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Chapter XL - The Cost of Beauty
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The life Isolde had planned was so beautiful.
At a social dance in Dublin, when she was but 17-years-old—Athena's age—one of those sweeping Romantic waltzes played. Hugging the wall, hoping to not get caught by some older man wanting to dance, she looked down. Isolde couldn't even remember the color of dress she wore; she remembered nothing about that evening other than the low blue light that filtered throughout the room and the shiny black shoes that stepped up to her.
He was so unlike anything she'd ever wanted. Which is perhaps why she fell so quickly.
She had wanted a hardy man, someone who could work on the farm. Never before had she even considered someone else. She had never fantasized over a man before and only saw marriage as a way to provide for her family.
But, this man, delicate and tall and fair, with his flowing locks of brown hair toppling over onto one side of his face—this man, with his suit that was so much more expensive than her hand-sewn gown—this man, extending his unmarred hand out to her…. He changed everything.
Heads turned as the most prominent figure, a wealthy man from a well-to-do family in London, asked a farm girl from the outskirts of Dublin to dance.
Isolde didn't know why he had chosen her, for no man had ever taken a serious interest in her before. Everyone from her small town considered her to be too beautiful for any farmhand or seafarer. Even though she never considered herself so—she just thought she was like everyone else.
A few lesser men and boys, in their garments made by their mothers or wives, huffed, as they knew they could never compare to Mr. Charles Everleigh in style or charm. Isolde wouldn't want to dance with anyone else after him.
In only a few months' time, they were wed, with the promise that Isolde could stay on her inherited family farm. She wouldn't marry him otherwise. He seemed truly interested in learning her Irish Gaelic, and all of the myths and tales that passed around their town. In return, Charles taught Isolde how to speak more proper English as well as societal customs when she visited his family.
She dreamed. She laid in bed at night, looking up at the stars, dreaming. Of children, of money to fix the farm, of love and dancing and language and waltzes.
But, with Athena, everything changed.
Keeping Athena's gift a secret was the hardest thing she ever had to do. She wanted to tell Charles, but couldn't.
And then, he spoiled Athena, too. Never wanting her to do chores around the house and putting all of them on Isolde, teaching her things he never taught Isolde, loving her the way he never loved Isolde.
It wasn't until the woman grew so furious one day that she said she was leaving Charles and taking Athena with her that he changed. Athena worked around the house from then on, much to her father's disapproval. Eventually, Charles had to get a job in town, too, after his parents' death. His monthly supply of money ended and, in his father's will, all of the money went to Helena, Charles's sister. And he knew why he had not been included—the farm girl he married.
The fair man with tailored suits faded away over the years, revealing a scruffy, unshaven costermonger. The only thing that remained was his accent and upturned nose. The forest and harsh cliffs and sea had roughened him; he had caved underneath the dark, salty waves.
Isolde wished she had never been born beautiful. For beauty gave her love and beauty took it away.
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Athena danced about the house, doing her chores to the tunes of the phonograph. She waltzed with plenty of strangers, bowed to them, and chatted with them.
Isolde recognized that smile, watched as Athena twirled her finger around her curls. She couldn't stop Athena from going to Sir Claudius's every day; she couldn't stop her from dancing with strangers and singing and humming.
She wanted to tell her daughter… don't believe it. Don't fall into love's trap. Don't become enamored with fair men who can't even rise out of bed to change the hay in the barn at sunrise…. But, Athena was one of them. She was halfway one of them, and so perhaps she could survive amongst them. And Claudius was different from other men—he was a dragon for God's sake! Perhaps they will stay in love after all.
Perhaps this was the púcaí's plan all along….
But, of course, only Athena and Claudius could live beautiful lives. Isolde and Charles could never be as happy as they were. She had been kind and careful and generous and determined and beautiful… but it wasn't enough, and so she would remain unhappy. She would die unhappy, only knowing love for a short while. But perhaps it wasn't even love, since it lasted such a small amount of time. Maybe in all of her life, she had never felt love, and what she thought was love was just a juvenile fancy.
