Isabel Burning

~ a fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi ~-1

~ a fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi ~

I dream of a canyon. There is wind and water and darkness, and from that darkness arises a terrible desire to throw myself into Her depths. There are wolves all around me, closing in with shining red eyes, and I know that the only way out is through. And I am afraid because She, the vast hole in the ground, is my carnivorous Mother.

I am awake before the impact and every time I am calling for someone. I believe it’s for my father.

*

(September)

I have to admit I was impressed. Every now and then, when the good doctor would remember that I was a person capable of participating in intelligent conversation, he would pour glasses of red wine and enthral me with tales of his time spent in Zaire, as it was called then. He was quite an accomplished storyteller with a voice that flowed from his throat as smoothly as the wine went down mine. Listening to him speak was by far the easiest and most enjoyable part of my job.

Now, perhaps it is a bitter thing to say, but since I’d left my father’s house I’d encountered no shortage of self-centred people who droned on and on recounting their fabulously dull victories as though I had no real life of my own. Thank god they were there to save me from my own tedious experiences by allowing me to share in theirs, second-hand, of course.

And this is how it went, time and time again. People were dull and grey, reminding me of the smog-stained windows I’d looked out as a child. In a factory town, everything and everyone is covered in the same filthy sheen.

I’d just about given up the hope of ever feeling any way other than jaded and numb when I met Dr Grace. I would have never believed that I could be content living vicariously through another until I came to be in his employ, but I happily lived that way for some time. Of course, I was much younger then and his wine and words were enough. Really, just being away from the looming presence of smoke stacks was enough.

He struck me as a curious and solitary man, and I found his tired and worn face to be as captivating as his stories. It may have been those heavenly lines that would be my eventual undoing.

In the first few months as his assistant—he never called me his maid, but he rarely called me by name, either, and I sometimes wondered if he remembered my name at all—it was unusual to see him leave the house, and never did I see him entertain guests. No family ever rang and I didn’t ask any questions; no one ever rang me, either. Only the occasional colleague would write or phone, and even that was rare. These exchanges, from what I could hear, were always brief and enigmatic, coolly civilized at best. Dr Grace appeared to be the loneliest man I’d ever met. I imagined him to be suffering greatly beneath his weathered skin, desperate for someone to come along and release him from his isolated prison.

It was necessary for me, in those days, to assign such emotional handicaps and social deficiencies to anyone who intimidated me so that I might spare my own ego. And I should make it understood, before this goes any farther, that no one on this earth knows better than I how incredibly self-absorbed I was, which explains why I immediately believed that fate had brought me to him. I was to be his salvation. I would be the one to free him. It did not occur to me then that he could have possibly been content with his quiet life. I had no way of knowing that his withdrawal from the outside world was not so much a disadvantage to him, but a necessary benefit to society; but I was a naïve girl in those days, greatly lacking imagination.

I recognize that it may be presumptuous for me to assume that anyone should care to hear my story, but believe me when I say there are vital lessons to be learned here. Perhaps they were only meant for me, though I doubt it. I doubt it very much. But there I go, talking about myself again—truly, it’s like a sickness—when this time was to be reserved for the doctor. These words are for him.

*

The Grace family estate, much like its only heir, was isolated, as the houses in stories like these always are. The Tudor manor lay hidden behind a shallow grove of evergreens at the end of a private, serpentine road. A forest, dense and lush, fortressed the house on three sides, yielding its growth just enough to allow for a clearing, carpeted with fading greens of varying hues. I’ve been told there is a farm beyond the woods to the east, though you cannot see it from the house. Dr Grace called it modest though it remains the most beautiful home in which I’ve ever been.

The rooms were like those found in museums, though much less cold and sterile. White walls with mahogany trim were tastefully decorated with paintings and weavings, while a vast array of sculptures lined the various tables and slate sills. The doctor, or perhaps an ancestor, was a collector, and a rather serious one at that. No matter where I stood I found myself encircled by virgins, goddesses, demons and martyrs—religious icons of all denominations—ornate furniture, antique medical equipment displayed as works of art, and books—entire walls carved out into shelves for hundreds of books. The ancient world was alive and well within the walls of the Grace house.

As enthralling as I found the house and its specimens of exotic religions and medicine to be—really, I could go and on and never do it justice—I suppose I should start this tale from what is ostensibly the beginning. And although the story really began long before any of us were born, this is where it began for me.

