When the Phoenix Sings ~ 8 "Father? May I come in?"
The old man looked up from the book on his chest, his face warm with welcome. "Catherine. Come in...sit down." He indicated the chair at his bedside, at the same time looking behind her to see if she were alone.
She saw his look. "Vincent will be here in a little while. My class was over several minutes ago and he's meeting me here to walk me home. I have an appointment this evening."
Father lifted a brow, "Won't it be a rather late start for an evening out?"
Catherine shook her head. "Not really. I'm working the ten o'clock shift on the Crisis Hot Line."
"I didn't realize you were still involved with that."
As Catherine seated herself, she said, "During the holidays, there are so many calls, the Hot Line people need all the help they can get."
He nodded. "Unfortunately, that doesn't surprise me." Laying his book aside, he added quietly, "You are even busier than I realized.
I'm not certain where you find the time for all your activities."
Settling in the chair, she smiled. "Father, a person can almost always find time for the things he really wants to do."
"Of course." Father nodded as he watched her. "And your time with the children...I assume it's going well?"
"I'm enjoying the children very much," she nodded with a smile. "The children here are different from so many of those Above who have lost the joy of learning." She settled back in the chair with familiar ease. "You've given them an eagerness to learn...They're like sponges, soaking up everything you say, asking for more."
He smiled. "Vincent once said they were more like amoebas... branching out in all directions, absorbing everything in their paths."
A graying strand of hair fell across his forehead as he rested his chin upon his chest, "And from their growing numbers, I think one might add, -- and multiplying indiscriminately."
Catherine smiled. "Father, you know there'll always be room in these tunnels for one more frightened and abandoned child."
He nodded, unable to deny the most fundamental of all values in the tunnels.
"So..." He changed the subject lightly, with a motion toward the sheet of folded paper which Catherine carried in her hand. "What is it that you have there? Are you carrying home papers to grade?"
She shook her head. "No. I want to show you something."
She handed him the yellowed paper.
Father adjusted his spectacles on his nose, and found that the paper was inscribed with the words of a poem, handwritten in large block letters. He read silently:
Reach me a Gentian, give me a torch!
Let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of a flower
Down the darker, darker stairs where blue is darkened on blueness,
Even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September
To the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark.Down to the eternal portal between
That which has always been and that which is about to be.
And there my love and I will listen when the Phoenix sings
Until the dying torch I hold on high will flare with life,
Unfolding its blueness into a blossom newly bornAnd older than man's first dream.
Father looked up from the page, a crease forming between his eyes as he peered over his reading glasses. "Where did this come from, Catherine?"
"Samantha brought it to class. She said she found it."
"Found it? Where?"
"I asked her that and she got very evasive. All I could get her to tell me was that it came from somewhere deep below." She leaned to look over his arm at the verse. "It's very beautiful, but parts of it are so cryptic... She wanted me to explain it to her, but I'm afraid I'm not much help when I can't really understand it myself. I thought maybe you could help us."
She watched as Father read it again. Finally she asked, "I wonder if you know who wrote it."
He frowned thoughtfully. "I have no idea...which is really rather remarkable, because the verse suits us so well here in the tunnels. It even makes reference to the song of the Phoenix which we discussed with Mary Beth just a few days ago. I'm certain I would remember if I had ever read it before." He paused, musing. "It could be Rilke, or Wilde...maybe Lawrence. But the last stanza doesn't really suit any of them." He looked up again. "Can you leave it with me? I'll have Mouse or Cullen bring me some of my references...I am rather desperate for something to do these days...perhaps I can find it for you."
"I'd appreciate that, Father."
Just then she looked up as Vincent entered.
Father, still absorbed in the verse, ignored the presence of his son. He muttered softly, "It really is quite lovely. Perhaps Whitman...no, I'm certain I would know if it were Whitman."
Vincent came to Catherine's side as she stood. "Catherine, I'm sorry I kept you waiting. I know you need to get back."
With a small shake of her head, she slipped her arm around his waist, "I needed to talk with Father anyway."
