filled, including the letter 'K'.

"Last name?" she asked over her shoulder.
"Kire," I answered. "Erik Kire."

I expected her eyes to widen or for her to gasp in surprise. Kire? As in E.M. Kire? The composer? My goodness, what a delightful surprise! Would you autograph this paper for me?

To my disappointment, she had no reaction whatsoever to my name and pulled an envelope from one of the slots. She placed it onto the counter and wrote up a bill. I looked from the paper she handed me to the plaque on the counter and furrowed my brow.

"Why is the fee three times higher than your sign?" I questioned, immediately feeling as though she intended to swindle me. Perhaps she was aware of who I was and agreed with Luc Testan's drivel.

"Because you received three telegrams. Kire, Julia, telegram one, Kire, Lisette, telegram two, and Kire, Alexandre Jean, telegram three."

"Kire, Alexandre Jean, telegram number four," the man seated at the machine said as he waved the card in his hand in the air.

"Four?" I questioned. "I would like to send one out immediately if possible."

I assumed Alex had no idea that each telegram cost money. I also assumed that he was saddened by my departure and wished to tell me about his day as we had never been parted for more than a handful of hours. As much as I appreciated his thoughtfulness, I had no desire to spend five hundred francs on telegrams before the end of my first day in Skyderhelm–and knowing Alex, he was probably furiously scribbling down his next telegram at the telegram station a few streets from our home while I stood at the counter in Skyderhelm.

J, A & L

Enjoying our first day in Skyderhelm. Played an organ inside of a barn. Will send word on Tuesday evening. A, only one telegram per day. I miss you all. L & A, be good for J. J, X.O.

My fondest regards.

E

Once the fee was paid, my telegram was sent and I was given the four incoming correspondences, I turned to leave.

"One moment, Herr Kire, there is another telegram coming through for you," the man at the machine said as he looked over the top of his glasses at me.

I took a deep breath, paid for my fifth telegram, and accepted the note card, which I already knew was from Alex–unless Bessie had somehow figured out how to write notes in my absence.

Father,

I forgot to say I love you.

Yours Truly,

Alexandre Jean Kire

P.s

Bessie also loves you.

Thousands of miles away, he made me chuckle. I tucked the notes into my coat pocket and walked out of the train station, intending to read the rest of the notes once I was settled in my room.

"I love you as well, Alex," I whispered.