Who Is This Child?

By Marie Noire

Author's Note – The song is "Who Is This Child" from the album Beethoven's Last Night by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

            She shivered in the cold night air, the wind cutting through her thin shawl and hood like a thousand stinging needles.  The stars shined down on her merrily, twinkling and unaware of her troubles.  She looked up at them reproachfully, the tears freezing on her cheeks.  It had been days since she'd eaten… longer since she'd last slept… if she didn't find shelter soon, she would freeze to death.  Her fingers had been numb for hours and the rest of her little body was swiftly following.

            She wandered the streets in a semi-aimless stumble, searching the shadows for likely places that might be warm enough for her to sleep.  None could be found, and those that were already had occupants who were not inclined to share.  She did not bother to ask.  Adults were dangerous and other street children were close knit within their own groups.  She was alone and knew better than to ask anyone for help.  Even the churches had stopped taking in the homeless and destitute; the winter had been harsh already and they were packed to the gills as it was.

            One little girl did not amount to much in the grand scheme of things…

            She had learned to accept her insignificance… but was still driven to live… to survive.  So driven that she soon found herself squeezing her thin torso through the bars of a grate that guarded a sewer drain, doing her best not to slip on the frozen water under her feet.  The wind did not cut through here so much… and the smell was bearable as long as she breathed through her mouth.  She ducked further down the dark tunnel, instinctively following away from the wind and chill.  It was warmer the further down she went, keeping her left hand on the wall so as not to lose her way.  Everyone knew that the catacombs stretched under Paris for miles… that a careless turn could lead to certain death.

            The wall was cold and wet under her hand, the ground unstable and littered with refuse and planks, but through it all, she slowly was made aware of some sort of music.  The further she went, the clearer it became… a lone violin, played with such intensity that she felt compelled to follow the sound.  She knew no composers by name, nor songs by their actual titles… but she knew that music meant a person and a person meant that there was someplace she could use as refuge nearby.  She followed the music blindly, not bothering to even try and remember the way she had come from. 

            She suddenly found herself standing uncertainly in front of a large door, only half-concealed under a thick cloth that, had she not been following the music, she would've dismissed as part of the rock.  She tugged at it, the thick swath of cloth detaching easily.  The music became sharp and crisp, as though she had pulled away tons of rocks instead of a heavy yard of fabric.  She almost felt compelled to cover her ears, but found she couldn't move.  She could only stand in wonder and listen.

*****

            He lost track of time under the spell of his own music, barely aware of his fingers pressing down the strings of his violin in rapid succession, of the bow sliding over those taut strands in alternating long, then sharp strokes.  He had not even thought of composing since the day Christine had left him… even today he had only picked up to instrument with the idea of tuning it and testing his own ability with a bit of Beethoven.  But once the instrument sang under his knowledgeable touch, he found himself writing a tune in his head.

            It had been months since that fateful night, when Christine had sung Faust for Paris and his own insane jealousy had led him to send the chandelier crashing down upon the enthralled audience.  Since that night when Christine had kissed him… since the night he had sent her away.  The gossip had died down slowly and now, even among the zealous chorus there was hardly a whisper of him.  He had walled up all but one entrance to his home, and that one led only to the outside streets though an unlikely drainage sewer.

            His belongings had gathered dust, his compositions had lain unfinished and bereft, his health was even less to him than normal.  He had spent his days and nights in a lovesick stupor, languishing and anxious to die with her name upon his lips.  But death had eluded him… the obstinate muscle in his chest which had previously given him so much trouble had suddenly decided to mend its errant ways, beating strong and sure within his ribcage.  He was not yet jaded enough to actively take his own life… nor strong enough to continue on in the world by himself.  He was at an impasse… unable to die and unwilling to live. 

Only the music existed for him now.

            He stopped playing and glanced carelessly at the clock, noting that he had been at it for over four hours… small wonder his fingers and wrists burned dully.  He shivered slightly, the air carried a bit of a chill to it and he decided that at least he could be warm for once, despite his wintry cold life.  He built a fire in the nearby hearth, pleased by the rosy warmth it gave off in grateful return.

