Two Of A Kind ~ Beginnings The first frost of the approaching winter was slowly seeping into the Tunnels, and staying warm had become one of the uppermost priorities for the people living Below. Although the rocky caverns offered a solid shelter from the cold outside, the draughts that constantly swept the chambers and provided them with vital fresh air had grown rather chilly. Heavy curtains and quilts were hung across the entrances to keep as much warmth in the living areas as possible. The thick layers of clothing everyone wore Below had become even thicker these days.
Part III
by Rosemarie HauerWrapped in a quilted robe, Vincent sat at his writing table and fought against the inhibitions he felt each time he tried to entrust a deep and private thought to his journal. Reading those entries after a while made them appear small and meaningless, sometimes even outright ridiculous. Yet he knew that in order to maintain his inner balance he had to do it. In a way, writing helped him to focus on the brighter side of his personality, and if there was something like a "higher self", writing was a way of approaching it. Reading old journals wasn't always bad, though. Sometimes it was like reading letters someone he had been some time ago had written to the one he was now. Over the years he had found that what he wrote down at times of inner control lent him strength at times when he was too restless and distraught to even hold his pen properly.
Although it would have been easier to leave out the sadder and more unpleasant thoughts, he knew he had to record them nonetheless, for whenever he felt inwardly lost, it was of great help to read how he had dealt with a similar situation in the past.
Matters of the soul were the hardest to put into words, and although poetic pictures and phrases often sounded odd even to himself with the passing of time, they were sometimes the only possible way of describing complex feelings at all.
So, with a sigh, he began writing.
"The wings of my soul are heavy, these days. Although in my dreams I am capable of flying, it only occurs at moments I am driven to flee. What makes me fly, laboriously and desperately, is the fear of something, and never hopeful longing or joy."
Recapping his pen, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Images of a beautiful woman swinging a laughing little girl in her arms rose before him; the deep concern on her face when she had thought he'd come to take the baby away from her; her pleading eyes when she had implored him to stay a little longer; the wide-eyed gaze of a very special child; Amy's outstretched arms when she had reached for him; her precious weight against his chest as he had held her; the feel of her small hands on his face. And always, always Catherine's presence, her nearness, her warmth, her acceptance.
There was danger in those memories, he knew. That was why he had never gone there again. He had seen the child who was like him, had even held her, which was more he would ever have expected. He had seen that Amy was cared for and loved. There was nothing he could add to that. Not without putting her at risk, or his world, or his inner peace. If it wasn't too late for the latter anyway.
Not liking the direction his thoughts were taking, he pushed himself out of the chair and strode over to the shelf above his bed in search of a book to distract himself. But before choosing a volume, he realized that it was probably better to wear himself out physically. Physical activity might not exactly soothe the pain that lurked around the edges of his soul, but maybe it would keep the sadness at bay and put off the darkness just a little longer.
He had just donned his cloak and was about to leave his chamber when he almost collided with someone who was obviously on his way to see him.
"I'm sorry, Father," he said, putting a steadying arm around the old man's shoulder. "I didn't hear you come."
"I hope I am not keeping you from something important," Father said and allowed himself to be led into the chamber where he took a seat on the bed."No, I just thought I should take a walk before going to bed. What brings you here at this late hour, Father?"
"Do I have to have a reason for wanting to see you?" Father asked quietly and in an almost offended tone.
For a moment, Vincent felt rather awkward. Father and he had always been very close, and with a sudden twinge of guilt he realized that there was a distance between them now; a distance that had been growing ever since the day when Vincent had overheard the conversation between Father and Peter and learned that Father wanted to keep the truth from him. Although he understood Father's reasons all too well, it hurt nonetheless. And keeping the truth of his own forays Above from Father had certainly done nothing to diminish that distance."Maybe we should talk," he heard Father suggest softly.
Inhaling briefly, Vincent nodded and went to sit down beside him. "What do you know about the child, Father?" he opened their conversation without preamble. "What did Peter tell you aside from the fact that it's a healthy girl who resembles me and lives with a woman named Catherine Chandler?"
If Father was surprised, or even startled, he gave no indication. " I don't know much beyond that," he replied after a barely noticeable pause. "She must be about nine months old by now and is properly taken care of. Peter is worried, though, what will become of the child when she grows older and people will begin to take notice of Catherine Chandler's child. And, frankly, so am I."
"Where do you think she came from?" Vincent persisted.
Father shrugged and twisted the knob of his cane between his hands, suddenly unable to meet Vincent's eyes. "I honestly have no idea. You could have asked just as well if I knew where you came from."
"I believe in a way I did," Vincent murmured more to himself than to Father.
"Vincent, there is no reason to believe that she is related to you in any way. Please..."
