Mary Raimes Curtis
The young woman tried to stand her ground, although her eyes closed as tremors shook her and sweat beaded her forehead. As each day
passed it became more difficult to retreat into the world she longed for. “I’m
a musician and my name is….” A harsh wind barreled into her, snatching the unfinished
declaration away, and she almost toppled over at its ferocity. Anger at her weakness turned to concentration and she spread
her feet to firm her stance, lifted her flute and began to play. Reality retreated as Morning from the Pier Gynt Suite drifted soft sweetly across the grassy
plateau and floated down to where a white ship sailed far below on a cruise from
Bergen to Oslo. Overhead the sky was
touched with streaks of amethyst and gold as the sun rose above the mountain
top.
Suddenly pain clawed at her belly until she
dropped to her knees and rolled into a tight ball. Like mist, the fjord, music,
flute and the beautiful day vanished. Melting drifts of snow, in the roadside
ditch where she had fallen, soaked through jeans and her lightweight hooded
jacket. Around her madness reigned. Multi-colored apparitions boogied in the air
as wind-driven snow bubbled and fizzed before exploding into black confetti. The
fever she had ignored for days spiked again, coating her skin with sweat that
turned to ice as the wind blasted through her clothing.
Stupid! So stupid! Perhaps it wasn't
Fraeling’s man watching as she played show tunes on the battered guitar outside
the night club in downtown Winnipeg. Knowing she dared not take the chance, she
once more did a runner only to end here on a Canadian back road to nowhere.
She reached out to pull her knapsack
closer. Perhaps there was some chocolate left that would help boost her downward
spiraling blood sugars. Her fingers clutched nothing as tremors racked her
body and pain made her clumsy. She turned her head. The knapsack lay near her
guitar case, too far to reach. Where had her strength gone? What a useless
carcass she thought, not even fit for the knackers yard. Did they have
knackers yards anymore? Perhaps not. She didn’t want to think of how animals
were slaughtered, or where. She’d been a vegetarian before Fraeling, before…CLANG!
Her mind skittered in circles like a mad gerbil. She should know better. The
time before Fraeling was a no-go area.
Long ago Erin came to the conclusion
that life was a bitch and only the wicked ruled. She was done with such
pathetic crap. Too many times she’d wished for oblivion as her music deserted
her. She’d lost the ability to compose not long after Oscar Fraeling was hired
as her tour manager and began to twist her soul and shatter her creativity. Yet
here she was, dying in a roadside ditch as a melody danced just out of reach.
Laughter sputtered up and spun away into the night. Perhaps her creative block had became unglued as she wallowed here in icy mud. If only she could grasp the notes,
she could compose her own funeral dirge. She nixed that idea. Dirges were too
depressing.
Where
do you go when you can’t go home? What home? It’s merely a word without
substance?
Useless, her brain was a quivering bog. As the eviscerating pain dulled, Erin
blinked away snowflakes melting on her lashes to realize the grey light of day
had quickly warped into moonless night. She had no idea where she was. There had
been no signpost as she headed down the dirt road. It wandered through forest
and drowned land, somewhere in Ontario she thought but couldn’t be sure. She
only knew she was still in Canada, the last leg of a punishing concert tour.
During the long trek from Vancouver’s
concert hall to this frozen gully, the mountains, roads, towns, truck stops,
highways, cities all began to merge into a faded map never meant to determine
destination. She was in no-man’s land and the thought that she might never see
the light of day again was suddenly unacceptable. “You’re not a quitter,
sweetheart.” The voice of her…CLANG! As the sound reverberated in her head,
Erin began the monumental struggle to sit up.
Peering into the fast-falling rain, she
could see nothing. The night was a black hole and she was alone in a bleak and
vast landscape, far from comfort and a safe place to rest. Erin laid her throbbing
head on wet knees. She was too drained, too cold, too bereft of any motivation to
begin the monumental effort to stand. Once again a melody drifted like a
pathway upon the darkness. It was faint, seeming to filter along endless
corridors. If only she could run, track the notes along those meandering
passages. She would have laughed if it didn’t take too much energy.
If only—the most ridiculous words in any
language. If only she had planned her escape better. If only she had grabbed
her down-filled jacket before escaping out the tiny washroom window at the
concert hall all those months ago. If only she had been able to access her bank
account. And what if she had made that phone call to Brian Doherty, asked for
his help? She knew without a doubt he would have come to her assistance, even
though he’d been fired from the team over a year before.
Her cold fingers touched the rough lump
in the pocket of her jeans. It was all that was left of her favorite
instrument. She could still see the remains of the flute—shattered plastic and
twisted silver—scattered on her dressing room floor. No doubt the cleaners
would have swept up the broken pieces during their early morning cleanup. It
hurt to think of her beautiful instrument buried in a landfill.
