The Origins
of
Blood and Silk: The Tale of Circelae and Alexiel
PART I
Trevor
The Place: Monterey High School
Monterey, California
The Time: Winter of 2000
My alma mater was a diverse place, both in terms of ethnicity and a social structure. This trait was compounded even further by the fact that, at the beginning of the term, MHS was forced to absorb the student bodies and faculty of some of the neighboring schools in the district due to overcrowding. My fellow students and I were not pleased with being forced to become the proverbial melting pot, to say the least. But there was not much we could do about it.
As is the case with most schools, the student body was divided into cliques. You had the preps—many of which were classist given their privileged backgrounds—the goths, the geeks, the jocks, et cetera; and, again as with most schools, society dictated that the factions should never intermingle. It was the unspoken law that must be followed, lest we descend into anarchy—I have never been one for following the rules, as you’ll soon see.
It was quite by accident that I met the boy who was to become the Beauty to my Beast. Did I know him? Well, I knew of him. Every student did. His name was Trevor, and he was tall and lithe with red hair and dark eyes, and he was popular, which meant we didn’t socialize. Our mutual existence meant nothing to each other. But that changed the day we met in class.
If you had been observing my class, you would have seen that the lot of us bore more of a resemblance to Hugo’s Court of Miracles than your run-of-the-mill high school drama class. An eclectic bunch, we had kids with all sorts of personalities: Layabouts, witches, pagans, even some professed pirates, literal and figurative. And we were all actors to boot!
When Trevor walked into our class, every other student immediately chimed in with a hiss or a degrading shout aimed at him, whispering amongst themselves and wondering what could possibly have been his reason for being there. From my usual spot by the tech booth, I watched as he handed our teacher, Larry Welch, his class schedule and was told to take his place with everybody else and to get ready to jump into the assignment we had been working on.
We had been reading through Romeo and Juliet, divvying up the roles for eventual presentation before the entire school. The groups were to create their own interpretation of an individual scene—with the Romeos directing and the Juliets designing the costumes and creating any set pieces and props that would be needed.
Mr. Welch cast Trevor as Juliet and tasked him with learning Act Three, scene five: the scene where Romeo bids Juliet farewell following his banishment for the murder of her cousin.
Now, there was a small group of us that had yet to be cast in this production, among them was myself and three other guys who were probably the most brutal gay men you were likely to meet. When the consignment of Trevor as Juliet was announced, it became obvious to me that this trio fully intended to work towards the goal of humiliating the new kid. And this incident could prove to be just the thing.
Trevor stood there, holding his script, frozen stiff; and that was when I noticed the expression on his face. Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. This was something I didn’t expect to see. Mr. Welch prompted Trevor to get on with it and he did. The result was a complete wreck. Trevor’s voice quavered as he read the dialogue, stumbling over some words, mumbling others, hesitating and stammering. Almost everybody jeered and laughed at him, though I couldn’t help but feel sympathetic and embarrassed for him.
Mr. Welch stopped him and rolled his eyes before saying, “Who’s going to tutor this kid? Remember, whoever does so is also his Romeo, and—”
“I will!” Immediately the catcalls and laughter stopped. Everybody looked at me in shock. But I ignored them, only opening my backpack to grab a scrap of paper. I hastily wrote down my address and phone number and walked over to Trevor, who was still shaking. “Are you free tonight?” I asked him, gruffly.
“Y-Yes,” he said softly.
“Good. Be at this address by five tonight.” I started to give him the paper with my details on it, but pulled back quickly. “Do not give this to anyone. If you do, I will know and I will destroy you.” I gave him the paper and stalked back to my spot by the tech booth.
Now, because of my reputation, I was able to get away with saying such things. Several terrible rumors had made the rounds at MHS, depicting me as an irritable and dangerous person, one you did not want to trifle with. Most of these I myself had created as a way of persuading people to leave me alone; and, like everyone else, Trevor knew of and believed these stories.
After school I returned to the home I shared with my grandfather near the coast to wait for Trevor to show up. I loved that house. It was an old and large two story edifice, constructed of both stone and wood, full of memories. The only source of turmoil came from my grandfather, who, sadly, was never able to come to terms with the death of my grandmother in 1997, finding his only solace at the bottom of a bottle and in bestowing upon me numerous beatings. My last hiding place was a room on the second floor. It seemed a rather unremarkable room at first glance... until you noticed the hatch that led to the roof—this spot would eventually become Alexiel’s tower in the original novel and all subsequent incarnations of Blood and Silk.
