His own little guardian floated about him, playing such sweet chords
upon her golden harp. He was
resting on the softest of clouds, drifting onwards and upwards to the
clear blue sky. Dominie called
to him to follow her, and he rose from the cloud, letting her lead
him to a gate. The cherub opened
the gate, and the Phantom stepped into a beautiful rose-garden.
Never in his life had he beheld a scene of such wondrous beauty. The
grass was so green, the
sweet-smelling roses a riot of colour, the air soft and warm on his
face. Coming towards him was a
tall, slender figure.
As the figure approached, Erik saw that it was clad in a long white
robe, such as the little Dominie
wore.
Erik stood and watched in awe as this radiant being approached him.
He saw the halo of soft light
around the being's fair head, and the huge, magnificent pair of golden,
iridiscent wings which covered
the vision's back.
Erik fell to his knees.
"Erik, my friend, I bid you welcome. My name is Michael, and I am one of God's Archangels".
Erik could only gaze at the shining presence, struck utterly dumb by
such unearthly beauty. The
Archangel laid a loving hand upon Erik's head, and softly bade him
tell his story.
***********
The Archangel Michael listened as Erik, with many pauses while he steadied
himself, told the
harrowing tale of his life.
His mother's rejection of her new-born son when she discovered that
she had given birth to a
monster; his lonely, unloved childhood; the years of sheer horror spent
as a captive of gypsies, who
kept him in a cage and exhibited him as a freak.
The long, dangerous years of his restless travels across Europe, Russia
and India. The hatred of his
fellow men.
The never-ending search to try and find the answer to his one question - why - why?
Now, after having found a hiding-place from men in the damp, dark cellars
of the Paris Opéra, five
levels below ground, where he had built himself a secret house, his
soul was once more in torment.
Just when he thought that his life had some order, some purpose in
the shelter of his beloved Opéra,
where music enfolded him and gave him his only joy, he had heard an
angel's voice, and his peaceful
existence was shattered.
The voice belonged to a beautiful, innocent young girl. From the moment
he had set eyes upon her,
he had loved her with every breath in his body.
Her name was Christine Daaé.
He, Erik, known as the Phantom of the Opera, had taught her to sing,
and her pure, exquisite
soprano voice had captured his heart like nothing he had ever known
before. Her beauty and charm
filled his every waking thought.
Christine had believed him to be the Angel of Music, sent from Heaven by her dead father.
She was a trusting child who believed implicitly in her Angel of Music.
When she found that he was
not her beloved Angel, but the Opéra Ghost - the Phantom with
the death's head - she would run
screaming from him. Perhaps she would run straight into the arms of
her handsome young admirer.
He would never see her again, and his life would not be worth living.
Why, oh why, had he ever been born?
The Archangel Michael listened gravely until Erik had come to a stammering
halt. Then he put a
gentle hand under Erik's chin and lifting the tragic face, looked into
the haunted dark eyes.
"Erik, my friend, what is your greatest wish?"
"My wish has always been to be a normal man. To live my life in peace,
without hatred dogging my
footsteps. But most of all, to love and be loved by my beautiful Angel
of Music, my Christine."
"But you are not a normal man, my brother. You possess rare and exceptional
gifts. Your
intellect is outstanding. You are a remarkable architect; the Opera
House you helped to build
is magnificent - a glorious shrine to music. You converse fluently
in several languages; are a
brilliant scholar with unsurpassed knowledge of many subjects. Most
of all, you are without
doubt one of the greatest musicians in the history of mankind. Such
precious talents are
God-given. Can you not admit that God has compensated your misfortune
in blessing you
thus?"
At any other time, Erik would have fallen into a towering rage at such a statement.
His fury would have known no bounds in being informed that although
he was frighteningly ugly, he
should be grateful that he was not also an idiot.
But he looked up into the Archangel's compassionate eyes, and said humbly,
"Please forgive my
arrogance, I beg you. Truly, I thank God for giving me the gifts of
sight and hearing, for my good
health and my mental prowess. I thank Him for the great gift of my
music, which has given meaning
and substance to my life. Without my music, I would have shrivelled
and died as the ungrateful
wretch I would have become."
Michael nodded, and said, "You are indeed a master of music, Erik. Your
voice is an instrument
of absolute beauty. Indeed," Michael's glorious smile lit his face,
"it is the truth to say that we
angels are envious of such a voice!"
