A Late Night Soulmate

Fingertips, gifted from the hands of the Gods no doubt, created graceful and loving sounds. The silver object held gracefully in the pure one’s hands swayed music to life. Whistles and bedazzling awe echoed from deep within a shadow that refused to let the young woman go. Oozing from the life of loved ones were the songs that spoke to her from the great beyond. They were careful to whisper to her as to not startle her. Unbeknownst to them, they berated her heart and soul. They etched their very being onto her soul, forever claiming its spot for death once she joined them. They enchanted the young woman with their voices. The music she created was eerie and beautiful, a lovely complex. Once she started hearing and understanding the voices, she believed it was a sign from her grandmother. She had deceased far before her time was given. Young Frankie was sure of it. She prayed for months that her grandmother would heal overnight in the time leading up to her grandmother’s untimely death.

Young Frankie could not handle her grandmother’s death but the burden was hers to carry. She had no parents to watch over her. Her grandmother was now keeping them company, so she hoped. Young Frankie’s aunt and uncle vowed to nurture the young woman to warmth every man desired in a lifelong wife. But young Frankie did not crave the fulfillment they sought for her. She was an adult when her legal guardian passed away. She was a lost adult when the only color in her world deceased. The only desire young Frankie craved was caring for her young cousins who were too innocent to see the bright of the world. She promised her grandmother that she would take care of the family. The only family young Frankie had left were: her seven year-old cousin, Carmella; her five year-old cousin, Jonathon; her eight year-old cousin, Janessa; and her ten year-old cousin, Wesley. Her aunt and uncle did everything they could to provide for their five children, including young Frankie. However, young Frankie was not their responsibility to dwell over. She made sure they never once forgot it when she left to bring her fair share to the family.

Her music was not as fine as it was now. It had been raw; crafted by her serrated emotions. The aftermath of her grandmother’s death left her hollow. It seemed to create an entirely new Francine, one left with holes that matched no other. She had no time to grieve and yet, her music made time for the young woman. As time grew and grew and the walls surrounding her continuously changed, her music flourished. As well as her pay. She brought home coin for her younger cousins; which, in turn, provided food her aunt and uncle could not provide for their family. At the time, the family had been living near poverty. The death of old Mother Delilah not only took a toll on the family’s emotional well-being, but as well as financial. The Murtaugh family prayed every night to thank the fine Lord for all the blessings they received to continue living. Times were heavy two years ago.

Then, lightning struck.

Father Solomon had heard stories of a ghostly beauty playing wistful melodies to the dead. Every morning before the break of dawn, it was heard that the souls in Mayer’s Marson Graveyard would arise to dance their sorrows out. They were provided by the talent from the warmth of an angel, so talk said. However, only on the Fifth Day would the souls arise to greet the sun once more. Visitors to Mayer’s Marson were eased to peace once they heard the graveyard was gifted by angels. They believed their beloved had finally been put to rest knowing the great Lord was specifically watching over them. For two years Mayer’s Marson Graveyard was a blessed resting place.

Finally walking his own grounds, Father Solomon heard the fine music for himself. His ears were enchanted by the beautiful sounds swaying with the dew of the morning. He could not deny how mystical his grounds were with the light music in the air. The music drew him deeper and deeper into his graveyard until it placed him upon the steps of the fairytales spreading through his customers. Though dark before the holy light could skin the darkness of the moon, he could see every color the music provided by the young woman gave the deceased. Her music could very well lull the deceased awake and lull them back to sleep. It had done so to him for a short while. The moment the young woman stopped her enchanting music, the sun had risen. Colors that livened under the flourishment of the sun suddenly became too painful for the human eye. Shadows that encompassed the bark of the trees lured the saintly for rest under its shade.

Father Solomon then realized the young woman’s music was tempting. Too tempting.