Lily, my cat, greeted me as I walked through the front door, as did my dog Patches. Thankfully done with school, I was busy making myself a snack when the doorbell rang. I raised an eyebrow in suspicion and Patches ran to the door to investigate, barking all the while. “Dammit,” I said to myself and I went to answer the door.
There he stood, and I invited him in. And that was start of it all...
Trevor would come over almost every afternoon, though I sometimes had to suggest different places for us to meet at, due to my grandfather being home. Through our daily meetings I would open up to him and he would do the same with me.
One day, I introduced him to my acting coach, Marcia Gambrell Hovick, hoping she could unlock any latent acting abilities inside of him. It turned out to be the correct thing to do.
Surprisingly, Trevor was a rather marvelous actor, injecting more reality and emotion into his performance than any other actor I’d known as our school performance loomed near. He grew into his character well, becoming an able Juliet, while I, despite feeling I was more the Tybalt-type, took to Romeo with as much skill as I could muster.
Things changed when, during a rehearsal, Trevor kissed me.
It wasn’t long, five seconds. And it was almost a mere peck on the lips, but tender. He leaned in, his eyes closed, and touched his lips to mine. When he opened his eyes and realized what he was doing, he pulled back quickly, shaking his head and blushing. There was a look on fright in his face that quite possibly matched the surprise on mine, and I suspect that he was half-terrified that I was going to hurt him.
“I’m sorry! I’m really sorry,” he exclaimed. Then, possibly by way of an explanation, he added, “I was way too in character. Marcia’s direction really works.”
“Was that it? Or was it something else?”
“What would it change if it was?”
“My reaction,” I responded. My voice had become soft and gentle.
As we finished the scene, I took him into my arms. It was my turn to give a kiss. I did.
Trevor and I began dating, but chose to keep it a secret. We were both of us having problems at home, his parents being in the middle of a nasty, drawn-out divorce, and my own problems with my grandfather, which had come to a head.
There was only one person whom we kept in our confidence. That was my great uncle Tom. He was my late grandmother’s brother and, being gay himself, understood our situation and so gave us a place to sometimes meet in his house. We even had our own private room, where we could take solace in each other’s company as needed.
The more we discovered about each other, the more pleasantly surprised I was to find how much we had in common. We were both singers. I was a high baritone and he, untrained as he was, possessed a beautiful countertenor—I would go on to teach him and help him to refine his voice. We also held a shared love for Lloyd Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera. I took this opportunity to introduce him to other pieces of musical theatre, including Tanz der Vampire. These two musicals that detailed strange and forbidden love became a leitmotif that underscored our relationship.
We would run around Carmel Valley, which, as time went on, became our Terabithia of sorts. And, in rare moments of my opening up myself, I would tell Trevor of the stories that I would write down as a way of treating the depression I suffered from—this included the prologue of what was to become Blood and Silk, which I worked on c. ’99 to 2000—which led to him suggesting that we write something together. Alterra then became our world.
While we struggled to think of an overall plot to our story, we discussed folklore and mythology. I asked him what his favorite fairy tale was. Trevor laughed a little and said, “Beauty and the Beast.”
“Do you know what roman á clef means?” I asked. He said no. “It’s French, meaning novel with a key, and oftentimes features characters and true events that are disguised. Sometimes thinly disguised and sometimes not.”
Later that week, he came up with the character of Circelae Alverdine and began developing the story while I further developed the world, finishing the notes I had in regards to the language, which was inspired by German, Hungarian, Polish, Czech, and Latvian. Then it was time for us to jump into writing in earnest, which we did over the next four years. Along with the novel, the pair of us composed many pieces of music to supplement the story. Elements of these original songs still survive in the show’s score today.
We sadly never had the chance to finish it together, as Trevor tragically died in 2004. He just didn’t come home one day. Nobody saw him until his body was found the following morning near our usual meeting place.
Even now, as I write this down, I can feel myself breaking, so, please, suffice it to say that the following months were hell and resulted in a man being acquitted of something he should not have been. Trevor’s death was not to be the last one to hit my life that year either. Uncle Tom and my grandfather both died as well, and I was thrown into a group home within the foster care system, where I suffered further abuse until the day I turned eighteen and left the system.
