Page 99 of Angel's Fall
Erik stared at her as if he didn’t recognize her, eyes unfocused and lost. “I should play his requiem first! It will serve as all of ours too,” Erik cried, turning to the organ as Christine rushed after him. “I’ve always been suspicious of working on a requiem. Mozart’s killed him, they say, because he wrote it for himself. I never wanted to start one because it might be bad luck, and now... Well, another man’s work will have to suffice. I hope you do not mind.”
“Erik, stop talking like that!” Christine protested as he picked up the score ofDon Juan Triumphantoff the floor where it had fallen in their throes of passion. Even now, with a new crisis at hand, it made her flush with fury and shame to think how he had used her and her love. At least she had found the plans in there that she had hoped would save two lives.
“At least I’ll be able to finish the finale as it was meant to be heard,” Erik laughed. “Should I play it as well, before we finish our time in this life and I turn the grasshopper?”
“No!” Christine wailed. “I will not let you do this! Erik!”
He did not hear nor see her. The notes of the organ filled the house, the thundering cry of the Dies Irae, and Christine fell to her knees with a sob. What was she supposed to do? Erik was out of her reach, lost so deeply to madness and pain that it was as if he were dead already.
He was a ghost again, an angel and a dream she could not keep or hold or love in the light. He always had been. And yet, Christine had always, stupidly, dreamed he could be more. When she had let go of all the other dreams that she had built her fragile life on, there had still been that. There had still beenhim, but she had to admit it now – Erik had never been there. It had been an illusion, a phantom that had kept up her hope.
Maybe he was right, and there was no reason to breathe any longer. Her father had given up on living and become a ghost to her, bit by bit, until he joined her mother. Christine had lived in a dream for years, a half-life, waiting for an angel. Then he had come. At last, she had been saved. Then the truth, again, had brought her so much pain...
The music went on, and Erik’s voice rose in song. Christine closed her eyes on tears at the beauty of it and the memories the sound inspired. Memories of pain. And love.
It hurt so much now because she loved him and had for so long, and even with all the pain, she had beenalive. She had felt joy and love and hope as well as the pain, because that is what it meant to live.
Erik sang on, lost in the music of death even as his breath became something so beautiful. There could be no happiness without the suffering, no summer without winter’s chill, no choirs of angels without a requiem. How could she reach the man who had taught her that? How could she make him hear her over the deafening music of death and despair?
––––––––
“I’ve found something!” the Persian hissed, and Raoul started from his stupor. It was beautiful, the sound of the organ and the voice of heaven. It was louder here than in church and so strange that there should be a requiem playing in the depths of the jungle. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard you,” Raoul grumbled as the angel on the other side of the wall began to sing of eternal light. “Dear God, that’s beautiful. Is it a requiem?”
“It will be ours if you don’t move right now!” Shaya began to bodily drag Raoul towards the hole he had dug in the ground.
“There could be insects or snakes in there! It’s not safe!” Raoul scoffed and he was not prepared for how sobering the slap he received in reply was. He blinked. This was not a jungle... “How did you find that?”
“Get in now, before your brain melts further!” Shaya commanded.
Raoul, good sailor, did as he was told and scrambled through the little trap door at the base of Erik’s iron tree.
The dark, cold air of the cellar they found themselves in was even more bracing than the slap, and Raoul collapsed with relief to be free of the torture chamber. He didn’t hit the floor, however. Instead his body slumped over something round he couldn’t make out, given he was utterly blind in the darkness.
“Now where are we?” the Persian asked as the music continued above. Raoul groped at the thing he had fallen onto, trying to understand. Wood. Rough, bowed wood like a ship’s hull. Smaller planks though. It was round and girded by – was that steel?
“I think we’ve found his wine cellar! These are barrels! God, where is the stopper? I need a drink before I die.”
“Why would he keep barrels down here?” Shaya muttered next to Raoul in the dark. As their eyes adjusted, Raoul could make out his companion’s outline as they both groped over the nearest barrel for the outlet. Finally they found a cork. Raoul squinted in the dark as the Persian rummaged through his pockets. “I have a knife somewhere...”
“I have matches.” Raoul began to search his waistcoat pocket.
“This doesn’t feel like a wine barrel.” Shaya was hopefully prying out the cork.
“How the hell would you know? Doesn’t your prophet forbid that?” Raoul found the matches at last. He was so parched he was giddy at the thought of any liquid on his tongue. “Here we are, let’s see—”
“No! Don’t!” the Persian cried.
Raoul dropped the matches. “What on earth?”
“It’s not wine!” Shaya’s voice was full of new fear as he grabbed Raoul’s hand in the dark and pulled it to where something that was certainly not liquid was pouring from the opened cask. “Smell that.”
Raoul grabbed a handful of the sandy substance spilling onto the floor and sniffed. Thank God Shaya had stopped him from lighting the match. “This is gunpowder! Fucking hell, how many barrels are down here?”
“Enough to bring the whole Opera crumbling down on top of us with a single spark!”
“Why would he have such an arsenal? Unless he intends to use it...”
