Isabel's Skin

by Peter Benson

  “It’s nothing much,” I said, but I told him anyway, and as he listened he nodded and agreed that Dover was a cold and windy town, and the castle smelt of cooked lentils.

  And as I told him a story about getting lost in the castle and my father’s voice echoing up a tower to me, he closed his eyes and fell asleep. He slept for about ten seconds, woke up with a jolt and said, “I was always getting lost.” He picked up his beer and drank. “Always getting lost,” he repeated, and I thought he was probably willing the state on himself, so in an effort to cheer his spirits, I changed the subject. I remember: I talked about travelling by train at night, and how loneliness is bred by the night and can freeze glass. He said he did not understand, and mumbled about hoping I knew what he meant. I said I did, and as I watched him slip into another ten-second nap, I thought, Timothy, I know exactly who you are.

  What does the night do and how does it do it?

  How do cats see in the dark and why do dogs howl at the stars?

  Why do the shadows of the night snap so wildly, and what do rivers think as the black laps around their banks?

  Does water recognize the signs of wind?

  Do birds crouch and blink, and are the goblins firing their kilns, beating iron into knives and forks?

  Who is leading a brindle calf to a clearing in the woods and tying it to a stake? And who are we, so lost in our own lies and imaginings?

  And what are our lies and imaginings? Is one the lie of the idea that you can never change? The lie of a father’s religious truth? The lie of one man’s myths? And are the imaginings telling of a sweet and perfect love, one moored to a solid stone quay? One with sweet voices in the morning and the smell of woodsmoke drifting in still air?

  And trees. Do trees see and hear, and when they are caught by the wind, do they talk to each other and compare thoughts? And when their leaves appear, do they feel pain? Do they know what they look like? Can they smell the dark? Can they feel the nails that pierce the guts of the men who walk in circles, around and around?

  After supper I told Miss Watson I had work to do. I went back to the library. I worked for an hour but, for all its glory, the collection was losing its grip on me. Its fingers were slipping from my wrists, and my pen felt loose in my hand. My eyes started to glaze. I concentrated, but I still drifted. It was like this… the list of priceless books had grown to include a first of Diderot’s Pensées philosophiques (scorch marks courtesy of the Parliament of Paris) and the 1797 three-volume edition of Jacques le fataliste. One volume of this novel would be a lucky find, two would be outrageous, but three… The pity was I did not care. I was thinking about something else. I noted the books’ value and put them back on the shelf without a second thought.

  At ten o’clock, Miss Watson poked her head around the door, said goodnight and told me not to work late. I heard her climb the stairs, cross the landing, go into her room, close the door and get ready for bed. The floor creaked and the water pipes grumbled. I waited twenty minutes. I stared at my fingernails for five minutes and listened to the house creak towards sleep. When I was sure she was asleep, I left the library, tiptoed down the hall, left the house by the kitchen door and crept into the night. I had a plan. I say a plan, but thinking back, I had no plan at all. All I had was my feet and my eyes, and a vague bundle of thoughts.

  Amongst these thoughts was this one: Hunt was a persuasive liar, but not persuasive enough. I had found a reference to malaria in one of Lord Malcolm’s books, and in addition to fevers, chills, headaches and jaundice, one of the symptoms of malaria was extreme lethargy. No mention of screaming and wailing, or scratching. Another thought was this: Hunt had unusually dark and mobile eyes. Another: maybe I should follow my instincts and keep my nose out of things that did not concern me, but another nagged, another told me that someone was in pain and trouble, and for once in my life I should step out of the safe and easy way.

  The moon was swollen, and its full light gave the land a flat, endless look. The wood was a rash across the side of the hill, and the tops of the trees gashed the skyline. The cats were prowling and ran from me as I crossed the drive and jumped the gate into the orchard, and then I was under the apple trees and past the chicken coop. The hens scratched and rustled their wings. A fox was near. I smelt it, and as I turned my nose to the scent, I heard a howl. It cut a slice from the night and carried it away, buried it for later and ran ahead of me, across the fields and into the trees.