When he approached the young woman, who was now visibly mourning the loss of a loved one, he believed she truly was an angel. He believed she had warmth no other heart possessed. The young woman was truly gifted by an essence no one could possibly fathom.

“Old Mother Delilah,” Father Solomon had spoken so softly and revered to the young woman. “She was a magnificent woman. If I am not mistaken, you are young Francine Lily, are you not?”

He looked upon her face and noticed she had no walls in need of protecting. Her oval eyes that were glossed by the finest seas he heard through stories by travelers had seen the worst tempests and the finest skies. Her pale skin that shimmered in the forthcoming sunrise had seen its fair share of abandonment of touch and the mercy of warfare. She was a woman before him. It seemed the musical object she held in her hand was a piece of her heart, wearing thin with every note played from it. When she approached him, elegance left its impression in the earth. He swore he saw a reflection of an angel in her petite physical molding. However, she wore no face of beauty. Beauty wore her at its best with no room for flaw. Staring at her brought on a peaceful coat over his shoulders and a painful echo in his well-built core.

He feared she had no faith left.

When the young woman spoke, he knew she was god-sent. As boldly broken as she appeared, she was as brilliant as any holy light.

“I am. I was, err—am her granddaughter. Forgive me, Father, but I do not recognize you.”

“My name is Demetrius Solomon. I am the caretaker of these gardened grounds. Rarely do I meet with my clients but I spoke at old Mother Delilah’s ritual.”

“Forgive me for not remembering you.”

“You were so young then, young Francine. Your sight was elsewhere, I am sure.”

Young Frankie nodded and regarded Father Solomon with respect. She meant to leave the Father there to head home after a long night’s work, but instead, he busied her with more conversation. One she never forgot.

“Might I say that you have worked up quite a lot of attention lately.”

Young Frankie looked down to her flute and flushed in embarrassment. Her grasp tightened around the only physical presence she had left of her grandmother. “I used to play for my parents every night before they passed. When my grandmother took me in, I would play the flute for her and she would play her zinger. Every night we would play music after supper until she fell sick. She insisted she play for me even when she had the fever but instead I would play for her. I would watch her sleep and hum to her before I left for the court. I always worried I never did enough for her. It’s been two years since her death and I still feel I haven’t done enough for her.”

“You now live with the Murtaughs, am I mistaken?”

“You are not, Father Solomon. Aunt Tessa is my father’s sister. I’m helping her and her husband, Oliver, take care of their four children. It’s hard providing for them, but it’s a gift. I only hope my grandmother is proud of the trials I’m doing. It seems she always worried.”

“A gift only old Mother Delilah possessed. She always worried about someone else other than her.”

“Indeed.” Young Frankie speculated. “Forgive me Father if I come off suspicious, but you seem to know a lot about my grandmother. I’m sure she would have spoken highly of you if she regarded your relation well.”

Father Solomon chortled softly. It was the first and last time young Frankie ever heard the man laugh. “Your grandmother was a very well respected woman. I regret not having spent as much time with her as my associates have.”

Young Frankie nodded, being sure to return the holy man’s small smile. When he approached her further, she wore an expression that was now foreign to her. “How are you fairing, young Francine?”

“Times are hard, Father. My music can only take me so far for coin at the court.”

“Your music is quite lovely.”

“Thank you Father.”

It seemed as if his voice was stolen from him. He stared at her in no distinct direction. His eyes forced into her unprotected walls and leeched upon a brick that remained in her oracle demolition. Somehow, after the turmoil she wreaked upon herself that one brick remained. Perhaps there was hope after all.

“I have never before listened to music quite as yours. There is no comparison.” Father Solomon finally spoke. “Your music soothes the feared ones who lay their beloved in these grounds. They call it angelic. Sometimes they say an angel descends from the heavens to comfort their deceased relatives for merriment. Some have even spoken of benevolent ghosts dancing above their graves. They speak out of your enchantment, young Francine. You have brought peace to these grieving families for two years. I am indebted to you.”

