On Guard

Hadassah has an intimate relationship with her name. It’s obvious. Because it sounds as old as she feels, like she’s from another time and born a thousand years too late. And she likes it, you can tell, because she’s embroidered it on her satchel that’s always stuffed with books and slung close to her hip everywhere she goes. Books are her refuge; she’s a typical librarian that way. But she wouldn’t care for fluffy romance novels, like most librarians probably do. No, what she’s into is a more thrilling read. Hadassah’s into mythology. 

She comes here to the museum every Friday at 5.30 PM, undoubtedly straight from work, to stare at centuries-old nick-nacks inside a building that’s as old and outdated as her name. All the while wrapped in that duffel coat, blaringly orange and two sizes too large. Why she comes, well you can tell from her thick “Harry Potter” glasses that her name’s the most interesting thing to ever happen to her. So the possibility of something truly exciting transpiring, like it does for the heroes in her stories, seems more real with all these relics around. And yes, admittedly they do have a magical look about them in their aged and untouched state. Tempting, you could say, for someone like Hadassah; who wants so much to touch the untouchable, make real the unreal. Like we all do, in our own way.

She’s strolling the overworn tiled floors of the Hailla Fahla room for the fifth time today, a look of wonder and excitement welling in her eyes. You can tell this place, and in particular, this room, is spiritual for her. Sacred even. Artifacts, religiously solemn and still, hang from hooks and lay in cabinets. Their magic rubs off on her as her gaze worships each in turn, and she breathes in their archaic, musty presence. She transforms inside these circular walls—roughly veneered and inadequately lit—from a weak and pathetic oddball into a goddess; empowered and alive.

I watch her re-emerge from the shadowy cocoon-of-a-room, invincible and reborn under the twitching blink of the corridor’s fickle fluro light. But the length of her stride as she passes me now, has a look of scheming about it. I’m keeping my eye on her, that’s for sure. 

It’s late. I’m outside the front gate of the museum, locking it with a satisfying flick of the wrist like I always do on a Friday night. It’s been a long day again and my feet are itching to escape these shoes. Then I hear something, a bang or crash, something smashing to the ground from inside. God help me if that’s our only Bernini. 

‘Unbelievable!’ someone yells, like they’re also inside. They sound scared and yet excited, as if the Bernini statue just grabbed their arse.

Disgruntled, I unlock the gate, then charge for the entrance to investigate. 

I blunder through dark corridors, up and down, in and out of exhibition rooms, dodging artworks that are worth a helluvalot more than me. Shadows of towering figures, busts, statues of the dead, trick me. They’re not who I’m looking for. 

I run to the next corridor and hear a voice, a woman’s; she’s talking to someone or herself. Her voice grows louder, closer, stronger, all the more excited, with each of my pounding steps. I hurl myself towards the Hailla Fahla room, for once making use of all this pudge, as my momentum picks up my pace. 

When I reach the entrance, there she is, or at least a figure of a person. It’s hard to see anything in here beyond silhouettes, so I turn on the light. But it’s only that damned mood lighting shining on the artifacts all dim and ominous-like.

‘Ahem, excuse me. The museum’s closed. Miss?’ 

She doesn’t reply. As my torch light shines onto her, her distinctly long, faded orange hair—all frizz and fluff—and hollow, freckled features are illuminated; instantly familiar and recognisably Hadassah’s. I should’ve known it’d be her. The way she sauntered out this room earlier, sashaying her scheming shoulders like she did... 

I hesitate, more nervous now. ‘Miss,’ I finally manage. ‘Miss. Excuse me?’

Still, she ignores me. I’m getting more of a response from the alien-looking masks ogling me in the display cabinet behind her.  

She laughs, much too erratically to sound cheerful. Then looks at me, or through me, with her green eyes dazed, glazed over, or stunned. It’s too hard to tell which. I shine my torch directly into them and I’m thinking, What the hell’s happened, Hadassah? The guys make fun, sure, ’cause your hair’s all feral and your coat’s matchingly orange and odd. Jose said you looked like all you needed was a shag, like you came in here for a weird nonsexual but sexual fix. Now look, you’re all pale, frozen cold and there’s blood… Jesus, there’s blood leaking from your eyes. 

Panic turns blood to lava under my skin. Hadassah just stands there like she’s in trance. I grab my radio.

An ambulance will be here within minutes, I’m assured. 

I glance around. I’m searching for clues, trying to see through this dingy lighting. But there’s nothing obvious, only some crumbly remains, perched in here like prized trophies. 

Hadassah’s eyes rouse, fluttering as if melting from their frozen stare. Then she screams—loud and shrill.

‘Bring it back… bring it back,’ she pleads, with her fists clenched tight, and her hair a frenzy of fire as she swishes her head side to side. Everything about her is wild and electric; beautiful, in a way. I should really say something of course, try calming her down. but— 

‘It was so beautiful… so colourful…’ she says. Her voice weakens. ‘There... All...’  She kneels to the floor and gently caresses it with her cheek. ‘It’s gone.’ 

It’s dark in here, true, but I can still see there’s nothing more to where she’s touching than a smattering of mould and some cracked tiles in desperate need of grouting. It’s about as beautiful and as colourful as this dull old uniform I’m still trapped in. 

‘Bring it back,’ she pleads again. 

I fold my arms, powerless to help her, but trying to look tough all the same. It helps to pretend. And then believe in something more than you feel. 

‘It was green. And so soft,’ Hadassah says, her disappointment, plain and bare.

That’s how I know it was grass to her. Not prickly or itchy though, but how it should be. Like wool under feet. Now she sees it as it is; grey tiles waiting for their morning sweep and mop.

Help arrives. 

Two medics push me aside and hover over her, reaching for this and that. And I pace a little, like a man waiting for his firstborn to arrive, and it’s true; I feel responsible for her. I found her after all. 

‘What happened?’ They ask. ‘What’s your name miss?’

‘Dora,’ someone says softly.

It takes a confused second, but I realise it’s Hadassah speaking. Hadassah said that. But why? Her name’s Hadassah... isn’t it? I step back, horrified, as she says ‘Dora’ again. She’s all muddled. She’s no Dora. Doras don’t have fiery hair and coats. I’m defensive now, for her sake. I reassure myself that her bag still shows the truth. 

Then they’re strapping Hadassah to the stretcher and wheeling her away.

I’m left in the room, alone, and everything towers over me, creepy and looming. My eyes are drawn to the back wall, standing there broodingly in the dark, as if refusing to be unseen. I walk to it. There’s a large jar here, crumbled and broken into bits. All too much dust and smithereens for it to ever remotely resemble anything it once was. A tile sits beside the mess. It’s been lifted aside—undoubtedly by her—exposing a vibrant slab of orange stone beneath. There’s a latch on one side. How did Hadassah know about this? It must a doorway, or a chest, like one of her books described no doubt; brimming with otherworldly possibilities—but I stop. Because maybe I’m brave enough not to pretend this time. Instead, I hold onto a possibility, small and unlikely, that what Hadassah experienced—all that wonder and amazement—could be mine too. Would it be worth it though? To finally experience the world you imagined, only to have it snatched away and be left with blood... Would she think so? I don’t know. 

Maybe it was nothing, just a broken jar and a coincidence. Or, maybe she knew what this was, what she’d find here and knew it’s dangers, but chose it anyway. 

I breathe in a deep, shuddering breath and choose. I imagine I’m someone brave, someone fearless, and I lift the stone. I imagine I’m Hadassah too.