Her Passion

by Cristina Bejar-Gallardo

from the book "Tales"

Once upon a time, there was a princess who was a daughter of a very wealthy king and queen. The princess, whose name was Isabel, was just one among the many sons and daughters of the royal couple. But unlike her siblings, Princess Isabel had a treasury of her own, a stable filled with pretty horses, servants, and a small estate within the kingdom which she manages by herself.

  Though she was a princess, she was a very independent thinker. She had formed her own opinions about life in general and she was unashamed about her views.

She was very fortunate to have had very good teachers who were well-read and well traveled. And although their philosophies may have been strange to the general public, Isabel thought them natural and acceptable. One particular teacher of hers had taught her about magic and the world beyond the reality that other people knew. And it was because of her that Isabel had become somewhat romantic in her outlook.

When she was eighteen the teachers were dispatched by the king. He realized that this daughter of his had no desire for marriage or all the important things girls her age should have wanted. Thus the radical teachers had to be asked to leave. Isabel accepted the decision without raising an eyebrow. Although she knew she would miss them, she had been well-prepared for the eventuality of their departure.

It was after they left that Isabel began her own business. She loaned a little capital from her father, and she established her own estate. She had sheep, cattle, a tannery, a loom house, and a thriving dairy farm. And she had quite a number of people under her employ who generally liked her as a person.

Isabel, apart from being a shrewd business woman, had a good eye for art. She liked to sponsor up-and-coming young artists in the kingdom. Thus, at her young age, she was already known as  the Princess who was a patron of the arts; rich by her own right.

  One day, she was invited into the neighboring kingdom to participate in an auction. According to the invitation, the owner of the estate had disappeared (probably because of bad debts owed to the king—the author said in an attempt at humor that Isabel found distasteful), and so everything had to go to cover his unpaid taxes.

As was her wont, Isabel went without escort. She disdained the need for body guards or courtiers. She was so unlike all her sisters who loved court life and the frivolity of parties—traveling or not, and mindless pleasure.

  She tethered her horse to a tree and walked towards the goods. There were excellent furniture, jars, carpets, and so on and so forth. But what caught her fancy was the art collection; specifically, one small painting that everyone else was looking at. It was the painting of a storm at sea with heavy clouds, rain, wind, and wild waves.

  It was beautiful. She was drawn to it unlike she had ever been to any other artwork she had seen before. She didn’t know why her heart was pounding with such a force of recognition. This was meant for her.

Young women her age were falling in love with this and that gentleman, but she, the Princess Isabel, had fallen in love with an artwork.

  She wondered if everyone who was looking at it felt like she did. She looked at their eyes, most of them were appreciative, assessing, and interested. By any standard, it was a good piece.

She eagerly waited for the bidding to begin, thinking about how much she was willing to pay for that particular artwork.

  It took the better part of the day for the artist's other stuff to be sold. Finally, the painting was brought to the stand and everyone seemed speechless. Isabel frowned worriedly.

This was not a good sign. It meant that the bidders would fight for the painting. How much were they willing to give for it? She wondered.

The bidding took a long time. Almost everyone present wanted to take home the artwork for herself or himself.

  At a certain point, Isabel stopped thinking about the cost, but just about the painting. She was not about to let anyone else walk away with her heart's desire.

  When the auctioneer said, "Sold, to the young lady at the back for--," everyone gasped. How anyone could have that much money during those times must be truly rich! And to spend it all on a painting! The others thought about how fortunate they were to snap out of the madness. They knew that their money could buy other things. But they all wanted to meet the winner, to size her up, so to speak.

  Isabel sat stunned in her chair. It was hers! It was hers! She barely saw, or felt, or heard the congratulations. She was staring at the painting as it was being wrapped. She stood, absent-mindedly shaking the hands of the people who wished her well in words, but in their thoughts laughing and calling her a fool.

  She was immune. She went to the manager, gave him a pouch of gold as down payment, and a promise that she would return in three days to claim her prize.

  The news traveled fast. Even before she got home she was intercepted by her father's servant and was asked to go see her parents. They were fuming angry at her apparent stupidity and impulse. They raved and ranted, pleaded and cajoled her to give it back. They lectured her about how she should have handled her wealth, but she was quiet. She did not even attempt to defend herself. In her heart all she felt was happiness. It was hers!

