Isolde

Musik: Isabelle - Gregory and the Hawk
Kleiden: PJs again. Yeah, I need to get out more.
Filme: Paths of Glory (Kubrick)
Buchen: Juggling the three mentioned previously.

It's the idea of isolation, non-events that mean so much more than actual events, pathetic fallacy, expressionism. Things that seem straight foward that are layered with meaning, but at the same time...simplicity.

I think this story is set around 1070, after the Normans invaded England. I'm not really going for historical accuracy, however. I just wanted to invoke a sense of age, myth and lore. That's why I called this: Isolde.


Isolde

All was cold. Flecks of white danced across the dead, leaden sky to replace the stars that were covered by the thick grey clouds. The ground was illuminated by the whiteness. It shone an eerie light over the barren landscape. The air was sharp, cutting and stinging my skin until it was raw and tender. I could not cease my shaking, as I pulled my woollen cloak closer around my light frame. The wind was screaming at me, merciless and incensed. I could see barely a foot in front of me, and didn’t doubt that my horse could see even less. She was a coal black, sturdy mare but she was suffering. I could feel her legs beginning to give way underneath me. She could scarcely lift her hooves over the enormous drifts that were now coming into being all around us.

Her breath was like steam; heavy and thick. She began to stumble. And this was the beginning of the end. I knew at that moment that she wasn’t going to make it. I wasn’t going to make it. She fell, legs giving way suddenly yet surely. I dismounted a split second before she hit the ground, so that I was not crushed under her weight. There she lay; shivering like one possessed, her mane matted from the wind and her body thin and heaving. She was dying. I could feel death surrounding her, making the air thick and congealed like an aging wound. There was nothing I could do to stop it.

I took out my knife, its blade thin and sharp with a faint glint to its edge. I wasn’t going to prolong the inevitable. I knelt, putting a hand on the mare’s long, proud nose. In one swift movement I slit her throat, the blood pouring in torrents over my shaking hands; warming them a little. It stained the ice crimson as it leaked out for what seemed like almost a half league.

I had a good mind to do the same for myself. Rescue was unlikely. I could not walk for long for I did not know the way. The action would be fruitless as I had been relying somewhat on the horse to speed me along to the next village. I hadn’t the faintest idea where that might be. It could be many leagues. All that I could see around me was the darkness and the blizzard.

Yet, somewhere in the distance, something caught my eye. A light. A beacon of hope; my salvation. Somewhat delirious I began to run towards it with an uncontrollable fervour. Though I was beyond exhaustion I must have run for several miles, for in time I reached the source of the light. It was emanating from a window. The window of a small tower; a little bump in the landscape that I had previously missed.

The tower was old. It commanded respect, reverence. The great grey stones whispered stories of ancient times past. The mighty wooden double doors echoed like a thousand voices when I slammed my fists against them, hoping to gain entry. They held fast against my efforts, however. In my waning strength I tried desperately to push or pull them aside, but they seemed to be as solid as the rest of the tower; four square impenetrable walls.

“Help me!” I shrieked in my hysteria, “God help me!”

I lay then against the steps, sobbing until my lungs were in agony. I whispered prayers, chants, poetry, songs…anything that came into my head, until I calmed myself and settled down to only vague whimpers.

Then I heard the singing. Thinking that it was only my hysteria I tried to block out the sound, but it was oddly persistent. It appeared to be coming from the window, the light source which was high, high above me. I caught only snatches of the words…rosemary and thyme…true love of mine.

“HELP ME!” I cried out towards the voice I half suspected I was imagining.

Nothing. Just the song being started again in the same hauntingly melodic tone. Either I had gone quite mad, or the person in the tower had no concept of the term ‘mercy’. Though I suspected the latter, I thought perhaps I should persist in all attempts to save my own life.

“Please! I am dying! Meurt!” I exclaimed, wondering if perhaps it was a French nobleman or his rich daughter who owned the tower.

The voice sounded female, and she was singing in English however. Maybe she couldn’t hear me. But how could I make my voice any louder? I sighed. It was hopeless. I wrapped my cloak closely around me and lay down upon the blanket of snow. Here was to be my grave. My final resting place.

Presently I turned my head and, to my utter astonishment, found that the doors had been opened. With my last remaining burst of energy I all but threw myself inside, kicking at the door to close it behind me. I saw vague flashes of red, orange, black; a fire. I crawled along the floor towards it; my vision blurry and faltering. Eventually I settled down onto what seemed to be a rug before the fire. Feeling the warmth was such a pure, unadulterated pain that before I knew it I had blacked out and knew nothing more for quite some time.

As I gradually came to I perceived that the storm was still raging outside. In fact, it seemed to have gained ferocity if that was even possible. Yet I was safe and warm; I could feel the hot lick of the flames along the left side of my body. I appeared to be lying on a hearth rug, which covered the flagged stone floor of the tower. My eyesight began to sharpen and I looked carefully around the room. Furniture was scare; a couple of worn armchairs just behind the rug I lay on, a small wooden cabinet against the far wall and a squat mahogany table opposite it. The fireplace was the focal point of the room; it was at least six feet high, with a considerable stock-pile of coal and wood beside it.

