Page 72 of Cursed Lifeline

Twenty Five

Esme

Song: Cannon in D | Johann Pachelbel

Rosemary lacesthrough rose vines as I run through the dark garden of a vast estate. Picking up the skirt of my dress, I suck in a deep breath and continue my chase.

Or am I the one running away?

Memories splatter against the forefront of my mind before being quickly wiped clean and blown away by the winds of a destiny I fear facing.

The rules are simple: I’m jealous and possessive. If we cross this line, you’re mine.

My fingers brush against my lips as my feet propel me faster through the gardens and into a dense forest. A cracking noise sounds behind me. Wood splintering, boots furiously hitting the ground in pursuit gives birth to panic. Hounds call out in the black of night. Their warning cry causes fear to slither its way around my heart. Still, I press on into darkness.

Rounding giant Redwoods, I push aside hanging tree branches, and propel myself quickly over logs as the hounds gain on me. Their threatening howls send shivers down my spine as I round a large, looming oak tree and a bright sparkling light flashes, blinding me momentarily. Coming to a stop, I shield my eyes and take a deep breath, though I worry pausing will doom me to a fate worse than the one that has brought me to an abrupt halt.

When I open my eyes, I’m surrounded by stained glass windows. Concrete floors. Church pews.

I spin in a circle, glancing around me quickly for any threat. But the menacing sounds from moments ago are no more. In their wake, all I hear is a beautiful melody. The brisk sound of strong fingers running lightly, methodically over keys, draws me closer. The person playing the music does so with ease as if they’ve been well versed in the tune they’re playing for centuries.

Walking toward the altar, I notice a man sitting at a piano on the dais of the church. With his back to me, I can’t make out who he is, but I feel instantly drawn to him. The pull is familiar. Comforting. Reassuring. Without hesitance, I continue to put one foot in front of the other and walk towards him.

The tune engages my heart. Forces me closer. Calls to a place that has been dead inside me for longer than I care to admit. The piece he plays is a famous melody by Johann Pachelbel, Cannon in D minor. It’s calm, gentle, tranquil. Yet it evokes motion, action, an urgency to give into the energy building with every graceful brush of the man’s fingers against the keys.

Pray you, love, remember.

The whisper of the man’s voice is small, yet it echoes from the back of my mind forcing emotion to build, my throat to tighten, and my heart to hurt as I cautiously take each step up the altar's stairs. The man’s head turns ever so slightly. In the distance, a violin begins to play. Harps join in. An orchestra of beautiful notes flood the room and accompanies the pianist in his rendition of a masterpiece. The man gets lost in the music, which effortlessly flows from his fingertips as the light hits him just right, illuminating the curves of his face, and a memory finally clicks into place.

Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.

I come to an abrupt stop. My eyes widen. I catch the hint of a smile as if he knows where my thoughts drifted. He turns his attention back to the keys in front of him and plays a few more bars, then says, “You make me pray for mortality. But by birth, I’ll never be able to love you honorably. That’s my curse.”

My heart breaks, but with desperate yearning, I push through the wounds his words inflict and take another step forward.

My throat grows tight with grief. Visions flood my mind. Their bits and pieces inundate my thoughts and scatter about haphazardly, not complete just yet, but offering enough courage for me to continue to step closer.

He shakes his head, “Loving you, Esme, threatens to always destroy us, no matter how hard we try and fight it.”

With a heavy sigh, he hangs his head and continues to touch each key fluidly. I sit next to him on the bench and watch in awe, mesmerized by his ability to play so beautifully. Even though the memory of the stranger is slowly coming together, the sight of his talent is one I have a feeling I’m witnessing for the first time.

He reads my mind, smiles sadly, and says, “As Chopin once said, sometimes I can only groan and suffer and pour out my despair at the piano.”

His mention of suffering and despair brings memories from a long time ago to the surface.

“Over the last century, I wrote you a thousand songs I longed to play for you,” he says. I smile at him as he opens his eyes, but his gaze stays fixated on his hands. “Yet the first you hear me play is a tune long associated with wedding ceremonies. The irony is not lost on me.”

A light chuckle escapes his lips.

“Don’t worry,” I nudge my shoulder against his, “I won’t let it go to my head and think you’re proposing.”

Abruptly, his hands bang against the keys. The magnificent music he’s been playing stops. His violet eyes lift to find mine. Before I can take a breath, before I can blink, he lifts me and sits me down in front of him atop the piano.

“If only I could keep you safe, just like this,” he whispers. “Protect you in a dream. Then I’d have no reservation about claiming what has always been mine.”

A delighted shiver courses up my spine. Though the piano no longer plays, music still floats our way. Violins, harps, they easily continue the tune he was bringing to life. The back of his hand tenderly brushes against my left cheek as our eyes meet, and he lovingly studies my features, committing every curve of my face to memory. His fingertips gently push a few strands of hair out of my eyes, placing them lovingly behind my ear.

Longing hangs in his stare as he whispers, “But it’s only a dream, Esme.”

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