To Dance the Path of Darkness
Christiana scratched and twisted, scrabbled and bit at the iron grip on her wrist. But resistance was futile; the man who had snatched her from the stage had locked his leather-clad fingers around her forearm tightly and was dragging her remorselessly deeper under the Opera Populaire. Christiana dug her heels into the damp wood that lined the floor of the walkway he was taking her down and yanked backwards, hard. She almost over-balanced her abductor, who stumbled slightly and halted.
'Let me go, you hellish fiend! Who the hell do you think you are? The Surete will be hot on my trail, I assure you!'
'Of that I have no doubt, mademoiselle,' the kidnapper replied icily, responding for the first time since he had taken her. He whirled around to face Christiana, drawing himself up to his full height. She gasped.
At this close range, she could see who this stranger really was. He towered above her tiny five-foot-four frame, dwarfing her completely with the large opera cape that hung in dramatic folds from his broad shoulders. He was somewhat muscular, solidly built and his wide chest resembled that of the most experienced of operatic tenors. The right hand side of his face was obscured with a white mask that appeared to be made of porcelain. The weak light from the grimy lantern he held in his left hand reflected off its smooth surface. It was the skull of an angel and from behind it and the brim of the black fedora he had pulled down over his forehead; two stunning amber eyes glowed in the night...
'You,' she breathed.
The darkness personified grinned in a terrifyingly cold way from the left hand side of his face. 'Yes, me. I said we would meet again. Now it is as I foretold.'
The words dropped like ice down her spine as Christiana fought to keep a brave face.
'You made it happen! I’d hardly call it a prophesy.'
'What you fail to understand about me, Christiana, is that I seldom don't make things happen. Everything is meticulously planned, to the moment. Your presence onstage tonight was no accident. I planned to take you from it. Now silence! We must hurry. Those fools in the Surete will be close behind on the more traditional route to the catacombs and I am anxious to divert from it immediately.'
With that, the Phantom turned around and calmly resumed to his task of dragging his less-than-helpful hostage further into the dank cold that enveloped the catacombs that ran beneath the Paris Opera House. Fear held a chilly grip around Christiana's heart as the Opera Ghost reached the edge of a glassy black lake, several storeys below the stage. At the edge of the lake, where the water lapped quietly at the shore line, a gondola waited. The Phantom hauled Christiana into it and sat her down with a thud. He drew his face level with hers and sneered, golden eyes malicious behind the cold mask.
'Now be silent. If you try and leave the boat, you will die. This water is ice-cold and will freeze the very blood pumping through your veins.'
He reached down towards her and Christiana recoiled slightly, terrified that he would strike her. But he simply picked up a punting stick and pushed off from the water's edge and moved the gondola silently across the lake. Down here, the only light that glinted off the damp walls came from the old lantern that the Phantom had affixed to the front of the boat. Despite the numbing horror that felt glacier-like down her spine, Christiana became aware of a pleasing sound. She turned very, very slowly. Unbelievable! He was humming to himself! As if this were a pleasant outing and he was taking her on a picnic! The cold fear in her back slowly heated into anger. She bottled it and stored it deep in the pit of her stomach. As soon as this… Phantom brought her to where it was he was going; she'd be ready for him.
After some time, a small, rocky island appeared in the middle of the lake. On it sat a strange little house, twisted but structurally sound. It rose up in the thinning mist; a stony iceberg, slightly smaller than the Opera House stage. It was split level, with a look-out perched precariously on top of the circular first floor. Christiana noticed that there was no dock for mooring the little boat as they approached, but the Phantom didn't seem to care. The boat rocked gently as it nudged the stony shore and her kidnapper stepped lightly out of the gondola and landed on the island. He gallantly (if slightly ironically) offered her his gloved hand and helped her onto dry land. She stood staring at the odd house as he flourished his cape in its direction from behind her.
‘Here is where the great mind of the Phantom has been held prisoner against its will for the last century! Here is where love locked it away in misery and left it in sorrow! But genius waited patiently for revenge and now a Daae has returned! Now, now your family will get what it deserves,’ The Phantom crowed, his chin resting near her right shoulder.
The rage that Christiana had kept bottled up now flooded the pit of her stomach, repulsed by his sudden close proximity. Her left heel came down sharply on the toe of his boot, while her right elbow swung backwards and caught him in the stomach. Temporarily stunning and winding her abductor, Christiana leapt back into the boat and grabbed the punting stick.
‘Not today, buddy! I can’t believe you would actually try and make me responsible for an airhead who lived a hundred years ago!’ Christiana snapped and tried to push off. But the gondola sagged beneath her and she looked down. The freezing water was flooding into a perfectly circular hole cut into the base, soaking her satin heels. She looked back up at the Phantom, who had regained his composure and was holding a small, black plug with a black string attached to it in his right hand. He smiled lopsidedly at her. The triumph of the moment ebbed away and suddenly Christiana felt really, really stupid.
‘Brash, bold and very courageous, my dear. But obviously you think that I have lived down here for this length of time and not worked out that should I lose control over one of my… guests, the boat is the only way off the island. Really, I thought you might give me a little more credit that that.’
‘And being the artful dodger you are, I bet you’re lying. But you aren’t going to tell me, are you?’
The Phantom smiled broadly and offered his hand to help her out of the boat.
‘You’re learning. Come, I wish to show you my abode.’