            He stood and looked about, something tingling at the back of his mind.  Everything seemed to be in order, even if it was a little unkempt at the moment.  The only sound he could hear was the deceptively cheerful crackle of the fire.  Normally he cherished the silence of his underground sanctuary, but now it seemed… suspicious.  Someone was nearby… too close for comfort… years of being persecuted and pursued had given him very sharp senses, always attuned to threat.  He methodically checked at of the sealed entrances, testing their barriers carefully. 

            Nothing had been tampered with… but there was still the last door.  He shook his head… the door lead only to more catacombs and to a grate that locked on the inside.  No one could squeeze through the bars, after all. 

            With a sigh, he walked over to check nonetheless, if only to ease his escalating imagination.  He unlocked the door with a soft click and slid the door inwards, expecting to find nothing more than the gently flapping curtain of wool he had put up haphazardly to conceal the door.

            Instead he found himself staring down at a small child, wrapped in the thick cloth and curled up on the floor asleep.  She was five or six to his figuring and bent into a fetal position, one thin arm under her head in lieu of a pillow.  She had wrapped herself inextricably within the cloth, her dark hair blending with it so that it almost looked as though she were wearing a cloak.  She was small, with porcelain pale skin and dark eyelashes… no blush touched her cheek… in fact her lips were just starting to turn blue.

Who is this child

That I've never seen before?

Who is this child

That I've not seen till this day?

Who dares to fall asleep

Outside my door

If I should wait

I'm sure she'll go away

            He looked to the left and right, searching the midnight dark tunnels for signs of cohorts, siblings, or parents… nothing… not even the scamper of a rat.  His gaze returned to the girl, who shivered despite the blanket, her fingers clutching the cloth a bit more tightly. 

He was at a loss… not something he was accustomed to.  The child was ragged and dirty, quite obviously a street urchin with no parents and no place to go.  Somehow she had found her way to his doorstep and yanked down the cloth to use as a blanket.  If he simply turned around and shut the door, she would eventually awake and continue on her ill-begotten way… no harm, no foul.

But, said a soft voice in his soul, she'll never find her way back to the streets… she'll get lost in the catacombs and die for certain.  The image of this grubby child dying next to the rotting skeleton of some unfortunate prisoner of the Commune made him feel rather ill.

To be involved with this

Would surely not be wise

For in the final word

She means nothing to me

I learned the trick is

That I just avoid her eyes

And the question

What she means to…

What is this life?

There will be other lives

Soon to arrive

Surely some will survive

She is but one

And there are many more

Each the same as any other

            He tried to take a step back and look at the situation with a detached mind and eye.  She was a mere street child in a sea of others just like her… it was not his problem… and saving one was not going to make a difference.  She was a liability he could not afford.  He was old and set in his ways, a wanted man… not father figure material. 

            What mindless little demon had sent this child to his  door?  What greater being was playing games with him now and what exactly was he supposed to do with the brat?  He just couldn't take her in like a stray kitten!

            Why not?  The little voice asked innocently.  She needs you.

            "Needs me…?" he whispered aloud in bewilderment.  "No one needs me… least of all a small child…"

            You need her, then.  The voice insisted.

Who is this child?

What does she mean to me?

I close my eyes

And still her face I see

She is but one

Her kind is everywhere

Can't you see there's no way I should care?

I need a moment now

I have to clear my mind

There is a limit Lord

Just to being kind

There is no way in life

That each child can be saved

Should I be looking with regret

At each and every grave?

            "I need her...?  I think not." He turned quietly and tried to shut the door on her.  But he could not bring himself to… his mind insisted, the electrical impulse from his brain compelling his hand to close her out through one click of the door.  But some unseen force held him in check, staring down at the girl with a mixture of pity and longing.  He'd never entertained the thought of children… they were fascinating to watch and teach, fertile little minds that often seemed to dismiss the mask entirely.  But to take one in?  Raise one?  Without the benefit of either a mother or even having the memory of a parental figure he might be able to look up to himself?

            The child was not his by any stretch of the imagination.  He had no obligation under any law, man's or God's.  Why should he inconvenience himself for the sake of some grimy little urchin who would most likely steal him blind at the first chance?  Why bother?