The purpose of her life must not have been to have love or happiness, but rather, to provide it for Athena and her other children. That's why she stayed.
The children loved their father and were happy because of him—but they were alive because of her. Because of everything she did, from cooking, cleaning, providing food. Only their father brought the unnecessary amenities that come with wealth and his kind of carefree attitude. If she taught them necessary life skills, such as how to pick berries or use a washboard, the children whined and despised her for hours. But if Charles asked if they wanted to learn to read, it might as well have been Christmas Day.
Maybe one day they would all understand why she did the things she did. But for now, Isolde remained unhappy, unloved, and unwanted, though she was needed… needed very much.
Isolde continued to sweep, and Athena continued to dance. The young girl—who wasn't so young anymore—kicked up dust as she twirled, and Isolde swept after her. Athena giggled and pirouetted, dancing with Claudius in her heart.
And then—
The sound, it started off slowly, before rising and crescendoing. That sound, that small, almost nonexistent sound of violins and violas… it rose every second.
Isolde let go of the broom; it fell to the floor with a thud, echoing across the house.
Athena let go of Sir Claudius and grabbed onto her skirts. She turned to face Isolde. "Ma, is everythin' alright?"
Isolde clasped her heart and stood still. Her thin eyebrows knitted together. Her eyes grew blurry and gray.
"Ma."
"I'm fine, Athena. Go on dancin'." She shooed the girl away.
Athena gulped and backed up, sprinting off behind one of the white walls.
Isolde's eyes stitched into the floor. The melody, the rising swells, the fine orchestra… it was as if she were there in Dublin all over again. A 17-year-old, beautiful, so unknowing of the fate that had been dealt for her….
No, it could not be. It could not be happening to her—
"Isolde?"
She wanted to fall, to crumble onto the floor, and die.
"Yes, Charles?" she said, her voice high and unsure, the way she had said "Yes" all those years ago. It was not the stark, confident tone of the woman she had become used to.
"Would you care to dance?" asked a young man, wearing a black-and-white suit with a tiny rose in the lapel.
The room's whiteness fell away as the sun set. There was no hot red glow, as the evening fire hadn't begun just yet. So the room was blue, not a cold blue, but a warm blue like evenings in spring, when crickets chirped and frogs sang. When the sun was just setting below the mountains and bluish-gray mists hung over the land.
"Would you care to dance?" he reiterated.
Isolde turned around. Her ruddy cheeks turned a darker pink. Her long white gown fell over her body like a Grecian goddess's. Charles's eyes traced her figure.
"You remember?" she said.
"I remember," he said.
Isolde drifted toward the young man. He reached out for her rough, hardworking hands, and she took his soft, moneymaking ones.
"You are just as beautiful as the first time ever I saw you." The way he spoke, it was the same.
"Surely not," Isolde replied.
As the song broke off into minor and then slowly pulled back into major, he pulled her closer. Isolde outshone him with her sharp, exact twirls and footwork. But his leading skills were unmatched and had always been.
"I can't remember the last time we danced," Isolde said.
"I can't remember the last time we've done anything together," Charles replied.
Isolde huffed and bit the side of her cheek, giving him a look.
"What? I'm being truthful, of course." He glanced up, his eyes moving about the room.
They danced, Isolde facing the floor and out the window, while Charles faced the ceiling.
"You never kept your promise," Isolde spoke at once, her voice low. She kept her head down.
"What are you speaking of, Isolde dear?" Charles looked at her and was tempted to lift her chin—the way he used to.
"You promised that you— would learn Irish Gaelic. That you would…."
He remained silent for a few moments, before speaking, "I did, didn't I? I suppose that makes me a poor husband, doesn't it?" The wrinkles around his face molded together into a slight smile.
"The poorest of husbands," Isolde said, finally looking into his eyes once more. Those endless eyes. The eyes that had captivated her so many years ago.
It had been so long since she'd yielded to him. For the past several years, she forced him to do what she wanted him to do and he yielded, but… it was almost nice, having him lead the dance and the conversation both. Just this once time.
