J. RoBB - The Lost

The streets were quiet. The healer’s home the only one still with light. The open door showed people inside. Thinking that there had been an accident, Isabelle pushed her heartache aside, ran up the short path and went inside.

The people gathered were not patients. They were playing some sort of game with dominos and while it may not have required alcohol, every one of the five players took a sip of something after their turn at play.

“Aha!” Esmé called out. “The one we have been waiting for. Come over here.”

Isabelle did as asked, sure that Esmé was drunk and would remember none of this tomorrow. But Esmé surprised her. Her mug held the distinct smell of Earl Grey tea that appeared to have nothing in it but sugar.

“And milk if I had any,” Esmé agreed as if Isabelle had spoken aloud. “But the island has no milk until tomorrow so I make do with extra honey.” She pointed to a chair and then clapped her hands.

“My friends, you have drunk enough of my spirits. I appreciate your keeping the evening with me and will see you tomorrow if you need a headache cure.”

No one objected. All finished the last of their drinks and staggered out of the house with a chorus of “Best wishes to the mistress of this house.”

Esmé stared at Isabelle for almost a minute. “You come back to me with a pure spirit. I will not ask how that can be or doubt my insight. If I had been drinking with my friends, I would not be so certain, but I refrained, intent on discrediting you. Now it appears it was a waste of restraint.”

“I cannot say that I am sorry I disappointed you,” Isabelle answered, “only relieved that you are so perceptive. And honest.”

“Few appreciate how expensive honesty can be.”

“I respect your work, Healer, and will never do anything to undermine your wisdom, unless I know that someone’s life is in danger.” Isabelle paused and when Esmé gave a grudging nod went on. “Yes, I do know how expensive honesty can be.”

Esmé stood up and poured more tea for herself and a mug for Isabelle. To each she added a dollop of spirits from a clay jug and set both on the table.

“He hurt your heart,” Esmé stated.

“Why is he so hard? Why is he so alone? There is immense kindness in him. I have seen it, felt it. Why, if he has a good heart, does he think that lust and drunkenness and drugs are the answer to anything? Why does he stay here when he is so obviously unhappy?”

“Sip your tea and wrap yourself in a shawl. It is a long story and one that will test your faith in my honesty.”

Isabelle took the shawl Esmé handed her and, though the evening was not particularly cool, wrapped the gossamer-light piece around her shoulders.

“Sebastian Dushayne was assigned here as a soldier when the castillo still housed warriors, though they were English soldiers and not the Spaniards who had first built it. Captain Dushayne fell in love with a local girl. Her mother was the village healer. Not me,” Esmé hastened to add. “Despite the mother’s misgivings, which were far more insightful than most people’s, she allowed her daughter, Angelique, to marry Sebastian.”

Esmé sipped her tea and added more spirits.

“Sebastian Dushayne wanted Angelique. He said he loved her, but he wanted her beauty, her sweetness, her pure heart. And it was a fine match. Her goodness tempered his carnal wants and his commanding presence made Angelique aware of the value of a forceful personality.”

Isabelle settled back into the cushions of the sofa to find comfort where she could. This story was not going to have a happy ending.

“After a great storm swept the region, Angelique told her husband that she must go to help her sister on another island. Sebastian allowed it but insisted that she come back quickly, afraid that separation would be too great a test of his vows. Can you see that his love was mixed with too great a need to control?”

Isabelle saw that in him still. The way he told people what to do, never asked a question, demanded rather than suggested.

“Finally, when she had been gone too long, Sebastian Dushayne insisted his wife return. Despite the fact it was the month of the worst storms of the year, Angelique tried to obey him and was lost at sea. Of forty people, only three women survived and one man of God.”

“Man of God?” Isabelle straightened.

“Yes.” Esmé nodded. “Father Joubay took a place in the dinghy. If he’d given the spot to Angelique, she would have lived.”

“Oh, dear God.” Isabelle raised her hand to her mouth.

“The healer cursed both Joubay and Sebastian Dushayne to an eternity of suffering for causing the death of her beloved child. Joubay was forbidden on the island, the one place he wanted to live more than anyplace else, until he could undo his wrong. Dushayne was given total control of this island, but only this island. He was condemned to live here, unable to leave the island, for as long as it took for him to win the love of another woman as pure of heart as Angelique.”

“This is true? You swear it?” Even if Esmé swore, Isabelle was not sure she would believe it.

“Yes, Isabelle, I swear on my skill as a healer. And what I have told you is not even the hardest part to believe.” Esmé pushed her tea away and closed her eyes for a moment.

“This happened in the fall of 1810. Sebastian has been living here, frozen in age and time, for almost two hundred years.”

Isabelle stood up, knocking over the mug. “That cannot be.”

“Yes, it is. I swear it on Angelique’s grave. Sebastian can use the modern version of anything already invented in 1810. He can read any book he chooses and wear any style clothing he prefers, but he cannot use electricity or the telephone or any other modern convenience.”

“What happens if he tries?”

“Whatever it is does not work, or bursts into flame, or disintegrates.”

Isabelle allowed herself to believe it for a moment. The castillo was lit by candles. She had seen no sign of a computer or a telephone. There were no battery-operated radios or even an old-fashioned boom box, and that was odd for a man who loved singing.

“But worst of all, Isabelle, Sebastian Dushayne cannot leave this island for even a moment. Over the years the strip of land that connects the fort here to the main part of the island has been eroded by storms, so now even the islanders can only leave at low tide.”

“But people can come here from the big hotel on the main island?”

“Yes, Sebastian holds his version of a nineteenth-century soiree, which draws tourists to the castillo and they are only too happy to fill his needs. He is a man of broad sexual tastes and greatly interested in experimentation.”

“Stop!” Isabelle insisted. “I do not want to hear any more. I do not believe you. You’re insane or trying to manipulate me.”

“Think what you will, innocent,” Esmé said with a shrug. “But you cannot stay pure of heart around someone like the man he has become, and that is what you must be to save him. A conundrum, is it not?”

Standing up, Esmé ignored the spilled tea and took Isabelle’s arm. “Think about it, dear girl; sleep and pray to your God. Joubay found his answer in you. Who knows? It could be that I am mistaken. If that is so, and I am wrong, we will become enemies. My mission in life, as the healer’s descendant, is to see that Sebastian Dushayne is punished into eternity.”

Isabelle must have looked as stunned as she felt. “You would murder me?”

“Murder you?” Esmé’s shock was sincere. “Never. But there are other ways to make you unwelcome here. Please, don’t let it come to that. Avoid him. He deserves his misery.” The healer patted her arm as she showed her to the door. “For two hundred years. This has been going on for two hundred years. You are not the first innocent and you will not be the last.” Esmé pushed her out the door with a gentle shove and clicked it shut.