I met Dr Grace through a referral from the cleaning service I worked for. I was hired by said service on a temporary basis at my own request, having no desire to live out my years in the same manner as the two women who owned the business. I never got to know them particularly well, but could tell enough by observation alone. They were divorced, discarded by their husbands in the throes of mid-life crises for younger and thinner models, a fact that did not at all help endear me to them, as I was also younger and thinner. But after many tumultuous nights in lonely beds, they traded in their tears and bitter chocolates for self-help books and feminist propaganda—nothing too edgy, mind you. No spirit-invoking bonfires or lesbianism or any other such nonsense. Before long they had picked themselves up, thrown on some sensible yet fashionable running suits and started a business that put their only real skills—aside from giving me disapproving glares laced with hints of resentment—to work. If they could no longer keep tidy homes for their husbands, then they’d bloody well straighten up everyone else’s.

I knew they didn’t care much for me from the very start and I wasn’t at all surprised when they put me on such a time consuming job. They said it was a large undertaking but it would be worth it for the money and that I should take care to stash away as much money as I could because one day I wouldn’t be so youthful and once the sagging began I shouldn’t count upon a husband to honour any of the bloody promises he made to keep me and support me through all things, good and bad—including the gradual onset of jowls, the dreaded thickening up through the middle, and that short, kicky hair style that claims to thin you about the face and neck—practical and age appropriate, so say all the salons and tabloids. But, that was merely their advice to me and of course I could do as I pleased with my earnings, but it would be a right shame to see me end up as they did, and I agreed with them wholeheartedly. I suppose I could have appreciated their advice had it felt even a little sincere, but it was delivered to me wrapped in a certain smugness that suggested they couldn’t wait for the day to come that I found myself bitter, shapeless, and utterly alone. But in the end I swallowed my pride and took the job, grateful to spend my days out of their company.

Upon my arrival at the house I understood what they meant by ‘large undertaking.’ I always thought those sorts of places came with their own domestic services included, and expected to be greeted by an elderly butler, but it was the doctor who opened the colossal oak door himself.

After a few overwhelming moments inside and some brief small talk, Dr Grace confessed he was actually looking for someone to be a live-in ‘personal assistant,’ which didn’t sound quite right to me then, either, and with a nervous laugh admitted his plans of stealing me away from the service, with ample compensation of course. He said he would have taken out an advert in the local paper but feared what manner of bizarre soul might reply. I remarked quietly that he must not have actually met with my employers, then found myself awkwardly trying to explain the joke as he stared at me with a look of polite confusion, followed by an even more polite and sympathetic smile.

Kindly ignoring my awkwardness, he went on to explain how this would be a full time situation and, in addition to caring for the house, he desperately needed someone to attend to his personal errands. He explained that he was in the midst of a very crucial project and barely found the time to feed himself any more. I would receive a weekly allowance and any additional funds required for housekeeping, as well as private living quarters on the western end of the second floor. Only the kitchen would be shared, though I would be free to roam in most areas of the house at my own discretion. If I agreed, there would be a three-week trial period and then, assuming all was well, he would have a contract drawn up for a year’s employ. He sped through the terms of the arrangement so quickly I believed he must have practised it over and over again before I arrived. When he spoke it was flawless.

It all seemed simple enough. I needed work, and this was a beautiful place. And really, what else did I have? A rundown flat, a non-existent relationship with my father, and no real friends to speak of. All things considered, I should have been ecstatic. Everything was about to change. But as grateful as I was, there was something familiar, something torrid stirring inside of me.

I have a secret that I feel would be appropriate to share at this time, as odd as it may seem, but way down in my stomach lives a creature that is fond of lighting fires. It does this to make me aware. Sometimes the fires signal me to run, sometimes they tell me to stay still and quiet. But mostly they just tell me and allow me to make my own decisions. In these fires I am shown pictures—rather, flashes of pictures, though most of the time I manage to convince myself it’s merely a daydream. I used to try to share these pictures with others, but quickly found that I was cursed like Cassandra, fated to be met with ridicule and stern looks from my parents.

It has been this way since I can remember.

But I have always been filled with red—red fires, red flags and deep, scarlet burning. Red is the colour of things like mistrust and anger. Red is a warning. The idea is a bit obvious, I know, the way that envy is always green and cowardice is always yellow and just as orange-yellow is disgust that begins in your stomach but rises to your throat and purple is resentment—though I may have made up the latter—but those reds...they have made it difficult for people who would lie to me; they have made it difficult to lie to myself, though when I do—and I always do—I know I will be burned from the inside out.

Of course this gift is futile if I ignore it. Only after I have dismissed the fires and run straight into the mouth of turmoil do I wonder why, oh why didn’t I trust my instinct? If only I had paid mind to the burning, if only I’d acknowledged the flags, if only I’d just this once really looked at the picture, remembered the dream, or learned from my mistake, but no…I didn’t believe in psychic powers. I didn’t believe that intuition was anything other than fear and in that, I was absolved.