Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

“It was a shock to everybody,” Alan said.

“Only because we didn’t know her at all. If she’d shared with us what she wrote in her journal, we’d have known.” She gave Alan a sharp look. “Do you know why she killed herself?”

He shook his head. That question was one of the ghosts haunting him. He’d wrestled with it for years and still couldn’t understand.

“She wanted amnesia,” Isabelle said. “She didn’t want to have to carry around the baggage any longer and killing herself was the only way she could see to accomplish that. I remember she told me that the reason she believed we had to reinvent the world for ourselves was that if we didn’t change the world to suit us, then it would change us to suit it, and she couldn’t bear to be who she thought the world would change her into.”

“I don’t understand,” Marisa said. “Even though she came from such a terrible background, she rose above it. She’s helped so many kids through the

Foundation and touched so many others through her writing. If there’s anyone who left the world a better place than it was when she came into it, it was her.”

Isabelle nodded. “But she was never happy. Her writing and the kids at the Foundation were all she had and I guess one day she realized it wasn’t enough. She gave of herself, she gave until there was nothing left for herself. If you stop letting water into the well, but you keep drawing from it, eventually it’s going to run dry.”

“Jesus,” Alan said softly.

“It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it?” Isabelle said. “And there we were, her best friends in all the world, and we didn’t even see it happening.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” Alan asked.

“I only just found out this morning myself “

She told them then about the letter arriving at her house, the locker key, the security guard who’d held on to the locker’s contents for her for all those years, the journal.

“I didn’t know about Paddyjack and John,” she finished. “Kathy rescued Paddyjack’s painting from the fire, but she kept it instead of giving it back to me. The painting was just sitting there waiting for me with Kathy’s journal. I hadn’t known that John’s painting sur-survived ....” Her eyes welled up with tears again, but this time she kept them in check. “Jilly mentioned seeing—” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “—seeing John when I was asking her about a place to stay in the city, and then he came to see me at my new studio ....”

“Why would Kathy not have told you about Paddyjack’s painting?” Alan wondered aloud.

Isabelle gave him an anguished look. “I think ... I think she thought I might destroy it.”

“What?”

“Don’t you remember the rumors that went around for a while—that I’d set the fire myself? Kathy didn’t believe them, but according to her journal, she wasn’t ready to entrust Paddyjack’s painting to that belief “

“I have to ask,” Alan said. “Did you set the fire?”

“I ... I don’t know.”

Her reply surprised Alan. He’d been expecting a quick denial. He’d heard the rumors that had circulated back then, but he’d dismissed them immediately. With what he knew now about Isabelle’s art, about the numena, when he could see how dedicated she was to their safety and survival, he couldn’t imagine her having played any part in the destruction of so many.

“Rushkin spiked the punch that night,” Isabelle said. “With acid—remember?”

Alan nodded. “Yes, but—”

“I had a couple of glasses of it,” Isabelle said. “I started tripping very seriously and then everything went black. I remember passing out in the farmyard—out by one of the old barns. When I came to in the morning, I was on the far side of the island, my clothes and hands and arms and face all covered in soot.”

Cosette was staring at Isabelle in horror.

“So what are you saying?” Alan asked. “That you did set the fire?”

Isabelle shook her head. “I’m saying I really don’t know. Rushkin told me, just before the acid kicked in, that he could make me destroy all the paintings. He put a box of matches in my hand. Then I was gone. I remember having what

I thought was a dream. I remember seeing them burn, all those lovely, innocent creatures. I remember holding them in my arms as they died. But when I woke, I was a long way from the farmyard.”

She paused for a moment, then added, “Rushkin said I did it.”

“From all I’ve heard about him,” Marisa said, “I don’t think you should be taking his word as gospel.”

“He doesn’t lie about everything. He didn’t lie about the numena and how I could bring them across.”

“No, he only lies when it suits him. I know too many people like that.” Alan nodded in agreement.

“But if she did do it .....Cosette said in a soft, strained voice.

Isabelle gave the wild girl an unhappy look. “It makes me as much of a monster as him. John was right. He told me from the first. I should never have brought anyone across. All I’ve done is cause them terrible pain.”

“My god,” Marisa said suddenly. “Those two creatures of Rushkin’s. They’re going back to the Foundation for the paintings.”

“And to hurt Rolanda,” Alan added. He looked at Cosette. “You’ve got to go back. You have to warn her and hide the paintings of you and your friend.” But Cosette shook her head. “I won’t go.”

“What?”

Cosette stood up and folded her arms, looking down at the three of them. “You can’t make me do it.”

“But why won’t you go?” Marisa asked.

Cosette pointed a finger at Isabelle. “Because she’s going to free her red crow and I have to see it fly. I have to see, I have to know what she has that I don’t. Why she can dream and bring us across, but I can’t.”

Marisa and Alan looked at Isabelle in confusion.

“Do you know what she’s talking about?” Alan asked.

Isabelle nodded slowly. “I’ve thought and I’ve thought about it,” she said in that same strained flat voice she’d been using all along. “I can’t kill Rushkin in cold blood, and I don’t know if I have the strength to stand up to him anymore. He wants me to paint more numena for him to feed on.”

“Christ, if you’re worrying about Kathy’s collection,” Alan said, “don’t even think about it.”

“It’s not that. Rushkin said he’ll have his numena kill my friends if I don’t paint for him.”

“So we’ll have to figure out a way to—”

Isabelle cut him off. “No, there’s no more thinking to do. There’s only one way I can make sure that he can’t use me anymore.” She picked up the utility knife again, this time sliding the blade out. “I have to follow Kathy’s lead one last time.”

“Now, hold on there,” Alan said.

He started to reach for the knife to take it from her, but she swept it back and forth in front of her, making him back away.

“This is totally stupid,” he argued with her.

“No, this is the only option I’ve got left. I can’t kill another person in cold blood—not even a monster like Rushkin—but I can’t let this go on anymore.”

“You see?” Cosette said. “She has to do it and I have to watch.”

Marisa just looked at her. “How can you be so cold-blooded?”

“I don’t have any blood at all,” Cosette replied. “I don’t have a red crow beating its wings in my chest. When we die, we become nothing. We’re not the same as you. When you die, the red crow flies away and you’re supposed to live somewhere else. I want to follow it. I want it to show me how we can be real, too.”

“I told you before,” Isabelle said, “a long time ago. You are real.”