The house was just as puzzling as its owner. Small and dank, the smell of musty centuries lay on the still air. What caught Christiana’s eye as she squished sulkily through the somewhat spacious chambers was the massive organ that took up most of the front room that overlooked the lake. She sat down at it and ran her fingers over the keys lightly. The Phantom stood back; watching her like a hawk watches its prey.
‘This is amazing. How did you get it down here?’
‘It was salvaged, so many years ago, like most everything here. The desk, the very stone this house is constructed from… all saved from the cruel world above. They would have thrown it away, but down here it gains a new life.’
‘I can see,’ Christiana murmured. The notes echoed out into the darkness and rang like bells.
‘I can hear,’ she whispered. Her fingers flitted across the keyboard and played a soft tune. The Phantom nodded to himself and strode over to his mahogany desk. Christiana had noticed that it had been repaired, presumably from being cracked in two. The Opera Ghost opened his inkwell and took up a nearby quill.
‘Feel free to investigate, my dear, but be warned that any attempt to escape will end your life more suddenly than any method I could choose right now,’ he purred. Christiana pulled a nasty face and set off.
It didn’t take her long to circumvent the house on the island. It seemed that it was the only thing there. There was no obvious way off, apart from the boat, but then again, she reasoned, that was probably how he meant it to appear. His type of fruit-loop did.
She reached down and pulled off the soggy high-heeled shoes that were hurting her. She’d only worn them for the performance anyway. Christiana sat at the water’s edge and let the icy blackness close over her toes as she paddled them, desperate to keep the boredom away with the thoughts of what this madman wanted from her.
He was obviously obsessed with the Daae family, so his motive was clear. But what did he plan to do with her? Kill her? That seemed like the most appropriate and logical conclusion. But if that were the case, wouldn’t he have come up with some more insidious plan than kidnapping her off the stage and bringing her here? It was infuriating. The more she thought about it, the more of a mystery this so-called Phantom appeared to be.
Perhaps keeping her in suspense was part of his malicious plot to end her. Yes, that would be it. Leave her waiting for death and the moment she didn’t expect it, wham! Down and out. Christiana hugged her knees to her chest, resting her forehead on them and fighting simultaneously the lump in her throat and the burning tears behind her eyes. She could try to be strong and spit in this man’s eye, but when the curtain came down and it was time for the final encore, she would be dead and no-one would know where she was.
Taking a deep breath, Christiana raised her head. No. She would not allow this creep to get away with what he’d done and if she was going to be resigned to death, then to hell with crying! She was going to go down fighting all the way!
She clambered to her feet and strode around to the front door of the quizzical house. Storming in, Christiana slammed her hands palm down on the edge of the hardwood desk. This caused her a deal of pain and her fingers throbbed, but she wasn’t going to give this idiot the honour of seeing her suffer pain. She stared down at him, furious, and it only frustrated her more when he didn’t even look up from the page he was writing on. Christiana grabbed the quill from his right hand and threw it aside. The Phantom sighed softly, folded his hands and leant back in his chair, watching her lazily.
‘If you’re going to kill me, I’d rather you just get it over and done with, rather than letting me sit here for ages, allowing my thoughts of doom to snowball,’ Christiana demanded. The Phantom was silent and regarded her seriously through the half-mask. This served to further infuriate her and she slammed a fist down for emphasis.
‘Why won’t you speak to me? Are you afraid of me? Why won’t you just end this? You brought me here to murder me, didn't you?! Do you intend to let me go mad first? Is that it? ANSWER ME!’
The Phantom got up and left the room silently. He returned a moment later with a beautiful violin, crafted from a dark varnished maple.
‘Mademoiselle Christiana, if you would be so kind as to lead the way to the lakeside, I believe there is something I wish for you to hear,’ he said softly. Feeling shaken and slightly deflated, Christiana stalked sulkily out of the door and waited by the water-logged gondola. With a brief flourish of his opera cloak, the Phantom raised the stunning instrument to his shoulder. Gently, as if he caressed it with a lover’s touch, he drew the bow across the strings and summoned forth a bevy of entrancing notes. All the anger and hatred that Christiana had felt pumping through her like electricity melted away as she stood and listened in awe to the Phantom’s mournful ballad. She twirled on the spot, her arms extended gracefully as her skirts fluttered in the weak light from the lantern still attached to the front of the gondola. As she danced for the Phantom, Christiana made up her own lyrics to the sad melody:
Who, is, the man in the mask?
I shudder to think but I’m desperate to ask
Who, could, be reduced to this farce?
Tell me who is the man in the mask…
The Phantom peered down the fingerboard of the violin and smiled weakly at his guest’s musical accompaniment. He began to play with a deep ferocity, tearing at the strings so that the notes were loud and abrasive. Christiana stopped singing and stood still as the Phantom attacked the melody with vigour and took a tiny step backwards. Oh God, this is it, she thought desperately, he's finally flipped and I'm going to die. After a few minutes, he laid the violin down in the doorway of the little house. He extended a hand to her.
‘My dear?’
Intrigued, Christiana took up his offer and found herself nose-to-chest with her abductor. Timid and curious, she looked up from the buttons of his black silk waistcoat.
‘What…’
‘Shhh… listen.’
As silence fell around them, Christiana was aware of a soft, but audible sound that danced in the air like a nymph.
The walls were singing.