"I never wanted to learn it…."
"I know you didn't. And I never wanted to learn 'correct English'."
Charles scoffed. "But you had to. It was the only way for you to fit in when I introduced you to my family. And even so, you still didn't."
The room suddenly burned a blazing red as one of the children slipped past them to light the evening fire.
Isolde snapped, "I suppose our whole lives it'll just be me who learned to live according to you, and never a compromise as we had intended."
"Oh, darling, you misunderstand," he said, agitation rising in his throat. "You don't know how much I've changed for you. You don't know how much time, status, wealth, friends, and happiness I've given up for you!"
The woman pulled away from him at that. The song ended and all was as it had been before, minus the broom laying on the floor.
Athena, and a few other stragglers, crept up to hear the confrontation. She latched her fingernails onto the wall, and her eyes sped back-and-forth between her mother and father.
"I suppose it's both of our faults," Isolde said, finally.
Charles winced. "If that's the sentiment it takes for there to be peace in this household, then yes, I suppose so."
Isolde turned, picking up the broom behind her. She swept again, the blush in her cheek dying away. All of the blueness of her soul had gone.
A few of the stragglers left, and then more until all that was remained was Athena. She still gawked, mouth wide open, at her mother, who had her back turned. And then to her father, whose face crinkled and uncrinkled. His jaw and fists clenched and unclenched.
Finally, after the logs in the fire settled and the early blazes died down—and a warm glow of home enveloped the living room—Charles Everleigh whipped around, his tailcoat flapping. He charged toward Isolde, before stopping right behind her. Running his hands through her straight, brunette hair—the color of the trunks of trees—he said, "Will you forgive me, Isolde?"
She stopped sweeping, looking out the window. "That all depends, Charles. Will you learn my language?"
"I'll try." He winced.
"Then, I suppose I do forgive you." She swept again.
"Very well." He walked on, out of the room.
Athena backed away, into the kitchen. She watched as her father sped toward the bedroom, but didn't catch his facial expression. And her mother's back was turned, but she knew her expression already: cold, sad, in want of something she would never, ever have.
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For the third day in a row, Miss Athena Everleigh rolled up the pebbled driveway to Beochaoineadh Castle with her phonograph in tow. The girl knocked on the door three times, and then three more, and again three more.
"Claudius!" she yelled, hoping he would hear her through the crack in the doorway.
No reply.
Perhaps he was still sleeping.
Athena let go of the wagon's handle; it fell to the ground and sifted in-between the pebbles. She picked up her skirts and trotted around the side of the castle. Green, rolling hills leading to cascading cliffs welcomed her. The sun bore down on her shoulders.
The girl swiveled past high stalks of overgrown grain before reaching the boulders leading into the dungeon. She moved a few smaller rocks with her hands before transforming into Milly.
The cat squeezed in through the cracks, her skinny form sliding in through the dust and pebbles. The black world of the dungeon appeared before her, sucking the life out of her eyes. But night vision soon took over.
Stones, scratches on the wall, the dying embers of flame. A pile of clothes likely meant for the day untouched in the middle of the floor.
But where was he?
Milly jumped up, transforming back into Athena. "Claudius! Claudius!" she shouted, bringing her hands to her mouth and cupping her lips, amplifying the sound. It echoed throughout each chamber in the dungeon, rattling the gold coins inside.
Cold winds blew in from the cracks in the walls; chills ran over her skin, turning her blue and white.
Grunts. Coming from one of the chambers.
Athena jolted, almost flying up into the air. She crept past the fireplace and the pile of clothes. Tiptoeing into the chamber, the girl called for her love once more.
Again, no response. No manly response, that is.
Low grumbles, so low she could hardly hear them, emitted from deeper within the room.
Her heart already knew what had happened although her mind did not want to admit it.
A cloudy form enshrouded in black smoke lay a few metres away, at the foot of a pile of gold. Its blue eyes filled to the brim with fright, despair, and sorrow.
Sir Claudius. Now a dragon at dawn.
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End of Part IV - The Cat and the Dragon