Of my rescuer there was no sign. In the corner of the little room was the beginning of a winding staircase to the upper floors. The tower was considerably taller than it was wide, from what I had seen in my scant observation. I wondered at how many floors it contained.

Testing my weary limbs I attempted to stand. My legs shook but held firm and I proceeded to walk across the room towards the staircase. As I approached it I heard the same singing as I had the previous night and decided to follow the sound. I climbed cautiously up the spiralling staircase and the sound gradually grew louder, till I reached another chamber.

Here was a single four-poster bed, another fire in the corner and a little wardrobe. Opposite me there was a window, in which a girl who I assumed to be my rescuer stood. She did not appear to have heard me enter and continued her song blissfully. From behind I could see only a thick cloud of matted fair hair to her waist, and that she wore a long white gown about her unnaturally thin, frail frame. She sounded young, and her hands were as lily white as her gown for I could see them resting upon the window frame. I wondered if I ought to speak.

“Hello?” I said quietly, not wishing to alarm her.

She turned, startled nonetheless. Her dark brown eyes were wide as a rabbit, like great orbs within her tiny elfin face. Her chin was pointed, making the shape of her face into that of a heart. Again I observed how pale she was; as though she had never seen the light of day even. She did not speak, only stared as though I were an intruder.

“Sorry to disturb you,” I began.

My speaking seemed to cause her some sort of physical pain, for she flinched at the sound as though it were somewhat alien to her. But she had been singing in English; surely she must have understood me.

“Parlez vous Francais?” I asked, though my own French was limited at best.

The same reaction. I shook my head and moved towards her, wondering if she were a mute. She took several steps back at my approach, however, and so I paused once again baffled.

“I wondered if I might stay here whilst the storm continues,” I said.

There was a long pause as we stood there, staring at one another. She then bowed her head in ascent, very slowly and deliberately. Still, she said nothing.

Thinking perhaps she wished to be left alone, I too nodded and began to walk back down the stairs to the room I had originally been in. As I left she took up her place at the window once again, beginning to sing a different song.

I took to curling up in one of the armchairs by the fire; staring into the flames in deep thought. I did not know what to do. For now, I could only wait.

After what seemed like hours I heard someone enter the room. It was the girl; bearing a tray of steaming hot food and drink. She approached me cautiously, keeping her eyes on mine constantly lest I make any sudden bids to attack her. She knelt, placing the tray upon the hearth rug and then backed slowly out of the room again without a word. Throughout this whole encounter I did not move, for fear of alarming her.

The food she had brought me was a thick meat stew and some strange herbal concoction to drink. I ate my meal gratefully, for I had not eaten for what seemed like several days.

It was in this manner that the next, perhaps three, days were passed. The storm raged on relentlessly; the landscape transformed into but a thick white mass. I kept the fire going, the girl entered only occasionally to pass me meals and so I was left alone for hours at a time. And yet, each time the girl entered it seemed to be with a growing amount of confidence. She would not keep her eyes on me as carefully as she had and might even pass the tray directly to me.

One morning I awoke to a deafening silence. All was quiet; not a lick of wind passed through the drafty tower. The storm had stopped. In my excitement I ran up the staircase to inform the girl of this occurrence. She had been sleeping, so just about fainted at the sight of me.

“It’s stopped!” I yelled, and she cowered in the corner of her bed at the strength of the noise.

When I paused I could see that she was shaking. I had frightened her. The poor girl looked just about at her wits end. I sighed.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, “You’ll have me out of your hair soon enough.”

I turned to leave the room but to my surprise I heard a soft mutter, much too quiet for me to understand. Yet heard it I did. I turned back to look at the girl, who had begun to move towards me.

“What did you say?” I asked quietly, staying very still.
“Don’t go,” she said, her voice a saintly whisper of an angel.

Hardly able to believe that she had spoken I continued to stand, staring at her in astonishment. I did not know how to respond. She was still moving towards me, as though each step cost her unimaginable bravery. She was afraid, but she was fighting it. Soon we were so close that I could smell her soft perfume, see the thickness of her eyelashes casting shadows across her cheeks. She did not touch me yet I felt as if this were something equally as intimate, if not more so.

“What’s your name?” I whispered.
“Isolde,” she breathed, and I could feel her breath across my face.

I closed my eyes, mouthing the word; tasting it on my lips. Her own lips were tantalizingly close to mine, yet the distance seemed enormous. The tips of our noses hovered so close that even the slightest movement could bring them together.

I took a step back.

“I have to go,” I said, myself now afraid of what was happening.

She did not try to stop me as I all but ran down the stairs, making my way towards the great double doors. I opened them after some effort, and stepped outside into the soft blanketed world. All was cold.