"Comfort the Lonely Light" by Gary A. Braunbeck, 1989

From Phantoms, edited by Martin H. Greenberg & Rosalind M. Greenberg, 1989

Grade: B

Ah... the last short story. It's been a journey, hasn't it? This anthology was more bipolar than any person I know, and that's saying a lot, isn't it?

Gary A. Braunbeck is a well-established fiction writer, particularly in the horror oeuvre; he's been nominated for many a Stoker award and won an IHG for some of his short fiction. Interestingly enough, he's also apparently a good friend and fellow of J. N. Williamson, whose story "Too Hideous to be Played" I reviewed earlier in this project (I didn't think much of it, as I recall, but that doesn't mean he's not probably a damn fine writer). In short, Braunbeck knows what he's doing, which is always nice to see (just wait, dear readers, until we get into the realm of self- or vanity-published books. My tears will flow like a river).

First of all, the introductory poetry for this story is gorgeous. I liked it so much that I was motivated to go find out who Edith Sitwell was and why I hadn't heard of her in college English courses. She turned out to be both awesome and quite an excellent writer, and I'm very excited that I discovered her through reading this story. I'll reproduce the snippet below, so you can share my delight:

"Comfort the lonely light and the sun in its sorrow,

Come like the night, for terrible is the sun

As truth, and the dying light shows only the skeleton's hunger

For peace, under the flesh of the summer rose."

(From the poem "Street Song".)

That's gorgeous, ladies and gentlemen, and eminently appropriate for a Phantom story. I'm not going to explain why, because as any of my poor college professors could tell you my poetry analysis is painful (I often just don't quite "get" poetry... or, at least, I can't explain what I get to others. I'm more of a straightforward prose girl), but if someone else out there can explain a bit better than I can, then by all means, have at it.

This is another contemporary continuation of the Phantom story, but Braunbeck is going to do things that other authors who have attempted this have neglected to do (for example: he will make sense). At first glance, I was worried, but like many life situations, it all came together after I had a little bit of patience and waited for Braunbeck to explain himself. Again, the main male character is named Andy, which always makes me worry a bit that this is going to be some ill-conceived attempt to insert Webber as a character; however, not only did that fear turn out to be groundless, but as the story progressed it became fairly clear that the main source of inspiration for this story was not Webber's stage musical, but the 1925 Julian film with Lon Chaney. Most notably, the Phantom's face is described as resembling Chaney's oft-lauded makeup, and the implication that Erik has some sort of connection to the occult or other dark powers is present (which .025 of you might remember was first introduced in the "Persian"'s explanation of Erik's origin in the silent film).

Andy happens to run across a beggar woman in the street, named Chris. She mistakes him for Raoul (it's okay to groan here... I did, too, until it was later revealed that this wasn't going to suck) at first glance, but not because he looks like him (thank goodness, there are no long-lost ancestors going on here); it's more a quality of kindness and naivete that she picks up on. At any rate, after Andy gives her some money because she sings beautifully, she gives him a golden ring she's been wearing and tells him to wear it because it has magical powers (it does not turn him invisible; stop getting excited, crossover fans). First, I wrote a semi-cranky note about how old people (he's describing her as somewhere in the fifties to seventies range, or so it seems) don't, on the whole, have lovely singing voices, especially when they live on the street; the muscles and system decay with age, becoming harder to control and more prone to intonation difficulties and "wobbling" unless rigorously exercised. Especially since she was singing one of Marguerite's operas from Faust, which is extremely difficult even for a trained soprano in the prime of her career, I found this difficult to swallow from an elderly street busker. But then, later, Braunbeck again had a good reason for that, so I had to stop my kvetching. So instead, I wrote a note about how I really hoped the old lady was bonkers and just thought she was Christine Daae instead of being some kind of super-aged freak of nature (like all the 150+ Phantoms we've had running around in this anthology), but then he explained that, too. Damn it. Apparently I don't get to whine about anything in this story, do I?

As we discover a little later if we have some patience (seriously, I need to calm down. All these bad stories have made me nasty out of the gate even when it comes to the good ones), this is, indeed, the original Christine Daae. She's about 128 years old. But (and this is why I'm not tearing my hair out), she's been under a curse which has extended her lifespan, and with the sudden revelation that this story is being conducted as a magic realism piece instead of adhering to realism, all is forgiven. Curses, magical powers, possessions. Suddenly, the weight of being the (self-elected) realism police is lifted from my shoulders. And from there on out, I had a great time.

Andy's problem is that he has an artistic soul and absolutely no creative talent whatsoever. I love it when authors use this device for their characters; so often, original characters in these kinds of stories are like flawless gods, able to bust off concertos the second they touch an unfamiliar instrument or sing coloratura like canaries despite having had no training. More than that, however, it's an extremely relatable choice for the reader. Most of us, let's face it, aren't artistic virtuosos--and even if we are, there's always still that one area in which we fall short (for example, I do okay in the musical realm, but my drawing/painting/visual arts skills would shame a five-year-old). This, for the average person, is a source of a certain longing or jealousy; as social animals, it's incredibly important for us to be able to express ourselves to one another, and the identification of that feeling of inadequacy in Andy abruptly makes him a sort of Everyman. It is simple for us, as readers, to empathize with him, which makes him a compelling character despite the strictures of the short story format (which prevent Braunbeck from providing a lot of background information on him).