"And did you finish?"
Catherine glanced inquiringly at the older man, and was greeted with a look of uncertainty. "Father?"
With apparent reluctance, the old man again looked over the top of his glasses at her, "Catherine, I am sorry to ask for more of your time...but there is one more thing." After a brief pause, he stated, "I noticed that your recordings included one of the Brandenburg Concertos, and it occurred to me that that piece would be an excellent selection for the advanced children to play at Winterfest." He paused again, "Then I also realized how helpful it would be if the children could
hear the music performed by a professional stringed orchestra." Taking care to remain casual, he added, "Do you think perhaps you could teach me how to operate the machine...for the sake of the children's ensemble?"
Catherine and Vincent shared a quick glance behind Father's head, and then she smiled with a nod. "Father, I would love to."
An hour later, Vincent was escorting Catherine through the passage to her basement. Holding her hand, he helped her over a large pipe as he stated, "I'm sure you know it wasn't easy for him to ask."
"I know."
"You were very patient with him."
"Well, I guess I just never realized how strange our modern appliances must seem to him. When he left the world Above, television was new, and radios still operated on vacuum tubes. Of course, he'd have trouble comprehending things like graphic equalizers and high speed dubbing. What I couldn't get him to understand, was that he really didn't need to concern himself with all those details. It would have been enough just to learn how to turn the machine on, and to operate the record, reverse, and play buttons."
Vincent shook his head. "I suspect Father may have been concerned that the children in the violin class would know more about the machine than he did."
With a grin, Catherine nodded. "I hadn't thought of that. Well, he should know enough now not to embarrass himself."
Vincent smiled, pulling her closer as they walked. After a moment of silence, he asked, "When I first entered Father's chamber a while ago, you seemed to have given Father some sort of literary challenge."
"Yes. But the challenge didn't come from me...it came from Samantha."
Curiosity sparkled in Vincent's eyes.
Catherine explained, "Samantha brought a poem to class this evening...asking if I could help interpret its meaning."
"What sort of poem?"
She replied thoughtfully. "It was beautiful...and confusing. I'd show it to you, except I left it with Father." She paused, "It made reference to Gentian blossoms, torches, and mysterious portals. There was something about Persephone and several phrases about blue darkness. It even talked about listening when the Phoenix sings."
Vincent was silent for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't recognize it. Was Father able to help?"
"He said he'd try to look it up." She smiled. "I think you used the right word when you said he was 'challenged'."
Vincent nodded. "It isn't often that anyone can confound Father with a piece of literature." After a pause, he asked, "Where did Samantha find it?"
"That's the strange part...all she'd say was that she found it somewhere deep below. When I tried to get more information out of her, she would just smile mysteriously and say it was a secret."
"Somewhere deep below." Vincent muttered the words almost silently to himself.
Catherine added, "More secrecy among the children...Do you think it could tie in with the things you told me about the children's strange behavior down around the Serpentine?"
"It could." He was silent for a moment. "It isn't like our children to be so evasive. I suppose I could demand that Samantha tell me what is happening below."
Catherine frowned. "But that would look like you don't trust her...and besides that, if the children are working on a surprise for Winterfest, you wouldn't want to spoil it." She paused again, and added significantly, "And, Vincent, you do trust her."
"Yes," he agreed. "I do."
Slipping her arm a bit further around his waist, Catherine added as they walked. "And as for the poem...maybe we'll get lucky and Father will find it."
They were nearing the threshold, and Catherine sighed, reluctant to end their time together so early in the evening...time which seemed even sweeter since their reconciliation.
She slowed her pace as she remembered a promise she had made to him just before their argument. "I meant to tell you, earlier...I started hunting for a first edition Captains Courageous yesterday."
"Did you have any success?"
"No. You were right when you said it's very rare. I couldn't find anyone who'd give me much encouragement." She paused, "But I did find out something rather strange."
He waited for her to continue.
"Do you remember the bookstore where I bought your first edition Tennyson?"