            Look at her… her fate lies in your hands, Erik.  If you turn your back on her, she will die… if you decide that she lives… then she will live.  The voice persisted gently.  If nothing else, this is your chance to prove to yourself that you are no monster… but a living, feeling man.

There are no guarantees

In life, she should be warned

I'm not responsible for

This child being born

I'm not responsible

In any kind of way

For every child life can gather…

Can you see it in the night

Can you feel that it's out there

It's the arcing of a life

And it's hanging in the air

Though I try to close my eyes

And pretend that I don't know

In my heart I just can't let it go

            He sighed and bent down, his breath clouding the air in a mist, slipping his hands under her frail body and lifting her into his arms, her little head against his heart.  She did not wake, but only sighed softly in her sleep, a delicate sound that made his heart jump into his throat.  Her weight was next to nothing and only confirmed his assumption that she was a homeless wanderer… the past winter had been difficult for the homeless, he was certain, although he had not thought of it until this moment.

            He carried her inside, shutting the door behind him and placing her gently on his couch.  His first instinct was to build up the fire and find some more blankets for the girl, her shivering had stopped, but her skin was still ghostly white with a tinge of death's blue to it.  Another hour or two on his doorstep and she would've frozen to death.  He threw more wood on the fire and pulled the couch closer to it, then went into his rooms to collect some blankets.  When he returned, a decidedly warm sight met his eyes.

            His Siamese cat, a former stray who detested strangers to the point of attacking them had come out to investigate the newcomer.  However, instead of hissing as he might have expected, she had curled herself up on the little girl's chest, her soft head nuzzled against the girl's neck.  He smiled despite his misgivings and busied himself with tucking the blanket around the small body, looking at his cat with a bemused expression.

            "I take it this means we're keeping her?" he asked softly.

            The cat closed her blue eyes in semi-sleepy response.

*****

She stirred slightly, the merry crackling of a fire almost lulling her back to sleep. But a slight weight against her chest kept her awake.  Her first realization was of being warm… for perhaps the first time in months, she was warm enough.  Her face was more fully heated on one side, telling her that a fire was near.  She blinked her eyes open, not a single notion in her head as to where she was.  The last thing she remembered was crouching next to the door she'd found and pressing her ear to it, trying to hear the fiddle music better.

            The sight that met her eyes was certainly one she had never expected.  A large room with high ceilings and lots of candles that twinkled brightly at her, as if telling her that all was well.  She had been laid out on a couch and covered by quite a few heavy blankets, which held the warmth of the fire on all sides, keeping her comfortable.  On her chest, she could just see a gently twitching tail of chocolate brown and felt a soft rumble against her neck.  A slender cat had apparently decided she made a good bed.

            A tentative hand found its way from under the cover and reached cautiously to stroke the cream-colored fur of the cat's back.  The cat meowed softly in reply, turning her head to look at the small hand before meeting the child's wide-eyed gaze.  Blue met on blue as cat and girl regarded each other, each somewhat astonished by the other; the cat, by the child's innocent audacity… and the child, by the splendid beauty of the cat.  The cat was the first to move, bumping her nose gently with the child's, slitting her eyes in feline sleepiness.  The girl held her breath… she'd seen cats before, there were tons of flea-bitten ratters on the streets… but never one of such refined bloodlines… like the thoroughbreds of wealthy landowners.   Other cats ran from people and yowled when cornered… this one had shown no fear and conceded to further warm the child.

            "Pretty girl…" she whispered, her fingers stroking the cat's head affectionately and rewarded by the cat's loud purr.  

            "It seems she likes you… you should consider yourself fortunate." A man's voice interjected in soft tones, startling the girl almost into sitting bolt upright before she remembered the cat and stayed put.

            Her eyes snapped to the source of the voice; a man sitting in an armchair some distance away from her, a thick book in his lap.  She swallowed hard, fearful of whatever violence this adult might wreck upon her, her eyes wide.  He stood slowly and approached, soon kneeling next to her on the floor and looking at her with an inquisitive expression.

            "You are lucky I found you… these catacombs are deep and you might've frozen to death." He said softly.  "How did you get down here anyway?"