  I was not afraid, but I was wary. I stopped every fifty yards to listen to the night, but heard nothing more than scurrying voles and wakeful birds as they flapped in the treetops. When I reached the woods I did not stop, and I climbed fast through the trees to the crest, and then I was down the other side of the hill and the lights of Hunt’s house shone at me all the way.

  Was I repeating myself?

  Stop me.

  Wait for me.

  Please.

  Am I repeating myself?

  I do not know, but if I am, it is because my memories of this night are scrambled and twisted, and sometimes I believe my mind played – and is still playing – tricks on me. It decided what I should see and do and feel and smell before I saw or did anything, and left me stranded on the edge of what I believe and what could never be. Goblins in the woods? Mad people raking the world with wormwood? Stolen children in hidden houses? Trees that whisper and think? Of course I should have stayed away, but I did not know. I did not know what I was thinking.

  When I got close to the house, I stopped and listened. I crouched behind the wall, touched the stones and wiped my fingers on my trousers. I was wearing a good pair of black trousers, a plain white shirt and a tweed jacket. I remember the jacket. And I remember I heard Hunt and a woman arguing. Malarial people do not argue. The voices rose and fell, and I stopped at the garden wall to listen. I did not understand a word, and as the argument continued I crept to the gate and stepped into the garden. The night caught the branches and leaves of the rambling plants and high grass, and their shadows played across the side of the house. I stopped behind a bush, and as I watched, I saw Hunt come to the window. He was holding a glass of whisky and smoking a cigarette. The smoke twirled up and clouded around his head. He stared out and clenched his fists. He did not look like the man I met before. A mask had dropped, and what I saw was his true face. It blazed and fought, and his mouth was curled into a thin, cruel wisp. He turned and disappeared, and the voices rose and fell.

  I ducked down and skirted around the house to the back, and when I reached the kitchen door I leant against the wall and waited. I waited for a few minutes, the moon rose a degree and I decided to play it straight. I would knock on the door and demand to see whoever had been screaming, but before I had the chance, I heard the sound of glass shattering and a door slamming. I went to the corner of the house in time to see Hunt stalking through the garden to the front gate. He kicked it open and headed up the drive. He was holding a bottle, and when he reached the gate he stopped, yelled “Damn you!” at the sky and disappeared into the night. I waited for a few minutes and then returned to the kitchen door. I put my hand on the handle, rested it there for a moment, shut my eyes, took a deep breath and let myself into the house.

  The heat was overwhelming and the air reeked of sweetness. The sink was piled with dirty plates and glasses. A bowl of rotting fruit sat in the middle of the table, and a broken chair stood in the corner. I stood and listened, but all I heard was the buzz of flies and the clang of motes as they drifted in the air. The rest was clammy silence, and this dropped its head on my shoulder and wrapped around me as if it had arms.

  I left the kitchen and stepped into the hall. I was quiet. I slowed my breathing. I had a choice of three doors. Two were open and one was closed. I went to the first open one, put my head around it and looked into a sitting room. There was a mangy, broken settle in the middle of the floor, and a low table piled high with old newspapers. A vase of dead flowers stood on the window sill, and crooked pictures hung from the
walls.

  The next open door led into a room filled with boxes and tea chests, suitcases and carpet bags. There was a single bookshelf on the wall, and for a moment I thought about checking the spines, but I fought the impulse, stepped back into the hall and went to the closed door.

  I put my hand on the handle, turned it and held my breath. The door opened with a slow, low squeak. The sweet smell was strong here. It wafted out and filled my head, and I put a hand over my nose before pushing the door wide and stepping into the room.

  There was a doctor’s couch in the middle of the room, steel and leather with wheeled feet and a white sheet folded at one end. Next to it was a glass-topped table with a row of silver instruments – scalpels, scissors, syringes and other things I could not identify – and a glass-fronted cabinet was standing against the wall. This contained a collection of bottles and boxes. I took a step towards it and, as I did, I heard a bedspring squeak above me, and the sound of a creaking floorboard. Then another floorboard, the click and turn of a door handle. A footstep on the landing, a second step, another floorboard, and someone started to come down the stairs.