"There is not? Father, you cannot be serious. You just have to look into her face to know that there is a connection, that we are both of one kind."
Father looked up abruptly. "Look into her face? Vincent, are you telling me that you..."
With a tired wave of his hand Vincent cut him off. "Yes, I've been there, Father. I saw the child. She even let me hold her for a few moments."
"She?"
"Catherine."
Vincent hadn't meant for his voice to betray so much. And yet, from Father's heavy silence he could tell that everything he had wanted to hide so desperately, even from himself, had been there in one small word. Her name.
"I see," Father said at last, and Vincent had no doubt that he did. Bracing himself for a lecture, he rose from the bed and walked over to the armoire where he stopped with his back to Father, waiting.The rustling of cloth and the tapping of the cane interspersed with the soft noise of furboots told Vincent that Father was following him to where he was standing. Instinctively he squared his shoulders and briefly closed his eyes before he turned to face whatever was about to come.
"I did not mean to imply that the child has got nothing to do with you, Vincent. But most likely it's not the past that is of importance to both of you, but the future. We can't change who you both are, and where you came from matters very little. What we'll have to think about is how we can help. And I hope you won't hold it against me, my son, that I am worried about you, about how all of this may affect you and test your balance."
Releasing his breath, Vincent seized the older man's arm affectionately. "Thank you, Father," was all he could say at the moment. He simply trusted that Father would know what was in his heart.
*
Once on the balcony, Vincent wasn't so certain any longer that coming here had been such a good idea. After his conversation with Father he had spent the entire day thinking of a way how to help Catherine Chandler with the increasing problems she would have to face, now that Amy was a little older. Finally he decided that the one who knew best what would help was Catherine herself. Briefly he considered consulting Peter on it. Peter was a friend of Catherine's, and her confidant. But then he dismissed the thought. Peter was already doing all he could do. He couldn't solve little Amy's problems. Vincent wasn't sure that Peter was even able to fathom all of the difficulties being different implied.
Vincent's heart went out to the child, knowing that to simply hide her from the cold eyes of the world didn't solve all of her problems. All the hurts, doubts, and countless questions were still there. He knew that all too well. That was why he was here, he reminded himself. He knew that he could probably help little Amy in ways no one else could.
Once his decision had been made, nothing, not even the heavy snowfall, could keep him from carrying it out. It had been a treacherous climb, though. The wind had torn at his cloak and the familiar hand- and footholds were wet and slippery, but it had not been really hazardous.
Without taking his eyes from the apricot light filtering through the sheer drapes in Catherine's apartment, Vincent shook his hood and cloak free from snow. Slowly, and still rather uncertain as to how she would react to his impulsive visit, he walked over to one of the terrace doors -- the one that led to her living room -- and shyly peered inside.
He swallowed at the heart-stopping picture Catherine presented. Curled up on her couch, she had obviously fallen asleep over a magazine she'd been reading, and which had dropped to the carpet in the process. His innate sense of courtesy told him that he should leave quickly, that standing here and watching her sleep somehow bordered on voyeurism.
An errant strand of hair grazed her cheek and she reached up to wipe it from her face. The movement woke her and she sat up, looking around disorientedly. Finally she stooped to pick up the magazine, returning it to the stack of reading material on the table.
That was the moment Vincent chose to tap one pointed claw lightly against the glass. Her head came up slowly, and when she turned toward him, he saw her features brighten with an expectancy akin to joy. There was little time for him to savor the stunning realization that she seemed to welcome his appearance, for she was there in an instant, pushing the doors open and seizing one of his hands to pull him toward the threshold.
"You came," she said, releasing his hand when she felt his instinctive resistance. Arms wrapped tightly around her body to ward off the chill, she continued, "I hoped that you would. I've been wanting to talk to you so badly."
He nodded. "I, too, felt that we should talk.""Do you think we could go inside?" she asked, shivering, and smiled with obvious relief when, reluctantly, he nodded again. Uncertain how to fight off the strong sense of being trapped that he always felt in the homes of people who lived Above, even if they were helpers and trusted friends, he followed her into the living room. It could not be helped. They had to talk, and it was definitely too cold to do it out there on her balcony. Even back in the warmth of her apartment, Catherine still trembled.
He couldn't remember removing his cloak, but he still stood there holding it in his hands, when she came to take it from him and drape it over the back of a chair.
"Your hands are as cold as ice," she observed, lifting her gaze to meet his. "I almost dread the answer, but how did you get up here?"