  Her brothers and sisters all spoke their thoughts. Most of them had something mean to say to her, but she hardly heard them. Finally, her father exploded and said she would no longer be recognized as a member of the royal household unless she would get herself out of the mess and give up the painting.

  At long last she acknowledged their distress, but she stood firm on her decision.

  She spoke to all her employees just to reassure them that they’ll be taken care of before she sold all her possessions, her horses, her land, her books, even her gowns so she could raise the money. Everyone swooped down on her treasures like vultures. Their eyes were laughing at her. Some were cruel enough to let her hear what they thought about her. Even her sisters mocked her. When everything was bought, she paid her servants for the last time, then she left the kingdom.

  Isabel claimed her painting that afternoon. She walked for she had sold even her favorite horse. She didn't mind it one bit that she lost everything in exchange for the painting. The first opportunity she had to sit under a shade she took it.

  She unwrapped the painting so she could savor it alone. No matter what time of day, the painting looked good to her. She had others before that favored a particular lighting scheme.  But this one, so uniquely done, looked brilliantly captivating even in the garish light of the sun.

  Isabel felt the bold strokes that made up the tumultuous waves and wind-blown clouds in the picture. Even the raindrops were sure and confidently rendered. What wild and primal emotion drove the artist to create such a work of raw honesty?

  Isabel knew the feeling all too well.

She smiled when she thought about the furor over her decision. No one understood that wealth or material things meant nothing to her. This tiny painting made her the richest person in all the land round about. Why? Because it was what she wanted. And wasn’t it enough to have what you want than have everything you can really do without? She smiled again. It was entirely too bad that she had no one with whom to share her happiness.

  Not before long the sun started to drop steadily behind the horizon. That was the only time Isabel thought about where she was going to sleep.

  Her heart was still full with her satisfaction over her purchase. She walked in the sunset with her head held high. Every now and then she’d gaze at the wild sky, then at the painting in her hand. She barely felt hunger.

Eventually she found herself walking on a sandy path, and from a distance she could hear the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. When she reached the space between the trees that signified a clearing, she saw the sun blazing in reddish hues being received into the arms of the open sea.

The beach was empty.  It had huge black rocks. The sand was dramatically black with patterns of gray. There were sea gulls flying overhead, but otherwise, the place was calm and empty.

  There was a breeze that blew with a whistling sound and Isabel turned around to receive its caress. Everything felt magical to her. Her teacher once told her that only she could create her own reality. She was the goddess of her universe. She had created chaos in her old world. She frowned. But didn't God create this universe out of chaos too? She smiled at the wind. She was ready for her new world.

Just then she saw the tiny hut.

It was surrounded by a small fence and within the fence were overgrown vines. The hut was burdened by the creepers, but it was shelter.

Isabel moved the vines and found the tiny door. She pushed it open and to her relief, it was bearably clean inside. There was a tiny bed with a patchwork coverlet. There was a small table with a single chair. She walked to the back of the house and opened another door. Behind it was a covered well. When she opened it she found fresh water. She heaved a sigh of relief. It seemed that the place was some sort of refuge for someone. It didn’t look lived in, just ready for occupancy.

She went back inside and explored some more. There was a big fat candle that had been used already, but it looked like it had a long way to go yet. There was a small fireplace with a bundle of wood, and there were several matches wrapped in a green cloth on the mantle. She saw a small closet and she opened it. Inside were paint-smattered clothes, worn-out brushes, and cans of pigment. The cabinet smelled like linseed oil and turpentine. She closed it. Now she knew what this place was.

It was even possible that the same artist who made her painting owned it. She curiously felt at home. It was too bad that he wasn’t there so she could tell him face to face how much she loved his work.

She took a piece of dirty cloth outside and started dusting the place. She took out the blanket and shook it. It was a bit dusty and it somewhat smelled of mold, but she didn’t mind. It looked like she could make this her refuge in the time being while she enjoyed her freedom. She would plan for the future later.

She was humming as she swept the hut with a makeshift broom. It was twilight when she finished. The moon was rising already when she decided to go out and look at the beach. The silence was almost deafening, but she didn't mind it at all.  The wind was chilly already so she went back in.

