Erik set off at such a swift pace and was so close to invisible against the darkness I was sure I’d lose him if I didn’t move with all quickness.  Luckily, years of walking twenty or so miles a day had me more than ready for the challenge, or so I thought.

    As my eyes continued to adjust to the gloom we were moving steadily into I could distinguish the moving shadow that was Erik from the stationary ones with more ease, but to my concern he seemed to be getting further ahead of me.  It figures.  He’s got a good foot and some inches on my height; longer legs.  There were times that I really, really hated being short.  I lengthened my strides as much as I could but was limited by the sprain in my ankle I had sustained in my tumble down the steps.  I sped up as much as I could, as well and seemed to be keeping up with him for a time.

    But my exertions earlier were taking a toll.  Each step on the wounded ankle wrenched the breath from my throat and a dull pain in my side was rapidly developing into a very painful stitch.  I dared not to breathe too deep because I feared I had broken some ribs.  So between that and the pain I sounded pretty ragged.  I felt like hell.  I wrapped one arm around my waist in a vain effort to hold in the pain, but it didn’t really succeeded in making me feel any better.

    But, I would not ask Erik to slow.  My pride was too great.  I’d gotten this far into whatever I’d gotten into unassisted; I was going to continue that way.  Besides I had always been stubborner than stone, a trait which I had had occasion to find useful and found that practice made it stronger.

    It didn’t matter in the end.  Either Erik slowed his pace or I got used to it.  The pain lessened and the going seemed easier.  By the time I had caught my breath enough to look about me, instead of concentrating solely on putting one foot in front of the other in the direction Eric had gone, we were weaving amongst vast flats, huge three dimensional set pieces and props, and piles of rolled up drops.  Each one was neatly (for a theatre) labeled with its show and date, almost all of them were partially obscured by dust.

    I was so fascinated by this catalogue of scenic history that I didn’t notice we were retracing our tracks until I recognized a big fountain, the back of which proclaimed it was from “Carmen,” for the third time.  Just to be sure I waited to speak up until we had passed it twice more.  Erik can’t be lost in his own realm, I’m sure of it.  He’s trying to get ME lost!  Boy, is he going to feel dumb.

    I suppressed a giggle and leaned against the fountain after checking to see if whatever it was made out of would support my weight.

    “Erik, how many more times are we going to walk past that ‘Carmen” set?”

    He turned and looked at me incredulously.  “How on earth did you know that thing was from ‘Carmen’?”  He didn’t seem too pleased when I explained that I had grown up backstage and had noticed the names of the shows on most of the sets.  And, that I could probably find my way through here blindfolded, now.  He was just trying to keep his home safe.

“Don’t worry that I’ll tell anyone where you live down here.  I wouldn’t.  I swear none shall know the location of your home from my lips.”  I was making more oaths on this afternoon than I had in years!

    “Thank you,” was all he said.  At least he seemed to believe I meant my oaths.  “It’s not far now.”  He ducked behind one of the “Carmen” flats to a staircase I hadn’t even noticed.  On the top step he turned around and asked, “Carpenter?” with such confusion on his face all I could do was laugh, despite the pain in my ribs.

    The stone stair we descended was narrow and steep. It seemed to belong more to a medieval castle’s tower than a hundred feet below the stage of the opera.  After a few revolutions the dim light from above disappeared and we were in pitch blackness.  I felt my way along the outside wall and prayed the rats I could hear wouldn’t scrabble over my feet.  I don’t have a problem with rats, per se; it would just startle me out of my wits and probably make me fall down the stairs.

    After a few more revolutions a dim, bluish light began to glow from below and I could see Erik’s shape in silhouette again.  Then, he suddenly disappeared around corner several steps below me.  His voice drifted back up to me. 

    “It isn’t exactly a sun drenched lawn, but welcome to my front yard.”  The bitterness was back in his voice.  I came to the bottom of the steps and around the same corner and met his frank gaze.  I knew he was watching for my reaction, but I didn’t have the faintest clue why.  I didn’t look at him long, though, because the sight before me was breathtaking. 

    I was standing on a stone floor about ten feet wide.  It ended at the wall behind me and on the shore of the most remarkable lake I’d ever seen in front of me.  It looked like a wide plain of smooth obsidian, it was that still and black.  It stretched out impossibly wide in front of me and I could barely make out a small jetty and door set in the wall on the other side.  If I hadn’t been sure I was looking for something like that, I would have thought them part of the stone.  The whole was lit with a very dim blue glow, whose source I could not determine.  It was utterly peaceful and sad, but seemed inhabited by a thousand invisible beings, as the slightest sound was echoed a thousand times from all directions.

    “I hope you’re not too disturbed by it, my dear.”  There was that vicious irony again!  I looked to my side and a dozen or so feet away Erik stood next to a boat that looked like a cross between a Venetian gondola and one of Edgar Allan Poe’s day-dreams.