Part II
Jo
The Place: San Francisco, California
The Time: 2007
By the time of my nineteenth birthday, I had begun to settle into a new apartment in San Francisco, after living on the streets for a period of time. And when I had been able to get a new computer, I logged into all of my old emails and downloaded every attachment I could. Wisely, I had learned some time earlier to send copies of my writings to myself as a means of backup. One of these attachments ended up being a version of our yet to be named story that Trevor had finished the day before he’d been killed. I hadn’t touched it since that day. I’d kept it in my files, but could not bring myself to touch it. It was too painful.
I also downloaded a program called Second Life. Second Life is the largest online virtual world in use, launched by Linden Labs in 2003, and is used as a source of education and entertainment. Users [called “residents”] create avatars, explore the world, and are able to create new structures, craft clothing, and design new landscapes as part of the community. Residents may set up stores to sell their wares, as well.
It was in one such store where I met the next person to become a great influence and driving force in my life. I had discovered a shop where I could find clothing that resembled the costumes from The Phantom of the Opera. As I applied one of the items to my avatar, I couldn’t help thinking that there was something vaguely familiar about the logo above the shop. It reminded me of a site I used to frequent called Phantom’s Theater, which had been run by an artist going by the name SylentFantome. During the years we were in contact, they had become one of my dearest friends, but we lost contact after the death of my grandfather.
Speaking to the owner, I couldn’t help but ask, “Jo?”
“Who knows my name, despite my not knowing theirs?”
“It’s me!” I exclaimed and I proceeded to explain to him who I was and all that had happened since we had last spoken.
A year later, the two of us were living together, a period that was trying to us both as I was still recovering from the abuse I had endured while in the group homes. Jo, however, proved to be a tower of strength and led me patiently out of the darkness. All while studying 3D and Video Game Design at the Art Institute of San Francisco.
In 2013, I read some excerpts from the unnamed story to Jo, who began to encourage me to publish the story, something I had never in my wildest dreams considered. After some reflection, I agreed, but with one stipulation: I would finish writing the book, provided Jo would illustrate it. As a huuuuuuge fan of his artwork I could think of no better compliment to the text than his pictures. Happily for me, Jo agreed.
Finishing the novel proved to be difficult, in more ways than one. Because of the memories tied to the book, I was nearly overcome by a tidal wave of emotions each time I sat there staring at my word processor. I didn’t think myself capable of finishing it without Trevor.
Thankfully, I had tons of support from my friends and chosen family and, most importantly, Jo. Jo knew exactly how to push me, occasionally offering ideas and assisting in edits of the various drafts.
When it came to actually deciding where the story should go? That was another difficulty. Trevor had left the story at a cliffhanger, and, for the life of me, I could not figure out how to push forward. So I thought I’d work on hammering down a title. I considered The World of Alterra, Pawprints Diary of a Fallen King, and The Castle in the Forest, but none of these felt right. Then I remembered a note that Trevor had made: Blood and Silk. It was in reference to a descriptive passage on the last page he had ever written. I decided it was perfect. The book was now to be called Blood and Silk.
Now, with the title settled, I tried to write denouement of the tale. But, as is often the case with writers, I was struck with three things. I didn’t want to finish. I still had no idea how to finish it; and, I was angry. I was angry with the man that had ended my boyfriend’s life and, as irrational as it was, I was angry with Trevor for not being there to help me and I was angry with myself for thinking I could and should finish this mammoth task without the person who had helped create so much of it. It felt wrong to do so.
Realizing I was not going to get any writing done, I stepped away from the computer for a time, unsure of whether I was going to come back.
Then, one night, I had a dream. It was as if Trevor himself had visited me and told me to keep going, because I saw it. The ending.
I woke at nine the next morning,—which never happens without an alarm—got out of bed, went straight to my desk, and, in a whirlwind of marathon writing, finished the novel.
Passing the finished manuscript to Jo, I waited as he created a beautiful cover and wonderful illustrations, occasionally giving him details that weren’t in the text and giving him the few photographs I still had of Trevor to use as reference for Circelae. The final product brought my world to life in a way I had never before imagined possible. I will admit, when I had seen the illustrations for the first time, I cried.
After the book’s publication, I gave it to many of the friends and family that helped me through the process and they told me how it would make a wonderful piece for the stage. Being a composer and an actor, the thought of turning Blood and Silk into a musical was an intriguing one, and Jo, as usual, supported me.
Opening Celtx, my script formatting software, I typed Blood and Silk. Hmmm... It felt too... plain. Especially since I had discovered post-release that it was actually a common title. I began to dread coming up with a new title, when an idea struck me. I smiled. It was perfect, It was wonderful in its simplicity.
I typed these words:
Blood and Silk:
The Tale of Circelae and Alexiel
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