She was barely hungry. All she wanted to do was to savor the painting. She lit the candle and placed it on the table and she watched the storm on the canvas dance as the flame on the candle moved. How she could feel this satisfied over a piece of art she didn't know. She wanted to weep at the beauty of the painting. It called out to her soul.

For a long time she stared at the painting. Every now and then, she’d trace it lightly with her fingers. When she prepared for sleep, her eyes were still caught by the painting. She lay on the bed holding it before her.

When she finally put it down and she had blown the candle dead, her mind’s eye still held the vision of the painting.

In her dream that night she was walking toward the sea on a stormy day and it felt like coming home to her lover’s arms.

The next day she explored around the hut and found a small privy that she was able to use.

There were wild tomatoes and other vegetables too that she was able to harvest for her breakfast.

After eating, she took a walk out on the beach with the painting in her hand.

The sea was as calm as glass.

As she alternately looked at the sea and the painting, she started to speak. She talked to the painting.

She laughed at herself, and wondered what her family would think if they saw her talking to a piece of canvas. But she didn't mind. She told the painting all about herself, her life, her family, the king with his gruff and controlling ways; the queen with her quiet love for the king; her brothers and her sisters. She talked about her own manor; the horses she used to own; her many businesses; as well as the employees and servants she had.

She had many anecdotes to tell. Sometimes she’d laugh; sometimes she’d fall into pained silence. When she spoke about how she had left yesterday, she felt amused; and then, without meaning to, she started to cry. Her tears fell when it finally occurred to her that she was alone, except for the sea and the painting.

When she had stopped, she was aghast!

Something had bore a hole through the paint. A spot of white canvas showed through the seascape. “No!” she cried.

She tried to erase it with her finger, but it wasn’t paint. It was the canvas. As she stared with horror at the blotch of imperfection; it grew.

She jumped to her feet. She could not understand what was happening. The painting was slowly fading. She started weeping, thinking about what she had given up for this work of art and it was disappearing right before her eyes. More tears fell; more of the seascape was erased.

She hugged the painting to her heart and wept. “No!” she kept repeating. “No! please!”

Her anguish was tearing her insides apart. The more she cried, the more the painting faded. She fell to the ground with the painting held tightly to her chest.

For a long time she lay there. The sun burned her, but she hardly felt it. By the time it was late in the afternoon, she stirred and looked at the painting again, but it was almost totally white. Only one spot of blue-gray remained from the original picture.

She was filled with rage at herself. With her fists she hit her head, her thighs, the ground. When all her anger was spent, her heart felt dull. Her dress was all dirty; her hair was a mess. She had sand on her face, her arms, her hands. But she didn't care. She took the blank canvas and brought it back to the hut. She propped it up on the mantle and she stared at its emptiness.

She had to face the truth.

All that she had given up for this painting had gone with it, including her self-worth and her hope for  living.

Could she ever go back to her father? To ask for his help? Could she ever face everyone again after this foolishness?

Foolishness?

Was it?

She closed her eyes as she dropped her tired and weary body on the bed. In her memory she could still savor the beauty of the painting and its haunting message that was hers alone.

In the darkness of the hut, she looked at the mantle hoping to see that a miracle had happened, but the canvas stared back at her with blankness.

She felt faint with a weakness of spirit.

She raised her hand and watched it drop on her body like it was another person’s dead hand.

Silently, the tears fell.

She knew without even looking that the last spot of paint on the canvas was fading.

She didn't know if she fell asleep. Her mind was floating. When daylight filtered through the spaces in the roof, she was still lying there, unmoving, unwilling to get up. Her eyes flickered in the brightness, and she turned her sore head toward the painting and it rebuked her with its white emptiness.

She shifted and remained in the bed. She didn't get up at all that day, nor the day after that, nor the day after that. She went to the privy only once that she could recall, then after that she was back in the bed, curled up and willing death to take her.

On the fifth night the rain started to fall. Isabel barely noticed it. When lightning cracked and illuminated the night sky, she didn’t see it at all. She was shivering in the cold, but she didn’t even know it.

The storm grew worse that night. By morning, there were holes in the roof that were letting in streams of rain. The waves outside were crashing against the rocks and the shore with a madness that equaled Isabel’s sorrow. She finally stirred.