For a second he dropped his eyes, and then glanced up at her from under his bangs. "I don't think that you would want to know," he said simply, and the tug of the smile he felt at the corners of his mouth finally eased the tension between them a little. He stepped forward to take the proffered seat on one of the small couches and watched her disappear into her sleeping area through panel doors that had been pushed aside and left open. He saw her bend over the crib and adjust the blanket. She tucked it more securely around the baby's small body, and when she straightened again, he could see her profile as she looked down at the sleeping child. The expression on her face was pensive and a little sad, and he would have given everything to be able to hold and comfort her and tell her that he would be there for her, for both of them, always. But then she turned, and he forced his hands to unclench again. She drew the panel doors shut and came over to sit down opposite him.
"Amy's sleeping peacefully," she said, and he found himself wishing he could reach out and touch the warmth that shone from her eyes. "She is growing by leaps and bounds," Catherine went on, and the tenderness in her voice wrapped itself around his heart. "She's developing new skills every day. Sometimes I wonder if what I have to offer to her will be enough."
"And you are worried about what may happen once she is old enough to demand to go outside, to understand that she is not like other children, and to ask questions."
For an instant he saw desperation in her eyes, and a silent plea that pierced his soul. "I guess I needn't ask how you could possibly know," she said, and he was still trying to think of a reply to that when she added, " I'm so glad you came back."
"I hoped there might be some way I could help," he managed, swallowing down the lump that was suddenly in his throat. "You are taking such good care of little Amy. She was incredibly fortunate to be found by someone who really loves her and has given her a home."
That brought a smile from her. "She is such a delight to have around. You know she enriched my life in ways I'd never have thought possible. She gave me purpose and strength, and if you think she's the one who's lucky, I can only tell you that I gained just as much." And in a low voice, almost as if she were speaking to herself, she admitted, "It's just that sometimes I feel like I bit off more than I can chew."
"That is perfectly understandable," Vincent reassured her. "You should hear my father when he talks about my childhood."
"Your father?"
With everyone else he probably would have taken offence at the incredulity in her voice. But with Catherine it made him smile. "The man who found me, took me in, and reared me. Someone with a heart as great as yours."
"I had already been wondering where you may have come from," she said.
"But you did not dare to ask?"
She dropped her eyes, avoiding his gaze. "I was not sure...I didn't want...I mean..."
"It's all right. You may ask me everything, Catherine."
"Are you sure?"
The way she said it made him wonder if he was, but he nodded anyway.
"Then how did you find out about Amy and me? How did you find us? And how come you know my name?"
Throwing back his head, he groaned softly. "Now, that is something I cannot tell you without breaking a vow that I gave in order to ensure many good people's safety."
To his surprise, and vast relief, she smiled. "That's all right, Vincent. You didn't say you'd answer my questions. Did you?"
He must have looked rather stunned at her remark, for she laughed, and he couldn't help but join in.
Suddenly she exclaimed, "Where are my good manners? Would you like to have a drink? Or maybe some tea or coffee?"After thinking briefly of the long and cold climb ahead of him, he heard himself say, "Tea would be wonderful. Thank you."
* It was almost morning when Vincent finally left. Fortunately the snowfall had ceased. Still Catherine had a hard time imagining how Vincent managed to climb up her building -- and down again, for that matter. But there were so many mysteries about him that she decided not to dwell on that particular one too persistently.Vincent's visit, and their talk which had lasted long into the night, had left her feeling better than she'd felt in quite a long time. While Peter and Emily were of invaluable help, she'd had no one to talk to about Amy and all the problems, and joys, the little girl had brought into her life. It was a vast relief to know that there was someone who truly understood, who was willing to listen and give his insightful advice regarding things that wouldn't even have occurred to her. Little things like why Amy refused to drink from a cup. Her canine teeth had begun to show, and not only were the gums surrounding them particularly tender, the prolonged teeth were simply in the way, grating against the rim of the cup. Vincent had pointed out that it might get even worse.
She remembered him drinking his tea. He'd appeared a little uneasy about it, and now she knew why. It must indeed be quite complicated to manage with those teeth. Yet he had acquired a method of talking, and even smiling, without showing his canines. It had only been when he'd laughed that she'd gotten a glimpse of them.
Vincent had told her a little about his own childhood, mentioning a large community of people who basically accepted him. There had been playmates as well, and she suspected that the thoughtless cruelty of children had made him feel his differentness quite thoroughly. At least he'd had playmates. She simply couldn't imagine how Amy was to lead a relatively normal life, isolated as she was from other children. She wondered if there were still children in the place where Vincent lived, but she'd been shy to ask him about it, not wanting to compromise the secrets he had obviously sworn to keep. As it was, his own safety would be the first one at stake if his secret place were to be discovered. She knew that he would always tell her as much as he could. She trusted him implicitly and hoped that one day she would gain his trust, and that of his community, as well. As long as he kept returning to her, she was willing to wait, no matter how long it took.