“I am honored by the compliment, Father Solomon, but I—”

“Truth needs no compliment. Truth needs no boast, young Francine. I know times are hard and I can see how your heart shines through the dark times we are in. I am saddened to say that hearts as yours are very rare to find now. I have an offer to propose to you, for all the blessings you have bestowed upon my grounds.”

Not too long after the lightning, there is thunder.

Sounds whispering through the walls of young Frankie’s room simmered until they faded altogether, as well as her memory of her old life and Father Solomon. Always, her flute seemed to weigh down her subtle hands when she brought herself to the sunlight she never saw anymore. It didn’t matter what song her fingertips produced. Whenever she prepared herself for her nightly display, her thoughts drifted and swayed with heavy burdens. Her father always preached that no daughter of his should live with regrets, and for as long as he was around, he would prevent the option from straying too far to his daughter. The moment she spoke to Father Solomon near her grandmother’s grave was the only moment in her life she regretted.

She looked down at her flute in her hands and slowly sunk onto the edge of her bed. With a heavy heart, she placed it beside her to watch it sink into the fluffy cloths she never once dreamt she would touch. Her room was made out of pure granite rock. As well with the rest of the mansion she had been allowed to see. Colors she could only now remember were not a common gesture within the mansion’s walls. She could not remember the last time she saw sunlight. The first time she saw the exterior forge of the mansion was just after the sun had set. She could only see light filter softly through the cracks of windows. There had been so many windows, she remembered. Now, when she would walk through her routine routes, she no longer saw the outline of windows. The shadows had taken over.

Whenever she would prepare herself, she feared the shadows would take over her and her gift. She realized during her first week of her stay at the mansion that her music was a gift. She always believed her parents had sprouted the seed to blossom, but she had been mistaken. Her music was the only thing left in her life that was resolute. It was the only thing keeping her and her younger cousins alive. She may have been extorting her music for coin, but her family desperately needed the coin for clothing and food. Her coin made here was a bucketful over the coin she would make at the local street bars, and some nights, she wouldn’t even get her fair share. Here at the mansion, she was always given profitable amounts she would undoubtedly ship to her family. She would write the same note in her letters alongside the pouch of coin. The letters she would receive were always different, however. Her younger cousins seemed happier now that Frankie was providing more for them. Even though their letters brought on tears of happiness from their prosperity, she always felt a deep sorrow within her chest from the one thing that never changed with their letters. They worried about her, and asked why she could not return home to them.

Their love kept her going and pushing through the terror and insanity the mansion submerged itself in for only God knows how long. For as long as her stay at the mansion, she vowed the shadows to never overrun her and her gift. Frankie feared the day when she would see the forthcoming. But for now, all she could do was wait for the time to do her in. That time was definitely not now.

Frankie made sure to gather her courage once more before she rooted her feet to the stiff ground. Although her appearance was only required and not manifested for sight, she still claimed her reflection in the mirror every night. The mirror had been in the room since she arrived at the mansion six months ago. She had no desire to relocate it elsewhere in her small quarters, but there had been an awful scourge from beneath the earth that rattled the mansion to its very core. Frankie nearly lost her heart in her throat that day. Quakes were not meant to be that forceful, and she believed it to be a sign from God. A sign directly to her or not, she believed there was hope for her yet.

The mirror had not crashed.

She had taken shelter beneath the mirror during the frightful encounter of the quake. Everything in the mansion had fallen to shatter its value. Everything but that mirror that hung in her room. After the encounter, she began to treasure its presence. She always made sure to reconcile with what stared her back in the glass of the mirror. She had no fear of the monster she faced every night. She only feared its influence on her in the aftermath. Six months had done nothing to faze her, and she prayed every day that she would face another six months with the same faith.