Her body was weak. When she sat up, her head reeled with dizziness. But she stood and held on to the damp chair. The canvas was dripping with water, lifeless and empty that was so much like Isabel’s soul.

She turned away and walked to the door. She pulled on it and in a second she was drenched by the whipping rain.

She took a walk out in the cold, toward the sea.

Everything was gray and green and dark blue. Through the stinging rain she saw her surroundings and her breath got caught in her throat.

She realized that this was her painting come to life.

She spread her arms wide and laughed!

In her weakness, her madness, she danced in the pouring rain, and she ran to the sea to let the waves embrace her like a lover.

She had never known joy like this. As the sea cradled her in its passion, she knew the meaning of love.

g

Surely she was dead? She must have been thrown against the rocks. Or more than likely, she must have drowned.

So death was like this, warm and comforting, like being wrapped in soft and warm cotton. She kept her eyes closed as she savored the feeling. If she opened her eyes what would she see? Angels with golden hair and blue eyes? She wondered how God looked like…

She moved her face first, seeking the source of the warmth. It felt like gentle sunlight with a mild breeze stirring  the fine hairs on her skin.

The pleasure was intense; and when she couldn't hold her curiosity anymore, she slowly opened her eyes.

The grays and blues and greens of the storm were contained in the soul of the being who was staring right back at her. For a second she wondered who he was. Then she closed her eyes again, and she fell soundly asleep.

When she awoke again, she was on the familiar shore. The storm had abated and the sea was calm once more.

Was everything a dream?

She stood and dusted herself off. Her dress was clean and curiously dry.

She walked to the cottage. She couldn't remember it being so clean and neat from the outside. It used to be covered in vines. Now it looked like it was surrounded by a well-tended summer garden with roses and daisies all blooming in the flower boxes beneath the windowsill. Flower boxes? There weren't flower boxes before…

She opened the white-washed picket gate and she knew that this couldn't be real. This was a dream.

The door opened and a strangely beautiful man stepped out. He smiled at her.

She tripped on the hem of her gown and would have fallen flat on her face if he didn't catch her.

“I’ve missed you.” He said softly.

Her heart beat so strongly—she was afraid it would escape from her body and fly away… Her heart… She had a heart… She was alive…

“I,” she started, her voice seemingly coming from far and deep inside her… “I’m home.”

He held her gently and tenderly in an embrace that rivaled all the beautiful things she had ever known in her life. Pure bliss.

Even as she savored his touch, he started to fade. “Don’t be afraid, Isabel. Love just is, no matter the distance, no matter the time, no matter the form. In the end, you’ll know we are one. Let go of the fear. Do not doubt what you see. I love you.”

g

Isabel surrendered to the passion of the sea and the storm. She became all that it was—water, air, fire, earth. When it abated, she was fully conscious and deeply energized.

She walked from the sea to the shore that shimmered deeply in her mind. She was one even with the sand. She was one with the universe.

The hut looked different, the way it did in her dream. It seemed more still though… like a painting. She reached out and her hand touched the view. It was a huge painting. She was in it. Wonder of wonders. She didn't know if this were a dream again. She didn't mind. Anything can happen in dreams. She was ready.

She walked on the path toward the hut and willed it to be how she would have wanted it had she built it herself. Flower boxes with daisies and roses bursting with enthusiasm in the summer sun. A beloved opening the door and welcoming her home.

She smiled even as the door opened and he stood there. His eyes held the passion of the storm at sea.

“I have something for you.”

“A surprise?”

He laughed, and it was music to her ears.

It was the painting she fell in love with.

She looked at it, then at him.

One.

“Will this fade, too?” She asked softly.

He embraced her gently from behind and rested his chin on her head.  “Only when you begin to doubt.”

She turned and embraced him back. “I’ve much to learn.”

All the questions that she would have asked aloud a long time ago passed through her mind in a flash. Who was he? What was he? Why did she love him like she knew him? Who was she? What was the purpose of the painting and all that had happened in between? Which of her experiences were dreams and which ones were real?

Then as fast as they came, so they went. The answer was simple. Nothing mattered. Everything just was, is, will be. Everything was nothing. Nothing was everything. Love just was, is, will be. In the comfort of her paradox, she existed. He and she and it were one.

g