"Smyth's."
She nodded, "That's right. I went back there yesterday...hoping Mr. Smyth could help me, and I found the store locked up. When I looked through the door, I could see all the books still on the shelves, so I went to the coffee shop next door to ask about Mr. Smyth. The waitress there told me that he just locked up one day and didn't come back. Everything is just the way he left it."
"How long has he been gone?"
"She couldn't remember, but she thought it had been several months."
Vincent frowned. "That seems very strange."
"I thought so. The books in his store are very old, and some of hem are extremely valuable. I can't imagine why anybody would just walk away from them...especially someone like Mr. Smyth who obviously loves fine books."
"Do you think something might have happened to him?"
Shaking her head, she continued, "No, I don't think so. I went to his home. His landlady said he just paid all his bills one day and left without explanation."
Vincent replied quietly, "So it seems that Mr. Smyth may remain an enigma forever."
As they entered the softly lit chamber beneath her apartment building, Catherine shook her head. "I don't consider it enigmatic to hide a person for money after staging his death. Chances are that Mr. Smyth and his 'ghost' have taken their profits and are sunning themselves on a tropical beach somewhere."
"Perhaps." Arriving at the threshold ladder, Vincent turned and looked down at her with a gentle smile. "But it is unlike you to be so cynical, Catherine."
Catherine's eyes widened as she stared up at him.
After Vincent tenderly kissed her good night, she climbed the ladder slowly -- her head swimming with his choice of words and with all the uncertainties she had refused to confront since the last time she was in Smyth's Bookstore.* * *
Fire. It surrounded him, inescapable in its unrelenting hunger. For an instant he thought he saw shelves through the flames, yards and yards of endless burning shelves, separating him from something very dear. And then there was nothing but flame. Forcing his way through the searing heat, he searched, strangely uncertain of his goal -- knowing only that it was a treasure worth dying for. The fire snatched away his breath, leaving him smothering and nearly blind as it whipped
through his cloak and hair. Then...just as his hand reached through the flames, closing upon his treasure, the walls exploded, burying everything beneath a blue-white inferno.
Coming up out of his bed, Vincent sat, waiting for his breath and pulse to return to normal. With a shake of his head, he fought away the urgency to go to Catherine. He had gone to her so many times...perhaps it was finally time to follow her logic instead of the terrors in his own heart. But there was nothing keeping him from Father. Padding in his stocking feet, he strode to Father's study. When he entered, he found the chamber quiet and peaceful. There was nothing to suggest the presence of danger.
But then he inhaled the smell of freshly cut lumber and sawdust, and Vincent's eyes settled on the long rows of newly crafted shelves along the walls. Cullen and Mouse were nearing the completion of their project; only the finishing remained to be done. After a few coats of varnish, the shelves would be ready to receive Father's books.
For a fleeting instant, the hazy details of Vincent's dream came sharply into focus...and Vincent could almost feel the heat as he imagined the shelves exploding into flames.* * *
The violin rehearsal had been a success, as proven by the replaying of Father's carefully made recording. With Father unable to leave his bed, the musicians had been crowded into his bedchamber, and to the old man's delight, the close quarters had enriched the sound, giving the music a unique warmth and depth.
Father had begun the practice with a demonstration of the Brandenburg Concerto, then he had proceeded to record several of the children's favorite and well-rehearsed pieces.
With thinly disguised pride, the old man was now listening to the tape for the third time.
During its first review, the children had been enthusiastic listeners. During the second, a few had lingered, enjoying the novelty, but Father was alone enjoying a private concert when Vincent and Catherine arrived.
Looking up at them, he put one finger to his lips, silencing them until a particularly satisfying phrase was complete. For several minutes, the couple watched from the doorway as the old man closed his eyes, tapping time with the music which came from the speaker near his head. At last the music fell silent, and Father opened his eyes and punched the "off" button.
He motioned them in, "Come in, come in. Did you hear?"
Catherine seated herself in the nearest chair, "It was beautiful, Father."