With one blink at her reflection, her oceanic eyes captured a moment of time. With the next night promised to come, another blink would store what she had seen tonight. She stared at her unwavering reflection before swallowing what amount of fear she did have before retreating to her flute. Now lighter than a feather in her grasp, she gathered her countenance and left her solitary. The candles outside her door were blown out, white smoke hanging just above the wick. Her guards had just been there. She paid the signal no more mind than she had during her first month at the mansion. She was right on time towards her duty.

Frankie kept her gaze on her feet alone. She saw how badly injured those finding tortured solaces within the mansion were treated when they let their eyes linger over sights that were not meant for everyone. She knew she would be able to handle the discipline, but she knew her music most definitely could not. If the risk of a wandering eye would impede her gift of receiving profit, then she knew she would not last at the mansion. If so, she would not be able to receive the graceful amount of coin at her village. Her and her family would return to their lives of near poverty. If all was the result of a wounded hand from a curious eye, she would be relinquishing the favor given to her by Father Solomon. To her, it was no delight, but the opportunity was given to her nevertheless. Her smarts kept her respect with what was given to her with what she could not provide for herself. She saw her life now as a curse, but if it was helping her live, it was a steal. She was stealing from the hand of God.

She knew the moment she saw the mansion from the outside that she was going to Hell.

It took quite some time to reach the bellows of the mansion. Once she had tried counting how long it had taken from her quarters to the core of the mansion but she had been too overwhelmed by the duty to remember how long it had taken on her way back up. Inside the mansion the atmosphere was always cold. The walls were frigid to the touch, almost blistering the tender warmth of her skin. She had been provided with thick wool and leather boots upon her arrival. Even protecting her small feet within the boots she could still feel the hissing cold slithering its way up her feet and into her legs. If the scars freely given to her with her experience within the walls had not changed her, her appearance proved otherwise. She now wore thick layers of clothing to protect her sensitive skin to the atmosphere compared to the thin material clothing she wore on her normal life in her normal village.

When she did reach the bellows of the mansion, two guards stood outside the massive doors granting entrance to the core of the mansion. Tanzanite encircled in pure gold and fire topaz stones embodied the frame of the doors. Swirls of mother-of-pearl mirrored the face of the double doors, gleaming glory and beauty in the wisps of the flames from the torches at either side. From the end of the corridor where Frankie was descending, the doors always seemed to wink and glare at her from the hisses of the flames. Her heart always beat just a little bit faster on the long walk from the bottom of the staircase towards the double doors. She was greeted with the same unfaltering grace shown to her every night just as the last.

“Lady Frankie.” Both guards spoke in low tones, bowing to her which was returned in respect from Frankie. One of the guards stood aside while the other removed a key from one of the many hidden sacks within the dark armor worn by all guards within the mansion. The key matched the pretense of the double doors and every time the key was inserted into the lock, a deafening gorge creaked throughout the corridor. It were as if the doors were allowing everyone in the mansion to know that its hinges were being released in accordance with every night before.

The guard removed the key from the insert and handed it to Frankie. With that, the two guards left and granted Frankie the freedom to enter the core of the mansion. Once inside the heart of the mansion, she tucked her flute into the flaps of her cloak and turned to watch the double doors close behind her. A breeze brushed over her just enough to stir the hood over her head once the doors were once again a mold in the walls. Frankie inserted the key and locked the doors, a hollow crack echoing throughout the bellows of the mansion. She then slipped the key into her trousers pocket and carried herself towards the grand table in the center of the core.

In contrast to the rest of the mansion, the bellows were much warmer. Frankie stripped the comfort of her cloak from her shoulders and rested it over the curve of the chair she always used. Her hair that flew freely down her neck and back to protect her skin from the frigid atmosphere above she now had to string into pins to prevent her from soaking in the intense warmth of the bellows. She never took her gloves off, for they protected her fingers from the sweat her neck and the rest of her body was not favored slack with. She was always nervous in her display and her little anxiety did nothing to help the exuding sweat.