The Archangel laughed softly at Erik's confused pleasure, and continued,
"How we look does not
matter to God. There are men all over the world who, although they
are of superb good
looks, are cold and evil and heartless. They only wish to destroy all
that is good". Michael's
gentle voice became stern. "They will suffer as they have made others
suffer, and know only
eternal damnation."
Michael looked down at the kneeling figure before him, and said with serene conviction.
"Our outwardly appearance is but a shell; it is the inner man which
concerns Our Lord. He
knows how you have suffered, Erik, and that you truly regret your vengeance
towards your
fellow men. My brother, you have such beauty in your soul. Do not let
hatred hold dominion
further over your life, and you will gain your heart's desires."
"Archangel Michael, I heed what you say, and I thank you. I am truly
grateful for all the things I have
been given. I thank The Lord for sending the little Dominie to me in
my despair; for sending my
mother to me and for our beautiful reconciliation. And most of all,
I thank Him from my heart for
opening His loving arms to me; for never forsaking me even when I had
rejected Him all those years
ago."
"The Good Lord has never stopped loving you, Erik. Always remember that.
Try to forgive
your mother for her coldness towards you. She suffered a great and
terrible grief when your
father was killed; it was at a difficult time during the waiting period
before you were born
and she had to cope on her own, a young, frightened girl. Then when
you were born, she
could not accept your imperfection, for she blamed herself. She had
lost her husband, and in
her confused, disturbed mind, she thought she had ruined her child.
She has always loved you,
Erik, and has never been able to forgive herself."
"All is forgiven and all past hurts forgotten, Michael. We are at peace
with each other. I have always
loved my mother, although I tried to hate her. That was wrong of me.
It was not her fault. It was
equally wrong of me in my own vain and stupidly blind refusal to accept
that she might have loved
me, but could not show it. That will be my everlasting regret, but
now we are reconciled and my
heart is at peace."
"That is good, Erik, my friend. A mother's love is forever. Your mother
is with your father
now, here, in Heaven. They are together again. Furthermore, Erik, your
father is close by,
and longs to embrace you. I have only to call and he will come. Is
it your wish to see him?"
Michael asked, his tone kind and gentle.
"Please", Erik said simply.
Michael reached out and took his hand; they turned, and there in front
of them, was a tall,
good-looking man.
He was built on lean lines, and had one of the kindest faces that Erik
had ever seen. His smiling eyes
were a light, clear grey; his mouth mobile and creased with laughter
lines.
The man looked at Erik, and Erik wonderingly returned his gaze. Then
the man opened wide his
arms, and Erik ran into his warm, loving embrace. They clasped each
other, man to man, for a long,
long moment.
Then the man stepped back, his hand's on Erik's shoulders, and said quietly, "My beloved son."
Erik put his hands over his father's as they rested on his shoulder,
and said in a voice which trembled
with tears, "Papa?" You really are my father?"
"I am your father, Erik, my dear son. It was our great misfortune that
the fates intervened before we
had a chance to know each other. Let me say to you that I am very proud
of my son. You have
coped with your difficult life with courage and dignity."
"But I have been wicked, Papa. I have had such hatred towards those
who shunned me, those who
tried to harm or mistreat me."
Erik's dark eyes were troubled as they met the clear gaze of his father.
"No, not wicked, my son, but your mind has held fast to an all-consuming
anger against such
uninformed, bigoted fools. Understandable, indeed, but now it is time
to banish this anger, this
hostility which blights your life."
"You have been too much alone - undeservedly so. It is right that you
should find happiness and
contentment with your young Angel of Music. It is your due, my beloved
son. Go to your gentle girl,
and may God bless and keep you, until it is time for us to meet again."
Erik's dark eyes glistened with tears, and his father took him once again in his embrace.
"Father, my dear, dear father, I am privileged and honoured to be your
son", Erik took his father's
hand and kissed it.
"Dear Erik, my beloved son, I love you. Mamma loves you with all her
heart. Always remember
that. Go now to your Christine. Be happy, child."
Erik's father kissed his forehead, then both cheeks. He smiled at his
son and clasped his hands, then
turned and walked away into a shimmering light until he was no more.
"You are happy, my brother?", asked Michael, taking Erik's hand as he gazed at the light.
"Yes", whispered Erik, "oh, yes".
"Go now, my friend. Your Christine is waiting for you. Remember always
that love is the
greatest gift of all."
**********
Go to Part 6 of Dream of Angels
by Erika Shadow.