Andy is somewhat mortified that Chris insists he take this "magic" ring, which he has appraised as he heads home and which turns out to be solid gold and at least a hundred years old; he mentions that the jeweler informed him that it can be dated so old because it shows evidence of a special smelting process invented in Paris in the late 1800s. As a nitpicky person who works in an appraisal laboratory, I find this unlikely; the vast majority of gold and jewelry appraisers wouldn't have the ability to spot something like that, let alone determine it without very advanced and usually unnecessary tools and techniques. Your average appraiser just does an acid and scratch test to determine the gold's purity and authenticity. There are, of course, specialists, but they probably aren't conveniently located and open for street walk-ins at random on your way home one day when you feel the whim. However, that's a little thing, and if I didn't work where I do, I'd never have questioned it, so it's hard to accuse Braunbeck of breaking the story on that point. I attempted to look up this special gold process from late 1800s Paris and was unsuccessful; this doesn't necessarily mean it isn't out there, just that I don't know the appropriate places to look, so again, it's not a point worth fixating on (and even if he made that up, it's plausible enough that most people wouldn't bat an eye).

The fun part comes when Andy decides to wear the ring, in order tomake sure he doesn't lose it so he can return it to Chris later. First he begins to see the Phantom's face in the mirror rather than his own, which mercifully only happens once so that he doesn't have to spend the story in hysterics (in fact, like most normal people would, he reasonably concludes that it was a subconscious flash since he was watching the Julian/Chaney movie the other night, and that his face is not in fact a skeletal rotting creepfest). After that, things begin to magically go his way somehow--the girl he's been crushing on for months suddenly takes an interest in him after he eloquently and entirely unintentionally tells her how he feels, and he seems to be able to play Rachmaninoff with the skill of a master concert pianist despite his former inability to string two notes together correctly. This is all rather nice and he's begun to wonder if the ring really is magical and if he might be able to keep it, when he wakes up the next morning covered in blood and discovers via the morning news that he probably killed eight people last night.

So, holy shit, oh my god, sweet cracker sandwiches, etc. He runs back to Chris and this time she mistakes him for Erik; after cracking the facade of crazy old lady, she admits who she is and that the ring is cursed, haunted by Erik's soul. Further influence from Leroux's work is visible in that the ring in question is the one that Erik offered to her as a wedding ring; after setting her free, he made her promise to return after his death and give it back to him. This is utilized here as a vehicle for his occult shenanigans--specifically, he intentionally handed off most of his soul into the ring. This was done in order to be near to her for the rest of eternity; this is Erik, after all, and he doesn't exactly have the healthiest of conceptions of romance and relationships. It is the ring that keeps Christine ageless, and it's implied that she is the only one whose purity can keep Erik's murderous urges at bay. The most interesting part of this conversation, however, is when Andy accuses Erik of tricking Christine and she defends him; she insists that Erik, who spent his entire life fighting the corruption and madness inherent in him, meant well but was in the end unable to impart only the good parts of his soul into the ring (a very clear arrow pointing to the ultimate moral that genius and madness are inseparable partners). This has the double effect of solidifying Christine's character as the savior--even now, she is offering the Phantom forgiveness for his wrongs--but also of effectively transforming her into him. By being trapped as an immortal, largely unnoticed and separated from everyone she has ever loved, Christine is doomed to the same unhappy existence as Erik: alone, forever, through no fault of her own. One has to wonder if this is an accident, or a result of Erik's subconscious desire for her to truly understand his plight.

Andy is caught in a conundrum--if he wears the ring for too much longer, he will be effectively possessed by Erik, and forced to do terrible things, but if he returns it to Christine, she will continue to be eternal and unhappy, never to know release. His final choice--to allow Christine her peaceful death and to cut off his own finger to prevent Erik's hold on him from solidifying--solves both problems at his own personal cost. He maintains his integrity, which is paramount; even at the very end, as he sits down at the piano and wonders if any of that magical talent remains, he is not regretful of the choice made.

The implication, of course, is the same as in Leroux's original work: genius has a price, and there can be no true artistry or creativity without a corresponding consequence. True genius, in Leroux's work, is equated with the embrace of madness, and that idea carries over here. The final moral of the story is the suggestion that perhaps it is better to remain a mediocre--but happy--man, rather than trading what matters to you to be a tortured genius. It's the conflict of Christine's affections between Raoul and Erik reiterated in a modern format, subtly enough that it seems like a different story altogether, but metaphorically spot-on. Where Christine made her choice, ultimately, because she craved the safety that Raoul represented, Andy makes it for moral reasons; he sees the allure of Erik's genius and power and longs for it, but will not compromise his sense of self in order to have it. Andy, despite having a much shorter forum in which to establish his values and resolve his dilemma, is in the end a stronger character than Christine was, which is reflected in the fact that she dies of the curse (with his help) but he lives on, in control of his own destiny rather than a slave to anyone else's. By extension, we can even say that he has achieved redemption--he has made his choice and eschewed that which is most attractive for that which is most right.

A few things seemed like stretches of reality even in context--for example, I can't really think of very many people I know who would stop and have a protracted conversation with a street person who called them by the wrong name and appeared to be somewhat insane--but on the whole there weren't any details that made me squirm too much. The language almost crossed the line into overdone a few times; it seemed to me that Braunbeck has a certain lyrical style that he was attempting to keep under wraps while he wrote in a more realistic setting, so where it reared its head (such as in the description of Andy's house as saying about him, "Here is a son, the sum of his family's parts. This is not a great man, but a good one. He is not a poet, a leader or a visionary, but you will find yourself decently treated in this place, for it belongs to a decent man."--that's some lovely descriptive voice right there, but it didn't always mesh with the rest of the narrative, making it seem uneven). But those are relatively minor whines in a story that was overall quite good. It didn't knock my socks off, but then again, I like my socks. They keep my feet toasty. There's nothing wrong with a nice little story that takes you somewhere else for a while.

It also reminded me of Neil Gaiman's character Mad Hettie, whom I love. Anything that transforms Christine into Mad Hettie so ably is okay by me.

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