"Yes, it was, wasn't it?"
Vincent pulled a second chair closer. "It sounded as if the children themselves were in the room."
Father nodded eagerly, "The quality...I don't recall ever hearing a recording quite so fine." He paused, fingering the machine in satisfaction. "I made it myself, you know. I had no idea I had developed such a skill."
Vincent cast a glance at Catherine, then said to Father quietly,
"Perhaps some of the credit should go to Catherine for her instruction and for the fine machine she purchased."
Father waved him off, "Of course, I know that. Thank you, Catherine. Now," he motioned her to come closer, not seeing the smile she gave Vincent, "I know that Peter would love to have a copy of this recording..." He awkwardly pulled the machine nearer his side. "I wonder if you would show me again about this dubbing mechanism..."
For the next several minutes, Vincent watched as Father and Catherine bent together over the recorder.
Finally a second copy of the tape was safely ejected, and Catherine showed Father how to break the safety tab, eliminating the possibility of erasing the tape.
At last, the old man sank back against his pillow, satisfied.
Catherine slipped back into her chair, finally able to ask the question which had brought them here. "Father, did you find out anything about Samantha's poem?"
The old man hesitated a moment, shifting his interest. He indicated a fairly tall stack of books on the shelf between his bed and the wall. He nodded, lifting the top book from the stack. "I was able to find some answers," he paused, removing a yellowed paper from the book, "but in the process, I uncovered more questions."
"What do you mean, Father?" Vincent leaned forward.
"Here, Vincent. I don't believe you've seen this." The old man handed him the paper.
For a moment, Vincent scanned the poem, then looked up expectantly. "What did you learn, Father?"
"Well, the first five lines are the initial stanza of a piece called 'Bavarian Gentians' by D.H. Lawrence written in 1932. Lawrence seemed to have taken inspiration from old symbolism which equates the blossom of the Gentian plant with a torch. Certain Gentian flowers are long and cylindrical, similar in shape to the elaborate torches which were made centuries ago."
Vincent handed the poem to Catherine, and she replied quietly, "I assume the Gentian is blue."
Father nodded, "In this poem the narrator uses the symbolic blue light of the Gentian to descend into the realm of the god of the underworld."
Catherine added, "...where Persephone goes."
"His bride." Father nodded. "I'm sure you recall the myth -- the god of the underworld stole Persephone from her mother and took her below. The mother, Demeter, went down to bring her home, but ultimately a compromise was reached. Every year Persephone was compelled to spend six months above and six months below. The myth was the ancient Greeks' way of explaining the seasons."
Vincent had been listening silently, but now he spoke. "You said the first verse is Lawrence's. What of the rest of the poem?"
Father reached for his reading glasses and pulled them on. Then he extended his hand, motioning Catherine to give him the paper.
"Lawrence's poem is a fairly obscure work which goes on for several more verses, but it follows a completely different direction from the poem that Samantha brought."
Catherine frowned. "So who wrote the last six lines?"
The old man held the poem in the light, scanning it critically. "I have no idea."
Vincent shook his head slowly, "How can that be?"
"Apparently, someone took Lawrence's concept and decided to adapt it to their own purpose."
Tilting her head, Catherine pushed her hair back from her face, "What sort of purpose?"
"Well," Father looked up at her, "the piece as it stands now is a love poem -- the original was not."
Vincent leaned forward across Catherine, reading over Father's shoulder. "And there my love and I will listen when the Phoenix sings."
Vincent hesitated there in front of her, his hair brushing lightly against her face, and Catherine froze. Just as he had uttered the phrase, the smell of smoke had assailed her, almost sickening in its intensity...yet vanishing as quickly as it had come.
Vincent murmured, almost to himself, "It is a love poem." He pulled back, turning his body until he could look into Catherine's eyes, and his voice seemed to come from someplace very far away. "Flaring with life...newly born... and older than man's first dream."
And Catherine was certain that somewhere deep within their bond, he had just kissed her.