The Secret Life of Isabel May

There was an old man came o'er from Lee,

Oh, but I'll not have him, said she. 

There was an old man came o'er from Lee,

A-courting me, a-courting me,

With his old grey beard,

With his old grey beard

Just newly shaven.

English Folk Song

The first day they locked me up, they brought a little bread and water.  The second day, only water.  On the third day, I was sure they'd let me out.  But no one came. 

My tongue began to swell from thirst and my stomach ached as though a sharp-clawed demon pinched me from within.  I paced the cold stone floor, shivering and gnawing my lips.  One by one, I chewed off my fingernails and the end of my braid, hoping this would quell the pain of my hunger.  During the dark hours, it rained and I pressed my face against the stones under the window, licking the thin trail of water that trickled down the wall.

The fourth day came.  I no longer paced, but lay on the floor, sometimes talking to myself, sometimes dreaming.  In my visions, I was dressed as a bride.  Next to me stood an old man, his mouth full of rotting, yellowed teeth; on his head, a few scraggly yellow-grey hairs to match.  As the priest pronounced us married, my groom loomed over me leering, his liver-spotted hands reaching out to grab me.

First, I thought it was my own screams that woke me.  As the fog cleared from my head, I realized the cries and moans were outside my stinking, damp cell.  Crawling on my hands and knees, I pressed my ear to the crack of the door.  Was someone hurt? Was someone trying to rescue me? For the first time in days, I thought of something besides my thirst or my hunger. 

Mother! Let me out, I'm afraid.

My first cries were faint and froggy.  Concentrating hard, I willed my mouth to fill with enough spit to wet my desiccated throat. 

Mother? Father?  Please...I was wrong.  I'll do as you wish.     

Nothing. 

Bess!

No one. 

I pounded my fists against the door, but weak as I was, my blows were mere pitter-pats on the heavy wood.  No one came.  The room grew darker and colder even as my tongue cracked and bled.  Outside the door, silence.

ONE

It had started with the worst birthday ever.  All through the dismal winter after Grandmother's death, I'd dreamed about the gifts I'd get when my fourteenth birthday finally arrived.  Thinking about them helped ease the pain of not having her with me anymore. 

Sometimes when I opened my eyes in the morning, I'd wonder in a sleepyheaded way what Grandmother and I would do that day.  Maybe we'd go for a walk in the forest to look for roots and flowers to make a remedy.  Maybe she'd tell me the next part of the story about the way to milk a dragon.  Maybe she’d tell me about her studies with Pierre Morrisette...

Then I'd remember.  Grandmother was dead. 

Each time I remembered, it felt as if it had just happened.  As though I’d I found her lying cold in her bed that very morning, instead of five months ago.  Sometimes the sadness sat so heavy on my chest, I felt like someone had laid the gravestone on me instead of her. 

I didn't cry anymore—well, not very often.  Instead, I thought about the gifts I'd get for my birthday.  I was going to be fourteen.  Almost a woman.   

When I woke up that day and realized I was fourteen at last, I forgot to be sad.  I knew it was lunacy, but I couldn’t help imagining that my mother would come into my room and lead me outside and there it would be: a horse of my own.  My birthday horse.  A horse to ride, so I could get away from cooking and sewing and weaving and tending the ducks.  Away from brewing ale, making candles and knitting socks.  Away from the twins and most of all, from my mother. 

A horse.  A little mare.  I didn't care what colour she was, didn't even care if she was old and fat, as long as she was mine.  I imagined myself, hair flying in the wind, as I made my escape, riding hard to the bright life I knew was waiting for me over the horizon. 

I jumped out of bed, not bothering to dress, and ran toward the door.  Maybe my horse was out there, waiting for me.  I ran down the hall and straight into the banes of my life, my sisters.  In their matching pink bodices and green petticoats, with faces full of happy malice, they looked liked wicked poppets come to life.

Isabel, Amy looked at me, her head tilted slyly.  Mother says you are to come at once.

Her maddenly perfect and perfectly maddening twin Alysse smirked.  Most wondrous news...you are to be married.

Married?  By the saints, I’m only just fourteen.  I can’t marry.  You’re foolish little girls.

