Chapter 20: The House under the Hill

They are all gone away,
the house is shut and still,
there is nothing more to say.

Through broken walls and gray,
the winds blow bleak and shrill:
They are all gone away.

Nor is there one today
to speak them good or ill:
There is nothing more to say.

Why is it then we stray
around the sunken sill?
They are all gone away.

And our poor fancy-play
for them is wasted skill:
There is nothing more to say.

There is ruin and decay
In the House on the Hill
they are all gone away,
There is nothing more to say.

"The House on the Hill" by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)

Christine felt a slight movement in the air around her. The flame of her candle briefly flickered and then burned steady once more. After a few moments, the girl thought she heard the sound of music somewhere in the distance. Opening her eyes, she decided to follow the path where the gust of air originated. She held her candle high as she began her search for the source of the heavenly music and her feet carried her ever deeper into the cellars of the opera house.

The sweet strains of a masterfully played violin wafted up from the cold depths of the opera house. If the girl had kept count on her journey down to the source of the music, she would know she had just passed the level of the fifth cellar. However, so intent was she on discovering the source of the music that she gave no thought to keeping track of her steps. She was no longer within the confines of the opera house, but in the caverns below its foundation. Gradually, Christine became aware of a sound other than the music and realized that dripping water now accompanied the violin. She rounded a bend in the path and halted abruptly at the unexpected sight before her as it registered in her mind. A large lake or wide, slow moving river ended the path she followed. Christine groaned in disappointment.

"I am so close! If I can just find my way to the other side, the source of the music must be there! I just know it! Dammit!"

She stomped her booted foot in an unusual fit of frustration.

"Ow!"

She cried as pain shot through her foot. She hobbled back a step and held her candle to shine over the offending area.

"I do not believe what I am seeing!" She muttered.

She bent down and picked up a piece of black, glass-like rock.

"Obsidian! What is this doing here?"

Shrugging the thought aside for the moment, she placed the rock into her cloak pocket, leaned against the cavern wall, picked up her injured foot and examined the bottom of her boot.

"Well, that is most fortunate! At least it did not slice open my boot. The edges of that stone rival those of a knife."

She returned her foot to the ground and carefully shifted her weight, to test whether she sprained her ankle. She grimaced only slightly, but after working her weight back and forth, the pain lessened.

"I am in luck. My ankle is only slightly strained. I do not wish to think what could have happened to me if I had hurt it seriously. Perhaps my coming down here was not the wisest of decisions."

As if in response to her thought, the plaintive strains of the violin suddenly ceased.

"Wonderful! Now the music is gone as well." She groaned.

She glanced around, saw a large rock on the shore of the lake and decided to rest before she began her return trip up to the opera house. Gathering the bottom of her cloak about her waist to avoid wetting it in the lake, she sat on the rock. Carefully, she removed the obsidian from her pocket and placed it on her lap. The dark stone glittered like a huge black diamond in the pale light of her candle.

"This is amazing! It looks like someone shaped this, but why would someone fashion it with three edges? If I wrapped a leather strip around the wide end and refined the point on the other, this would make an excellent knife. Hmmm ... I do believe that is exactly what I shall do. I would have to wet the leather, of course, so it would..."

The sound of soft, rhythmic splashing interspersed with creaking wood, interrupted the girl's thoughts. Quickly, she returned the stone to her pocket, retreated around the bend in the path and snuffed out her candle. She bit her lip and consciously quieted her excited breathing. Pulling the hood of her cloak low over her face and pressing her small body into the cavern wall, she peered cautiously around the bend. She listened to the steadily approaching sounds and desperately tried to ignore the pounding of her heart.

Alone in the dark, she listened and waited.

Erik sat on his bed staring at his mother's wedding band. He loved the rosebuds that encircled the antique gold band.

"When I place this ring on Christine's finger, I am giving her roses that will never die."

He smiled gently, closed the small box and placed it on his bedside table. Removing the pin from his cravat, he tossed it onto the table next to the jeweler's box. He loosened his cravat, drew it from around his neck and tossed it to the floor at the foot of his bed. In swift succession, he removed his remaining clothes and cast them to join the cravat. Naked, he lay across his bed and stared unseeingly at the ceiling, his mind lost in his reminisces of Christine's sweet lips on his.

"She is such a treasure, an exquisite combination of passion and innocence! How will I resist her?"

His eyes slipped closed as he slid deeper into his memories and his body hardened in response. His taut flesh radiated heat and he felt a flush of embarrassment run through him from his exposed state, so he shook free of Christine's ghostly lips and slid between the sheets and under the blankets. Once settled, he allowed himself to return once again to his musings. Images of the sunlight glancing off her curls, the faint smell of her bath soap, the taste of wine on her lips and the sound of her divine voice all served to send his body into a highly aroused state. Unknowingly, a growl of desire escaped his lips as his body remembered the feel of her in his arms. His heated body could take no more and his need overrode his normal inhibitions. His hand moved down and grasped his straining erection. With thoughts of Christine whirling inside his overheated brain, his hand began to move. Throwing the bedclothes from his body, he slid half out of his bed to rest his feet on the floor. His hips arched up to meet the downward stroke of his hand and his head pressed back deep into his mattress. His breathing ragged, he moaned Christine's name, as his hand moved up and caressed the wet tip of his aching manhood with the palm of his hand. His hand continued its motion and paused only to spread the moisture around the bell-shape that capped the end of his shaft. Several times, he lightly squeezed the tip between his thumb and forefinger to delay the moment of his release and increase his ultimate pleasure. However, an errant thought of Christine's tongue battling his caused the motion of his hand to still and his hips instinctively took over as he thrust harder and faster, pounding his way toward release. He felt the familiar tingle and tightness building in his loins and knew that his moment of completion drew near. The picture that pushed him over the precipice was that of Christine lying in her bed from the night before, her eyes twinkling at him with coquettish seductiveness. He cried out her name as he spent himself into his hand. His hips slumped and his legs grew weak, so his hand took over once more and stroked the last of his seed from his hot, slick and twitching member.