  They came hesitantly, and when they reached the bottom they stopped. They stood still and quiet. I took a single careful step backwards and stood behind the door, and as I waited, I heard the sound of slow breathing. I felt vague and light-headed, but did not care or think of an excuse for being there, so I stepped into the hall. As I did, I had one of those moments when time stops and twists, and the air contracts. My senses flared and tightened, and movement sharpened. There was no gap between what I knew and what I imagined, and no knots holding my thoughts together. All their strands fluttered out behind me, flags of things I had wondered, promised or wished. I closed my eyes tight and held them tight for a moment, took a breath and opened them again.

  I was face to face with a small woman. I say face to face because I suppose it was like that, and I say small but she was only a little shorter than me, made shorter because she was crouching. She was trembling, too, and wearing a white cotton shift that reached halfway down her thighs. She had no hair on her head, and when I first saw her I thought her skin was beautifully painted. Really beautifully painted, carefully and perfectly with tiny brushes. Whoever had done it must have spent hours on the work, or days. Maybe even weeks. It was pale yellow with a pattern of brown blotches, and it shone and shadowed and glistened. Her eyes were huge – a deep, dark liquid brown. But as I looked more closely I realized that she was not painted, not painted at all. This was a tattoo, a brilliant tattoo made by a very patient artist, or if it was not a tattoo then she was wearing some kind of suit that mirrored her skin. Yes, I thought, a perfect – if scandalous – suit. She turned her head, and as she did she rustled lightly and bent towards me like I was the strange one and needed help. Her nose twitched, she rolled her eyes, she tipped her head back and sniffed the air. I took a step towards her, and as my right foot lifted off the ground and I moved my left to meet it, the truth dawned, broke over my head and sent me twisting. My blood flooded with heat. Every hair on my body froze. I opened my mouth. It was dry. I tried to blink, but it was impossible, because the truth was too awful. I tried to speak, but words were impossible. This woman was covered in scales, real, glistening scales. Only her eyes and nails were normal. The rest was spinning beyond me, spinning and twisting into a hole that gaped around me. Lost and gone. The chill flooded back and my brain snapped. I whispered, “Hee…” and the sound echoed in my head, “Hee…” it came back, like a bell across a deep, black valley.

  She stared at me. I took another step towards her. As I did, she took a step backwards, balled her hands into fists and held them to her mouth. She made a little whining sound, and the hall candle twinkled over her skin. She took another jump backwards, she whined again and my head whined back, and I whispered, “Snakeskin.”

  She was covered in it. I say covered, but that is the wrong word. Her skin was it. She dropped her head. She rustled. It was getting hotter in that house, the sweet smell was getting sweeter and, as I struggled to breathe, a tear rolled from one of her eyes. She reached up and touched it onto the end of a finger. “Ahh…” she said.

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Plee…”

  “Miss Hunt?” I said.

  “Plee…”

  “What?”

  “Plee…”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Plee…”

  “Don’t…” I whispered, “don’t be… don’t be scared.” And as the words came out I thought, “Scared? You? Or me?” and my throat tightened, my mouth filled with salt and the chill was changed to heat. Sweat broke out across my forehead, ran down my face and dripped onto the floor. I fought with my legs. They wanted to run, but I would not let them. I would stay there shaking and they would obey me and I could not take my eyes off her skin. It was beautiful and so terrible, and I knew if I lived to be a thousand years old I would never erase it from my memory. It would stay there scorching and hurting until I died, and I would take my last breath with it branded on my eyes.

  “Hurt,” she said.

  “You…”

  “Hurt.”

  “Hunt?”

  She shook her head.

  “What’s…”

  “Plee…”

  “What’s happened to you?” I said. “Your…” I pointed, “skin…”

  “Not…” Her voice was thin and wispy, as if it were bouncing through tissue paper.

  “Not?”