            "I…I… followed… I heard… music." She stuttered, her hand resting on the cat's back as though it might protect her like a little guard dog.

            "You heard me playing the violin?" he asked, not un-gently, a slight smile on the corners of his lips.

            She nodded cautiously, biting her lip.

            He sensed her fear and raised his hands.  "I will not hurt you, little one… I promise.  Do you have a name?"

            "Elise… I don't know my last name." She offered softly.

            "That's all right… I never knew mine either." He smiled.  "My name's Erik."

            The admission that he had no last name either seemed to comfort her, for her eyes lost their fearful edge and her fingers lost their clutch on his cat.  "You… wouldn't happen… to have any food… Mister Erik?"

            He couldn't help but smile back as he rose to his feet and picked up the tray he had set down earlier, bearing a small bowl of warmed broth, some toast, and a cup of tea with sugar.  "This should do for now… until I go shopping and get some proper food in the house."

            She ate as though he might take it away at any second, while he made up the fire and pulled his chair closer.  She was certainly a breath of fresh air to the house, he decided, actually enjoying the subtle sounds of another person in the room.  Her eyes… they had looked up at him only with the fear of a mistreated child… a fear that disappeared the minute he has offered her his name.  She had not even noticed his mask… and those eyes were so like Christine's he had nearly called her by his love's name.

            His cat was up and about now, having abandoned Elise's now tray-laden lap for a spot in front of the fire, looking at Erik with a curious expression, as though she wondered why he hadn't thought of doing this years ago.

            "Does your kitty have a name?" Elise asked, after finishing of her last swallow of tea.

            "Ayesha… and she seems to have taken to you… usually she only likes me." Erik supplied absently, looking over the child's dirty face and hair with a pitying eye.

            "I like her… she's got soft fur." She smiled, waving at Ayesha, who meowed in response and waved a paw in imitation… making Elise giggle.  It was a sound, Erik had not heard for years… not since his days in Persia, entertaining the youngest members of the Royal family.  But this child bore no further resemblance to the children he'd known in Persia… they had bright smiles that spread across healthy faces readily.  This feeble little girl was pale-faced and seemed reluctant to smile, as though it would cause a disturbance she would be swiftly punished for.

            "What do you say to a bit of a bath, hmm?" he asked before thinking.  "I think the warm water will do you some good, don't you?"

            She nodded.  "Does this mean you're going to take care of me, Mister Erik?" she asked, the hope in her blue eyes melting any doubts he might have had.

            "I suppose it does… but there will be rules, you understand?" he nodded.

            "Yes sir." She nodded, swinging her legs down to the floor.  "Like what?"

            "Like… you do not leave the house unless I'm with you.  It's very easy to get lost down here and I wouldn't want that.  You can have your run of the entire house aside from that.  If you like music I can teach it to you… as well as anything else you want to learn… reading perhaps?" he offered.

            She nodded heartily. "I've heard street singers sing and play fiddles before… it's pretty.  I'd like to learn to do that too."

            "Then you shall."

*****

            He was insane!  There was no other word for it!  Stark, raving mad!  He should have just fed the child, given her the blankets and a pouch of money and led her back up and sent her on her wide-eyed little way.  But, no… his heart had melted the second she had spoken and laughed… the second she'd looked at him with those blue eyes.  Now, here he was wandering Paris on foot in the dew-laden sunlight of morning, buying supplies before the rest of the city awoke to see him.

            He had left the Elise asleep in his own bed, tucked under the covers with her thumb resting against her lips, as though she'd had the habit of sucking her thumb when she'd been younger.  Ayesha had curled up next to her in no time, looking at Erik with an expression that almost bore protection.  Food… he needed proper food if he was to take care of the child and make her strong; milk, bread, meat, cheese… the staples.  All right… so the box of sweets was not a staple… but she would like it, all children liked sweets.

            Such a Papa already… I knew you would be. The little voice was back, its tones cheerful and pleased.