She had no idea whom she was playing for every night, but she was told he was a cursed soul. He had been tortured by the gods and suffered through his sentencing on Earth. The cursed sentence made sense to Frankie out of all the stories she had heard within the mansion, for during her display, she heard how cursed he truly was. Her duty was to play her enchanting music while the cursed man ate his meals. She was not to stop under any circumstance. Only when she heard the last of his meal being devoured was she to stop. During her first week at the mansion, she feared she would be next on the cursed man’s list. The screams of his latest meal were horrific. Nothing could prevent the tremors of fear that coursed through her veins. Even if she had been performing for six months, the screams and gurgles of pure agony would forever lay with her until the day her soul was put to rest.

Now Frankie blinked in hesitation unlike when she would stare down her reflection. She closed her eyes and bringing her magnificent instrument to her lips and fingertips, she brought forth the music she was gifted with. As enchanting and beautiful as her music was now, she never once played a song with as much heart and love as she did for her grandmother, parents, or cousins. Not even her old trials compared to her duty at the mansion. She only played song after song until the cursed man was done with his meal. The only thought Frankie kept in mind was what song she was to play next when her fingertips rounded the end of her song. She never played the same song twice. If so, they were spaced out by months from the beginning of her stay. At some points, when the nights seemed they would never end in the bellows, she would play one of the songs she composed on her off time in the days of her stay. She had hoped one day, when her service was no longer required at the mansion, that she would teach her cousins her music. They had always been enthusiasts when it came to listening to Frankie’s music. She knew that by the time she would be released from the mansion that she would no longer carry the time of birthing a child to carry on her legacy of music. The closest thing she would ever have were her younger cousins. As unfortunate as her life was, she knew she could count on them.

She longed to have a weight of her own world. Her parents were her first, and her grandmother was her second. Right now all she had were her cousins supporting her dire need of providing for them. However, all she had to begin with was her music. The love she had for her music soared above anything else. It had carried her far from being scathed by the design of life. Just as much as she protected her flute, it had protected her. She only fell upon the discovery when she played her first songs within the bellows.

Frankie had played seven concertos before confusion crept at her nerves. The only sounds in the bellows were from her flute. By now, the cursed man should have been feeding. On some nights he would have already been done and Frankie would be in the midst of her last song. Surely, she was not early. Her candles were blown out at the same time every night. Perhaps, the guards had trouble finding food for the cursed man. Frankie humored at the thought. If the cursed man continued at the rate he was going, the population in the surrounding area would diminish quite rapidly.

In the heart of the logic, Frankie could very well be right.

But, she knew she wasn’t. Ever so slightly, her fingers began to tremble. She never became fatigued during her displays if they carried on longer than most. She held a strong composure and made sure a new song was at the tips of her fingers. However, if the night was going to continue on as it was, she wasn’t sure if she would have enough prepared. She was not to stop playing until the cursed man had finished his meal. If he never began, where did that leave her?

She played one more concerto before she noticed something. It was a smooth rumbling, almost mimicking the sound of the tanzanite doors opening and closing. Slowly, Frankie maneuvered herself away from the chair that held her cloak and she stared at the opposite wall that held a massive mantle. Atop the crested mantle were priceless trinkets made from gold and gems Frankie had only heard through nomads passing through her village. Bronze symbols were etched into the mantle, its dark color gleaming and glaring from the flare of the fire in the large fireplace that took up the majority of the adjacent wall. Although for its grandeur size, that was not the source for the immense warmth in the bellows. Something else was fueling the almost intolerable heat. The raging fire only spiced the thick heat within the bellows.

Suddenly, the wall began groaning. Frankie flinched but it did not hinder her fingers from roaming over the shaft of her flute. The sound was smooth and almost unnoticeable to the senses, but Frankie stared long and hard at the wall on the opposite end of the room. It took one tumble from a rock to descend painfully slow down the wall to allow Frankie swallow her fear.

The wall was moving.