We’re only two years younger than you.  In any case, it’s true, said Amy.

Alysse smiled triumphantly.  You’re going to marry Sheriff Poxington.

The image of Poxington arose in my mind.  An old man, with a mouth full of rotting, yellow teeth and a few scraggly yellow-grey hairs to match.  His last wife died in an accident a few months before and I’d heard my parents speak of his need for a new wife to provide him with healthy sons.  But my parents must be moonstruck to think I would marry him! 

Pushing past Amy and Alysse, who’d begun humming a love ballad and dancing in a circle around me, I stomped off to look for my mother and father.  I found them sitting in my father’s study; my father reading a pile of documents, my mother working on her tapestry. 

I cannot marry Sheriff Poxington, I said as I burst into the room.  I can’t!  I won’t!

My mother, her beautiful face smooth and expressionless, looked at me without speaking, and then returned to her sewing.

Mother, please! You don’t understand.  I want to continue my studies with Aunt Bess.  She tells me I show great promise and could be a fine healer.

What you want or don’t want is irrelevant, replied my mother, barely glancing up from her embroidery.  The desires of a rude, selfish girl matter little.  In any case, Sheriff Poxington is a fine match for the family.

But Mother, I... I faltered under my mother’s cold gaze, and looked instead at my father, who was bent over a letter.  Father, please, don’t you—

You’ll do as I say, he said.  You can do it gracefully, or you can do it painfully.  It matters little to me.

Your father has... My mother paused, staring out the window. Then she looked not at me, but over my shoulder. Your father has lost you. In a game of dice. He bet your hand in marriage in a game of dice with Poxington. He lost and now you must wed.

For a moment, all the breath left my body. Then, I turned on my father and screamed, You lost me? Lost me in a game of dice? My voice rose higher and higher as rage swelled my throat.

No need to make a fuss, girl, my father said. You’d have wed someone or other soon anyway. What difference does it make?

I won’t do it!

You will. A gentleman always pays his debts and no one will accuse me of not being a gentleman. Raising his eyebrows, he fixed my mother with a fish-eyed stare.  She rose and he went back to his papers. 

My mother pinched my arm, making me gasp.  I swallowed hard, trying to push down the burning tears in my throat.  I would not give them the pleasure of seeing me cry. 

Isabel is overwrought, she said She will spend the rest of the day praying for guidance and forgiveness.  Without looking up from his desk, my father grunted and waved us off.  Sighing, my mother pushed me from the room, giving me one more pinch as a reminder of what would happen if I disobeyed. 

In the hall, just outside the door, stood my old Aunt Bess, polishing an invisible mark on an old wooden chest.  She threw me a worried glance before smiling at my mother. 

May I help in any way, my dear? she asked. 

Without answering, my mother seized my arm and marched me down the hall.  I glanced back at Bess, whose wrinkled face was lined with worry.  Then, I was thrust into The Correction Room. 

Kneel, commanded my mother.  Pray for forgiveness.

A shriek rose up inside me.  I hate you! I wish Bess were my real mother.  A real mother wouldn’t force her child to marry an evil-smelling old man.

My mother stared at me, face calm, then turned her back and moved to the door.  With a swish of her blue damask robe she left the room. 

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

The door closed and I heard a thud as she bolted it from the outside, leaving me in the dark.

I wish you were dead, I added.  I wish all of you were dead.

I heard her footsteps walking away.  I was trapped. 

Hours passed.  To keep warm, I began to pace.  My eyes were swollen and dry and my head ached.  Even worse, my bladder was full to bursting.  How much longer would she leave me here? Slumping down on the cold, stone floor, I began to cry afresh, thinking the unthinkable: My future had been destroyed by a roll of dice.

The sun fell but still she did not return.  The walls of the cell, damp and grey, pressed in on me and the cold ate its way into my bones.  I had no more tears left to cry.  My heart was frozen.  I would never be happy again. 

A long time later, when I was near sleep, I heard the door creak open.  My mother, dressed in her nightclothes, moved silently into the chamber, a candle in one hand and a mug in the other.

Come, she said. 

I stumbled to my feet, shivering and followed her down the hall to the chamber I shared with my sisters. 

