Chapter 21: If

if you are the dreamer,
am i the dream?
if you are the singer,
am i the song?

walking down the path of life,
a million different turns.
each one another chance,
another dance for us to learn

if you are the face,
am i your reflection?
if you are the lover,
am i your love?

"if" by Nyasia A. Maire © 2007

"Papa? It is you, is it not? Papa?"

The uncertainty and hesitancy of her words belied the confidence of her bearing as she strode towards the dark figure. She halted two steps behind the cloaked shape and placed her hands on her hips, annoyance tingeing her voice to cover her sudden fear.

"Papa?"

She took a step closer, reached her hand out and placed it on the form's shoulder. Drawing a deep breath, she gave the shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"Papa, please? It is I, your daughter, Christine. Please look at me, speak with me."

Dripping water was the only sound that followed her pleas and then the soft swish of fabric as the cloaked figure before her slowly, almost hesitantly, turned towards the young woman.

"Oh, Christine! My only child, it has been too long! I have missed you so very much!"

Christine looked up and tried to peer inside the hood to see the face of the man standing before her, but could see only darkness. An unpleasant chill pierced her heart as a strange foreboding caused her to lift her free hand to the level of her eyes. At the same time, she moved her hand from the man's shoulder and pulled the hood back to reveal his face.

The man before her was indeed her father and at the same time not. Her last memory of him, of course, was when she held his corpse in her arms twelve years ago, but...

"He is so young! He cannot be more than a few years older than I am right now. I do believe he is younger than Erik."

The man raised his hand, briefly touched his palm to her cheek and then playfully tapped his thumb on Christine's nose. Christine's heart soared as she remembered her father's silly caress. She pretended to nip at his thumb just as she did when she was a child, which elicited a soft chuckle from him.

"Come, Christine. As I said, there is much to say and little time for I cannot stay."

A look of sorrow crossed his youthful features, but he quickly blinked it away. He pushed the small boat off the rocky shore into the water and then sprang lightly into the rocking boat. He chuckled when he saw the look of surprise on Christine's face.

"I am not in pain anymore, child, for I no longer have a physical body. This..." he placed his hands on his chest, "is but a temporary gift, so that I may fulfill my promise to you. Here, allow me to help you. Take my hand, Christine."

She took his hand without hesitation and he helped her into the boat. She sat and he took an oar and used it to push the boat away from the shore. He replaced the oar, maneuvered the small craft around and began to row to the opposite shore.

"Papa? When you said you are here to fulfill your promise, what did you mean?"

The man sighed and sadly looked long into her eyes.

"Before I died, I promised to send the Angel of Music to you and I never did. I wanted to send the angel to you, but no such angel existed, until now."

"But, Papa..."

"Hush, Christine. Let me take you to my home and then I hope to answer all of your questions there."

The two spoke no more, as the man swiftly rowed the small boat to the far side of the lake. The only sound the steady swish of water and creak of the wooden oars. Christine watched the man's back move back and forth as his arms continued to pull and push on the oars, the rhythm of his motion so hypnotic that she started when the boat bumped and slid smoothly onto the sandy beach of the opposite shore.

The young man who was once her father turned the oars up and then down into the boat. He stood, extended his hand to her and he helped her onto the shore. The two walked side-by-side up the beach and stood before the small house.

"Welcome home, Christine."

He opened the door and waved his hand, indicating she should enter before him. She walked into the brightly lit room, closely followed by the man. The door moved of its own accord, softly closing behind them.

After his moment of weakness, which ended in his self-indulgence, Erik hoped he would be able to fall into a dreamless sleep. However, his sated sleep lasted barely an hour. He now sat propped up leaning on pillows stacked against his bed's headboard. In his hands, he held a volume of poetry by Edgar Allan Poe. His eyes began to read the first stanza of "Annabel Lee" again, but his mind simply could not absorb the words. Sleepless nights were not an unusual occurrence for him, but the feeling of restlessness, the feeling that he needed to be elsewhere, was. He tossed the book aside with a grunt of aggravation.

"I think I will saddle up Caesar and go for a ride. Perhaps after a ride, I shall be able to sleep." The man snorted his disbelief. "And, if I believe that pigs will fly!"

He threw back the bedcovers, quickly donned warm, dark clothes and made his way downstairs to his stable where he led a proud, white Lipizzaner stallion from its stall. Erik loved few things in his life as much as he did Caesar. It was during a visit to Vienna just after Erik's graduation from Politecnico di Milano that Erik first saw a performance by the Spanish Riding School of Vienna and had fallen in love with the horse breed. It had taken several months and the gratis design of the horses' new performance hall before he received permission to purchase and train with Caesar. Erik would never forget the first time he saw Caesar. It was love at first sight. The colt was four years old and as dictated by tradition, ready to begin the first stage of training. Caesar was a rarity in that he became completely white prior to his fourth year. Erik spent the first three months working to gain the horse's trust and teaching it discipline. The next twenty-one months, he spent exercising the horse to keep it supple and flexible. During those two wonderful years, Erik was the sole caregiver of Caesar and a deep bond formed between the man and the horse. Erik swore to Raoul that Caesar had more intelligence than most people he knew. Although the horse would never publicly perform, Erik realized that as a Lipizzaner, Caesar had the innate need to train for the performing figures. The man spent an additional two years in Vienna, training with his horse in the riding school. Erik and Caesar learned the perfect balance required to execute the levade, how to perform a cadenced quadrille, how to make the leap into a high courbette and how to soar suspended midair in a capriole. The four years in Vienna were good ones and Erik's reputation as the architect who designed the Spanish Riding School's performance hall helped him establish his firm upon his return to Paris.

Erik paused only long enough to grab his horse's tack from its hook, anxious to begin their sojourn into the night. The horse nickered softly and tossed back his regal head when Erik attempted to place the bit into his mouth.

"Steady there, boy! Not in the mood, eh?" The man chuckled. "Very well then, Caesar. I shan't burden you with this saddle either. Tonight we shall ride bareback and breakneck through the streets of Paris!"

And with those words, the tall man leapt onto the horse's back, wound a handful of mane about his hand and gently leaned his weight forward. Caesar immediately responded to the silent command of his master and walked out into the night. The two swiftly made their way through the wide boulevards, oblivious to the stares of any who happened to be out walking the streets. Erik abandoned himself to the joy of riding. The man guided the horse on a circuitous route to the opera house without realizing what he was doing, until Caesar halted before the brightly lit front of the building. Erik laughed aloud as he realized that Caesar now had a rival for his affections in the form of Christine Daae.