The Return of Captain Glory

© 2001 Lee Garrett
All rights reserved.

Tires skid on a flooded road. Water pounds the undercarriage of the car as it hydroplanes through a guard rail, into space. The world spins like laundry in a dryer. Angela feels herself sliding off the seat, falling free of the car. Her thoughts are numb, scattered by the impact of a rocky slope that leaves her bleeding and broken inside.

She breathes pain, prying herself carefully out of the soggy turf. Fighting to her knees, she shivers in the rain and wind. The car sails on without her. It lands, rolls, and fire licks the sky as the gas tank blows. A wall of sound kicks her over as black, oily smoke forms a column.

Falling in slow motion, she screams. Her father dies. Her voice gives out, and still she screams into the crushing darkness. "Help me!" She shapes the words but they have no force, no sound. The dream ends....

...but this time, she is not alone—a stranger has come, drawn by her pain. Angela hears music playing in the distance as a moon-washed figure catches her eye. It's a woman in a cloud of lavender, her golden hair rippling in an unfelt wind. She is beautiful in a long translucent gown.

Her voice is gentle, soothing.

"Child, leave your sad dreams. I need you downstairs. Your pain—so like his–will be the bridge for his heart's return. Save him from his grief and give meaning to your own. Don't let Death win."

The cloud of lavender became a curtain streaming in the wind. The woman vanished.

Throwing off the patchwork quilt, Angela bolted upright, her heart exploding ... no, the boom was thunder from the electrical storm outside. The whole house shook. She pulled in her legs and wrapped her arms around them, forming a protective knot as lightning strobed the shadows. Unbroken darkness returned.

Where am I, she wondered. It came back to her in a rush: the plane trip, the white stretch limo at the airport, the ride out to her uncle's house. Angela closed her eyes, and stifled a sob, pretending that her world was not in pieces—that her father wasn't dead.

After a while, she grew tired enough to relax. Stretching out, she attempted sleep once more. But a soft thread of sound intruded, seeping in through her bedroom door, a soft tinkling that drew her like a half-remembered promise.

She sat up in bed and slid her feet to the floor, seeking her bunny slippers. Angela shrugged into her terry-cloth robe, tied it, and tugged her long mouse-brown hair free of the collar. She crossed the throw rug and the hardwood floor beyond with a quick shuffle.

Her hand fell on the knob. The door opened and she squeezed through, closing the door hurriedly so none of her fears could escape and tag along.

Out in the hall, the sound was stronger; a metallic bass line joined it, like pewter charms on a silver chain. The soft melody pulled her down the hall to the first landing of the spiral stairs. Its rail was a serpentine coil, winding down into darkness. Angela followed it to the ground.

On the first floor, she crossed to the far wall where hidden light sources illuminated a chrome-framed concert poster sealed behind glass. Angela ran her hand across it, as if she could absorb its vibrant colors and wild energy. She could almost hear the slashing guitar rifts ... the monstrous throbbing of drums. Angela's lips moved, but no sound emerged as she read the bold print on the poster:

CAPTAIN GLORY AND THE DEFENDERS OF MANKIND.

The poster showed a five-man band in futuristic costume, wielding instruments upstage of a laser light show that fanned the air above them. Angela recognized the lead singer; her uncle.

His eyes absorbed you at first glance, looking through you without dismissing you. They were azure windows to a strange and terrible place. Angela knew that he saw the hidden things carried like lint in the neglected pockets of the soul. Her father once had eyes like that before ... before....

Angela's breath caught in her throat as she forced the memory away. Her eyes filled with tears. Useless things, she decided. They don't help at all.

The tinkling returned with an accelerating tempo. The music swirled around Angela, begging her to hurry. She went down the hall to the music room. Its doors were shut, and a collie lay across the threshold, exiled from within. She lifted her narrow head, thumped her tail, whining a soft greeting as Angela approached.

Angela held out her hand for the collie to sniff. The dog licked her fingers. Angela straightened and reached for the door latch. The dog climbed to her feet and barged in as Angela opened the door.

Inside, Angela found recording equipment, instruments, odd pieces of scattered furniture, and her uncle, playing a baby grand piano. The collie ran to her master. The music broke off. Angela's uncle ruffled the dog's fur while speaking.

"It's late, little mouse; couldn't sleep?"

Angela shrugged, armored in silence.

"Was it the storm, or did I wake you?" His head lifted. Blue-crystal eyes caught her staring at the piano. "Sorry," he said. "Music's a living thing; it rages inside me for birth. Sometimes I fight it ... tonight, I yield."

Angela watched her uncle's hands, like big pale spiders, dancing. A new haunting melody began to unfold. He played with eyes shut, a look of frightening intensity on his face. As Angela shifted from foot to foot, he spoke.

"Come over here. Sit next to me. There's room on the bench."

Angela moved closer, her hand trailing across the piano's black-lacquered finish. She climbed onto the bench and sat facing a line of manuscript pages with notes, squiggles, and lyrics penned in and scratched out. The last page had been crumpled repeatedly, smoothed out again each time, and fed to the dog at least once. There were teeth-marks in the paper.

"I search for beauty, but it's gone from the world." Her uncle's eyes strayed to a small silver frame atop the piano. It held a photograph of a smiling woman, her face wreathed with sun-bright hair teased by the wind. Her eyes were ocean blue, unfathomable. A cold shock swept through Angela. It was the woman from upstairs.

She jumped a little, spooked, as her uncle hammered a cluster of ivory keys with the bottom of his fist. He did this several times, then subsided. Arms extended, he leaned against the piano, face tight, eyes shut. A shudder went through him. Angela understood; he was choked with rage and grief and could no longer sing—as she could no longer speak. It tied them together.

"I'm sorry," he said, opening his eyes. "I guess I'm not very good company right now."

Her small hand fell on his. The silent gesture would have to do; she had nothing else to offer. Their eyes met and fused. He spoke for them both.

"We keep a universe of pain company in order to hold emptiness at bay."

Angela felt her soul suddenly exposed as light touched her in some hidden place. Another shudder passed through her uncle, but he wouldn't look away. He couldn't. He began to cry—feeling Angela's wounds as well as his own. Thunder rolled across the sky, shaking the manor house, rattling the windows. Full, thick sheets of rain began at last to fall. The long drought was ending.

Angela found herself gathered up in her uncle's arms. He held her as lightning flashed, as the wind howled, and a knotted core deep inside her unraveled.

Some time later, she pulled her tear-streaked face out from against his chest, exposing bright eyes. Her lips parted, trembling. They shaped three silent words. Sing for me.

"I can't hear you," he said.

Her lips moved again. Yes, you can. You know you can.

"I'm sorry..."

Sing for me!

"Sing? I ... I can't ... not since I buried her ... a year ago. There's no heart left in me to sing with. I'm empty."

"Please." She whispered the word as a tear streaked down her cheek. "Please."

Shamed by her courage, he dropped his head, eyes closed against the ugly world. But his hold on her tightened. A growl began deep in his throat. It rattled around and fought its way free, bursting, swelling into a savage scream of raw pain, filling the room, the hallway, the house. He challenged the thunder of the storm, throwing his head back like a crazed beast. And somewhere in that howl, a transmutation of tone began. Modulation set in. His roar of outrage staggered, becoming an ornate arpeggio, tripping towards a crescendo.

Beauty, battered but unbroken, returned to the world.

Back to top of page