Her braids hung down her slender back giving her the air of a girl.  Her hair was a few shades lighter than my own thanks to the beautifying potion Aunt Bess had taught me to make.  The week before, in a rare moment of peace, my mother had let me wash her hair with the chamomile water I had prepared for her.  We spread her long tresses out in the sun to lighten.  While we waited, she showed me how to polish my nails with a paste made of almonds ground into a fine meal.  It was a happy moment but now I wondered.  Had she only been trying to make me look better for Poxington?  How long had they been planning this match?

I climbed into bed, rubbing my frozen feet together under the coverlet.

Here, my mother said, handing me the mug.  I've brought you hot milk to help you sleep,

Ugh.  I loathed hot milk. 

She looked down at me, her face expressionless.  I know you feel like you’re the only girl who's ever been forced to marry against her wishes.  Believe me, you’re not.

I opened my mouth to speak, but she laid a finger over my lips. 

I know you feel it’s wrong and truly, I wish your father had not been...so...so impulsive.  But you must accept your fate.  It is the fate of all girls.

But, you could send me away.  You could...

No.  You mustn’t think that way.  Learn from my mistakes, Isabel.  I too fought my destiny and found myself in a world of trouble because of it.

What kind of trouble? I asked but she just shook her head and looked away. 

Just do as your father says, Isabel.  If you cry and wail, you'll only embarrass yourself.  It will cause you—and me—a great deal of pain.  But it will change nothing. She looked off into the darkness for a moment and sighed.  Drink your milk now and sleep.

I choked down the last mouthful and handed her the mug.  She drew the coverlet up to my shoulders.  She patted my head.  Comforted by the scent of the orange and rose perfume she always wore, I drifted off to sleep. 

TWO

The next thing I knew, the morning sun was in my eyes and a voice was shouting my name.  Mother flung open the door and glowered at me, all traces of last night’s tenderness vanished. 

Have you gone deaf? I've been calling and calling you.  Get to the infirmary.  There’s a sick traveller and Aunt Bess needs your help.  

Until her death, my grandmother had lived with her sister, my old aunt Bess, in a cottage near the forest at the edge of our land.  One room served as infirmary for those who fell ill or were injured.  The large, homey kitchen was full of sweet-smelling herbs, dusty roots, pots of salve and labeled bottles of tinctures.  It was my favourite place in the world and, now that Grandmother was gone, my aunt was my favourite person in the world.  If anyone knew how to help me escape my so-called fate, she would.

Next to cottage, there grew a large garden full of fragrant medicinal herbs.  As I passed through it, I pinched off a sprig of lavender and rubbed it under my nose to cure my headache.  As I breathed in its sweet, dusty fragrance, I felt comforted.  The door to the cottage opened and there stood my aunt, her grey curls pulled into a loose knot and her sweet eyes full of love as she smiled at me.  She looked so much like my dead grandmother, I wanted to cry. 

My dear, she said, opening her arms to hug me.  You’ve come just in time—we have a patient with a fever.  Come and help me prepare a remedy.

On a cot near the fire, lay a boy my own age.  Although his hair was wet with sweat, he was shivering.  Bess bent over him, wiping his brow and murmuring a prayer.    She glanced up at me.  You've come just in time.  Make a fever tea.  Quickly—the child is burning.

As I turned to go, I saw a giant of a man huddled on a stool in the corner.  Wearing a rough brown tunic, he looked like a rugged oak tree come to life.  Tears ran down his lined face as he stared at the sick boy. 

I didn’t need to consult my herbal to know how to make a fever tea; it was a mixture we needed often enough.  After putting water on to boil, I gathered the herbs.  In the mortar and pestle, I crushed together lavender blossoms, rue, rosemary, sage and mint.  The aroma comforted my sore heart.  When I had a paste, I put it in a bowl and covered it with boiling water.  While the mixture steeped, I prepared a drink to soothe the boy's father.  I heated a pan of wine and milk and poured it into a mug, adding several drops each of St.  John's Wort and valerian.  The rusty brown tinctures swirled and dissolved in the hot, white liquid. 

The fever tea was good and strong now.  I strained it through a clean scrap of linen and poured it into a mug.  I drizzled in a dollop of honey and carried the mugs to our patients.