    I mentally reminded myself to close my mouth and then opened it again to speak.  “Disturbed?  No!  It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen lots of places!  Where does the light come from?”

    He regarded me with an expression I couldn’t decipher then lit a lantern hanging from the prow of the boat.  “I’ve never been able to figure it out, either.  Call it one of the mysteries of life.  Anyway, come on, my dear, my home is across the lake.”

    I shrugged out of my pack and tossed it into the small craft before climbing in myself.  Erik extended a hand to help me, but I ignored it, being used to being self-sufficient, as well as having to prove I was.  The boat rocked gently as Erik leapt lightly in.  I pretended to stare fascinated at the ripples moving out from the boat so I wouldn’t stare at him moving again.  It was a little intoxicating to watch. I saw more than ripples in the surface of the lake.  I also caught my own reflection.

    “Ugh,” I said, involuntarily.  My hair was leaping out of my scarf in all directions; I was covered in dirt and rapidly coloring bruises, as well as not a bit of blood on my face from cuts on my lip and cheek.

    “What” Erik asked distractedly as he poled us off from the shore.

    “I look atrocious.  Bad enough to scare a goblin.”  I couldn’t do anything about my hair at the moment, or the bruises, but I scooped some water from the lake and scrubbed at my face.  It was ice cold and clear as glass.  It also smelled fresh as if it were from some stream, not stagnant as I had expected.  I turned around in my seat when further examination in the mirror of the lake proved I no longer looked like a refugee.  My guide was staring off into the middle distance, poling listlessly.

    “Hey, Erik, where does the lake water come from?”

    “An underground tributary of the Seine,” he answered distantly.  His body seemed very taught, not just with the effort of poling the boat, but some other problem.  His knuckles stood out stark white on his already pale hands where they gripped the pole.  I could see only the masked part of his face and I peered at it, trying to discern what might be troubling my curious new friend.

    “Is something the matter?” I asked, concerned.  Maybe he’s mad about me washing in his lake.

    He turned to face me full on, eyes blazing.  Uh-oh.  “So, why don’t you just ask, I know the question is burning on your lips.  Or are you planning on being especially cruel and just ripping it off when I’m not looking?”  His fury was almost palpable in the still air.  We had stopped moving entirely.  It was also infuriating because I had no idea what he was talking about.

    “What?”

    “Oh, don’t try to play coy with me!!  Everyone wants to know what’s under the mask.  So why don’t you ask?  Hmmm?  Everyone else who’s ever entered my house has made me reveal my face at one point or another, so why don’t we just get it over with.  Then you can see what a terror you have resigned yourself to for a week!!”  His screaming was echoing off the walls and deafening me and in his agitation he was rocking the boat so hard I had to grip the sides not to be tossed out into the icy lake.

    I have really gotten myself in over my head this time!  He’s worse messed up than I thought.  Gods, who did what to him?

    I was trying to formulate a coherent response when he screamed at me, “Aren’t you dying to see my face?”  He pitched it off the rocks to be a terrifying echo, but a calm settled over me when I finally pieced together exactly what was happening.

    “Not particularly.” I replied quietly, as if I had been asked if I wanted to go out for lunch instead of making sandwiches.

    He stopped in mid-inhale for another bellow and seemed utterly confused.  “What?”

    “I said, ‘not particularly.’  There’s obviously a reason you wear the mask, and it’s none of my business why or what’s under it.”  I shrugged.  “You’ll reveal either your face or your reasons to me in your own time, and until then I’m not particularly concerned with either.”

    He leaned on his pole and looked at me suspiciously.  “What exactly are you saying?”

    “I’m saying,” I replied with the infinite patience I usually use on children, “that I have no desire to see your face until you want to show it to me, since you obviously don’t want it seen.”

    “I will never show you what is beneath me mask,” he answered quickly, hotly.

    “And, that may be.  Like I said I’m not concerned with it.  You’ve got your reasons, that’s good enough for me.”

    He seemed utterly baffled by this concept, and seemed ready to sit there and contemplate it all night.  I let him contemplate for a minute before quietly interrupting.  “You said your house was on the other side of the lake?”  I gestured to the door that was somewhat clearer now.

    He stirred and began poling again without a word.  It took us only a few more minutes of silence to finish the trip to the other side.  As Erik secured the boat to the jetty by a slim rope I hauled myself and my gear onto the wooden surface and resettled it on my back.  Without a backward glance, Erik walked up the small dock to the unexciting door set into the concrete wall at the end of it.

    He stood there a moment with his back to me, and I thought I saw his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh.  A moment later he turned and tried a smile again, obviously feeling much more congenial.

    “Welcome, Mademoiselle Sorcha, to my humble home.”  He opened the door dramatically.  Warm candlelight spilled out over both of us as he gestured that I should precede him through.