The thought made her head pound
ferociously. She had been unable to stop Fraeling as his anger turned violent.
He had snatched the flute from her hand then slammed it again and again against
the edge of the dressing table. Then he turned and his fist cracked into her
cheek. As her nose began to bleed and her eye swelled shut anger and pain
fractured her apathy. The destruction of something she treasured was the
catalyst that finally forced her flight. The mouthpiece was all she could
rescue before locking herself in the tiny washroom. Laughter erupted into the
cold night air. What a farce. She had finally escaped to this…floundering in a
ditch north of nowhere.
It was many hours since the elderly
couple travelling from Winnipeg to Ontario stopped to offer a lift.
They were headed for Fort Francis, farther north than she wanted to go. Parting
when they stopped for gas at a small roadside diner and gas station, Erin
headed for the washroom. An ancient map hung, tattered and faded, on the wall.
It said YOU ARE HERE with an arrow pointing just south of Lake Superior. The
woman, whose name was Phyllis, didn’t want to leave her there, until Erin
insisted friends would be along soon to pick her up. Lies, how had she fallen
into that trap? Even when she was a kid she couldn’t lie. In fact it hadn’t
been necessary before…CLANG! Damn that door to memory would not allow her in.
For so long her life had been lived in the moment. There was no before, there
was only now and the need to survive.
She should have traveled north with the
kindly couple, at least she the car had a decent heater. Suddenly she felt a rumble beneath
her and the sound of an engine drew closer. She made one last effort to
scramble out of the ditch to disappear into the dense forest bordering the
road. Lights, kaleidoscopic, gyrated around her and spindly pine trees became
monsters twisting and grasping ready to devour. She knew the hallucinations,
and the gnawing pain, were more than the result of fever. They were the scum
left over from her addiction to uppers, downers and whatever Fraeling thought
would keep her in line and performing without complaint.
During the months since taking to the
road, Erin had tried desperately to wean herself from the pernicious hold of
the drugs. It was a long and painful process and she still went through periods
when her body craved and crumbled and that malevolent voice tried to lure her into
taking something to ease the torture. Knowing the why of her addiction did
nothing to help defeat it. For so long a variety of pills and capsules had
helped her through the days and nights where the world was perilous and no one
cared that she was hopelessly lost until she didn’t know what was real and what
was phantasm.
Once again tremors shook her and griping
pain twisted her gut. Sweat popped out on her forehead, although she ached with
cold. For a lucid moment she knew death wasn’t the answer, although she had often
longed for oblivion. The one thing she feared most was being dragged back into
the crucible of what Fraeling called ‘her team.’
Her head lifted as the lights grew
brighter, the rumble louder. Rallying the last of her strength she tried to
claw her way out of the ditch. It was hopeless. She could gain little purchase
as snow turned to rain and the slope to a muddy morass. Finally her hands
clawed, grasping a sapling above her head. She ducked her head as headlights
swept over her and the sapling ripped away, causing her to tumble back into the mud.
She knew then it was over, she had no strength
to try again. Lying there, she fought against the fear and darkness that
threatened to overwhelm her. Dear god,
don’t let it be Him! She wouldn’t,
couldn’t go back. Responsibility—it had been hammered into her over and over
again that she was accountable—to her team, to him, to the audiences along the
tour route that paid to hear her play. She had nowhere to go. He was her life.
The child she was and the woman she had once hoped to become had paid dearly
until there was nothing left to give.
She knew it was useless to dwell on
things she couldn’t change. Yet her befuddled brain couldn’t grasp what was
important now. Unexpectedly the wind died down and the beam of light held a
promise. Why that was she didn’t know. Erin blinked, and blinked again, still
the featherlike stream of gold fell around her. Just another illusion, she
though. Her hand reached out to capture the light, preserve it to guide her
through the forest.
Then something heavy plunged down the
bank. Her heart hammered as if trying to escape her chest. Maybe it was a bear
foraging after hibernation. Perhaps that was her fate, to be a meal for a starving
creature. Crap! A bear with a torch? For a moment the light blinded her. Then
it blinked out as something large and darker than the night hovered over her
and her brain did the only thing it could, it shut down.
Erin’s story is one that clamored to be
told. I decided to tell it here, in A Writer’s Journey, as it evolves. I hope
you continue to follow Erin’s journey as she battles to gain what she has lost.
Unfortunately, some things can never be recovered, even so, Erin battles on.
Candle Without A Flame will continue in the July issue of A Writer’s Journey. Please
leave your name and e-mail address to follow Erin’s story. And to read about the
journey other authors have embarked upon.
http://maryraimescurtis.blogspot.ca/2013/07/candle-without-flame-chapter-one.htmlhttp://maryraimescurtis.blogspot.ca/2013/07/candle-without-flame-chapter-one.html
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