Handing the tea to Bess, I turned to the boy's father and offered him the posset.  Please, drink this.  It will soothe your heart.

He seemed not to hear me.  I touched his hand and held out the drink.  Tears swelled in his deep-set brown eyes.  His huge body seemed to have collapsed in on itself, as though his worry had softened his bones.  I placed my hand against his forehead to check for fever.  None.  I wiped his face dry with my handkerchief.  This seemed to revive him for he smiled weakly at me and took the mug and drank deeply from it.  But, soon as he finished, his eyes returned to the limp figure of his son. 

The fever tea and all the other remedies we tried did little to help the boy.  Sweat streamed down his face and he developed a harsh, rasping cough. His skin took on a bluish hue. Finally he fell into an uneasy sleep, and his father, exhausted, slept too. 

Aunt Bess and I slipped outside to the garden.  As we picked fresh herbs, I told her my terrible news. 

You are old enough to marry and Poxington is a rich man who will buy you pretty things, she began.

Pretty things? What do I care about pretty things! He won me in a game of dice! He is old and ugly! I could never, never, never love him!

We shall talk of this some other time.

But, Aunt Bess, I –­

Bess raised her hand to stop me.  We must attend to our patient, whose needs are greater than yours.  A healer puts her patients first.  You are being selfish, my dear.

My aunt’s words hit me like a blow.  I swallowed tears and looked away.  Bess patted my shoulder, saying, We need to make an ointment to put on the young boy’s chest.  I will show you how to mix it.

While I ground up the roots and herbs we needed, and mixed them together in duck fat, Bess opened her herbal and reached for bunches of lavender, sage, rosemary, rue, mint and wormwood.  "We’ll also mix a batch of Vinegar of the Four Thieves and I’ll tell you the story of how the remedy came into being.  Pass me a large jug of vinegar, dear.  Now, many, many years ago, during my grandmother’s time, a terrible plague swept the country.  So many people died that there was no one to bury them.  When the Sherriff heard that the fever had taken a family, he would put the mark of the Cross on their door to warn people to keep away.  But, there were four terrible men who, when they saw that mark on the door, saw also a chance to profit from the dead. 

They broke into houses in the light of day, for there were so few people on the street that these thieves didn’t need darkness to cover their crimes.  Once inside, they stole from the dead, even going so far as to steal the jewels from their necks and fingers.

How was it they didn’t take the fever themselves? I asked.

"Patience, Isabel, patience.  The people of the city, hearing of the desecration of their neighbours’ bodies, forgot their fear and set up watch over the houses of the sick.  Soon enough, they caught their prey: four young men, their pockets stuffed with the riches of the dead. 

"The men were brought before the judge.  Hearing what they had done, he sentenced them to death by hanging.  Of course, those who had been brave enough to leave their houses to hear the trial cheered when they heard the verdict.  But over their cheers, a voice cried out ‘Tell us your secret!’

"The judge, hearing the voice, asked what the speaker meant.  A woman stepped forward and said, ‘These thieves must be possessed of magic.  How is it they still live, when they breathed the vapours of the dead, and touched their polluted corpses?’

"At this, the people cried out, wanting to know what magic these thieves possessed.  Some thought they must have magic amulets to protect them—maybe the finger bone of St.  Sebastian, who protects us from the plague.  Some cried out that they must be servants of the devil, and should be burnt. 

"The judge was curious.  He ordered the thieves to reveal their secret.  But the leader of the thieves was a cunning man, who realized that he could profit from what he knew.  He told the judge he did indeed know of a special remedy that protected all those who had it against the plague.  But, the shock of hearing that he was to be hanged had made him forget the recipe.  The other thieves, just as sly as their leader, turned out to have lost their memories as well. 

"The crowd was enraged to be taken for fools by these evil men.  Some cried out that the thieves should be tortured till their memories returned. But the judge was a wise man.  After thinking for a while, he ordered the men to be stripped of all they wore.  This way, if they possessed some magic garment or amulet, they would no longer be protected by it.  Then he ordered the thieves to be locked up with the bodies of those who had recently died of the dead.  If they were alive in three days, he would let