  “Mine…”

  “God…”

  “Yes.”

  “God…

  “Væ puto deus fio,” she said, and she dropped her head.

  “What is that?”

  “He says.”

  “Who?”

  “Him,” she said, and she looked down at her arms and she turned them over and stared at the patterns that covered them as if she was looking at them for the first time, and I thought her heart was about to break before me. Her eyes misted, her breathing quickened, her knees buckled and she started to crumple. I went to her and put my hands out, but she recoiled. “No!” she wailed. “Don’t touch! Don’t!” And I put my hands up, palms facing her and said “Please. Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She looked up at me, flicked out her tongue and licked her lips. Her eyes cleared and their colour brightened. “Worry?” she said, and for a moment I thought her mouth was going to twitch into a smile. But she dropped her head and I looked at the way the scales on her back turned from deep brown to yellow. They were beautiful and shiny, and the light caught them, held them and turned them over in its prism. When she looked back at me she said, “I saw you.”

  “Did you?”

  “From the window.”

  “I’m working at the big house.”

  “I know,” she said. “Hunt told. Called you the fool. The fool librarian.”

  “Did he?”

  She nodded, took a deep breath and widened her eyes. She exhaled and I caught the sickly smell of her breath.

  “I’m not a librarian,” I started, but I did not finish.

  “And I’m not… not Miss Hunt. I’m…” she did not finish the sentence.

  “You’re?”

  She shook her head and whispered, “Can you… can you help me?”

  There was no question.

  “I have to go... get… get away…”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Now?”

  “Yes,” I said, but as I did, I heard a noise outside. I heard footsteps, cursing and the slam of the garden gate. She looked towards the sound, looked back at me and said, “Please…”

  “Wait…” I said.

  She stood up, took a step towards me and reached out a hand. “Please…” she said. The word snapped at me and I was trapped in front of her, my mouth hanging open and my own skin crawling with wonder and fear. I wanted to move but I could not, and when I tried to say something nothing came out. “Now?” she
whispered.

  Nothing.

  “Please?”

  “No…” I stammered. “No. Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I’ll come for you.”

  “You promise?” she said.

  “I promise,” I said.

  “Or you die?”

  “Or I die,” I said, and then she began to climb the stairs. I said, “Stop…” and for a moment she did. She turned and looked back at me, raised her hand and held it to her head, but then she turned and disappeared around the corner and the front door was opening.

  I hurried back down the hall to the kitchen, went to the back door and was outside again, and could hear Hunt inside. I ran into the garden and crouched in the long grass, and as I watched the house, the woman came to one of the upstairs windows and looked down at me. She put her right hand on the glass, tipped her head back and let out a high, desperate scream, and as she did, Hunt appeared behind her. He grabbed her arm, put a hand over her mouth and pulled her back. She tried to struggle, but did not have the strength. She disappeared and I heard a crash and the sound of breaking glass. A moment later the curtains were drawn, and then the house went quiet and I was left alone in the garden with the night birds and the insects who warred against the cracks of light.

  I stood in the garden. My mind swirled. It twisted and dived between what I had seen and a nagging idea that what I had seen was not what I had seen and suns would collide in my belly before what I might have seen was what I had actually seen. But then I stopped this and turned, and started to walk back to Belmont. I started to walk and then I was going faster, and before I reached the woods I was running as fast as I could, and as I dashed through the trees, birds blew out of the branches and bushes and voles scurried down the track ahead of me. The low branches of the trees and bushes tried to grab me, and the exposed roots slashed at my feet. The leaves whispered my name, twigs broke away and rained on my head, and puddles and streams appeared where no puddles or streams had been before. I remembered Dante – “Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost…” – and I forgot Dante and I remembered my father’s constant caution. He would never have been as I was, caught between terror and flight on a warm, damp night. Never. He would have stayed at home with a book, a cup of tea and a biscuit. Biscuits, I thought, and I caught my foot in a rabbit hole, fell, pulled myself up and ran faster, down into the fields, up, through the orchard and onto the drive.