            I am not her Papa… I'm just looking after her for a little while. He insisted internally to the voice, even as he paused outside a seamstress' shop, looking at the little dresses with a sudden impulse.  She would need clothing; the only thing she had was the tattered and stained dress he'd found her in… even now she slept in a shirt of his, the sleeves rolled up almost to the shoulders.  She'd need a cloak if she ever planned on venturing beyond the house, a few dresses, maybe a slightly fancier one for outings, nightgowns, shifts, stockings, shoes, ribbons and lace. 

            Scrubbed free of dirt and grime, even Erik had to admit that she was a pretty little girl.  True she was underfed, but he would soon take care of that.  Her hair had not been the dull dark brown that he'd previously thought… washed it was a bright, rich chestnut color and waved down her back in loose curls.  Her skin was unblemished by her poverty and a clean, ivory pallor that was fairly healthy despite her delicate health.

            Several hundred francs' worth of clothing later, he finally headed home bearing the weight of what felt like a hundred kilos of packages.   It took nearly ever ounce of his agility to maneuver everything through the tunnels to his house without dropping anything in the grimy water.  He quietly let himself inside; the fire was still burning low and the cat sat before it, washing her face with her usual feline severity.  She turned and looked at him curiously, pausing in her rigorous cleaning… her expression almost smug.

            "What?" he asked softly, a little unnerved at how the cat's expression matched the voice's tone.

            He had the distinct feeling that if she could've shrugged, she would have as she returned her attention back to licking her soft paw.  He shook his head at the notion and carried the packages into his room, being careful not to wake her.  She still lay curled up in his bed, her eyes shut, her hands clutching the covers around her possessively… as if even in her sleep, she worried that someone might take them from her. 

            Erik couldn't help but smile protectively as he arranged the clothing on his dresser, along with a surprise he had bought on pure whim.  What on earth was happening to him?  Six months ago he would've passed this girl on the street without so much as a glance… he certainly would've killed her if he'd found her on his doorstep… or at least frightened her severely enough to send her running like the devil was after her.  Now, here he was buying her clothing fit for a lady of the court, thinking of what sorts of toys she might like, and wondering what she might like for supper.

            What did I tell you?  You are turning into a wonderful, concerned father… you're going to be one of those over-protective ones, aren't you? The voice asked him in a bemused manner as he whisked the food packages into the kitchen, deciding quickly on some simple chicken and greens for supper… something not too rich.  He'd been starved enough times to know that heavy food so soon after malnourishment could make one sick. 

            The voice was laughing at him now, he could hear its twinkling tones ringing merrily in his mind as he arranged the ingredients for cooking.  It wasn't long before the chicken was baking in the oven and the water for the greens was boiling happily away.  He rarely cooked, for there is little pleasure in making a proper dinner for only one person, and suddenly found that this commonplace activity was oddly pleasing to him.  It was comforting, to do something so completely normal… he took a deep breath, his mouth actually watering when he caught the scent of the baking chicken.  He was rarely hungry, usually having better things to think about besides food, hence his angular physique… but now, he was truly looking forward to having some supper with his little foundling.

            His little foundling?  He sighed and shook his head, there was obviously no use denying it.  He was already attached to the child… ready to defend her from any harm, seen or unseen.  In the space of a few hours he had gone from a musical madman lamenting his solitary state to a concerned and protective father worrying over whether or not his child was warm enough in the next room.

            He looked up, a sudden thought coming to him.  What if this child was the answer to his oft-forgotten prayers?  Someone to love him as he had never been loved before.  A child… this child… if he raised her, as her father… would she grow to love him?  She had not seemed to too see his mask… and in his experience, children, like animals were far more forgiving of physical faults than adults.

            The thought warmed his heart.

            A daughter… not his by blood… but his by Fate's hand.

            It was decided.  He would take her in, raise her as his own.  Teach her to love music and art as he did.  Give her everything he had been denied as a child.  He was more than wealthy enough to support her well beyond his own mortal span.  But while he lived, he would never allow cruelty to touch her again.

            He had been the Angel of Music to Christine.

            Now he would be a Guardian Angel for Elise.

            He smiled to himself even as the words rang through his head and he realized what Beethoven piece he had played right before finding her on his doorstep… Fur Elise…

            Apparently, the Fates had a sense of humor after all… and this time he joined them in gentle laughter.