Blue Rose and Raven: Chapter Eleven

Marius' bond with the Beast deepens, and he paints her a portrait.

My outlook on the Beast had changed considerably. I used to be intimidated by her presence, although I would never admit that to her. Now, as with the servants, that gentle terror had dissipated. In its place was a sense of curiosity, even affection. In concordance with this, the weather of our garden walks began changing to something equally pleasant. Mounds of snow slowly shrank into puddles, revealing branches of budding leaves. Hedges slowly revealed themselves as the layers of ice sloughed away. The air was still chilly, but not nearly as cold as it had been before. I found myself without my coat, though I wore warmer clothes. The Beast wore hers, however. Feathers didn’t provide much protection from the cold weather, it seemed.

The Beast’s affect also changed. She’d been so solemn, so withdrawn before. But she too seemed more open, brighter in spirit than before. Her form still held a dark, mysterious aura, but she seemed more open to speak to me on even minor matters. We’d made small talk before, but now she was far more open to telling me about her everyday dalliances. Likewise, I found myself willing to talk about whatever artistic projects I found myself engaged in. When she spoke, I wanted to listen. And for me, she did the same.

The same went for the servants. They had begun to speak more freely with me once they realized I would not be afraid of them. They were all friendly and kind like Finley. Among them were Dorsett, who could dust every inch of a room in the blink of an eye; There was Mehmet, the head chef, who claimed to have lost a card game with the same djinn who granted Aladdin his three wishes; Pavel and Toole, twins who’d traveled to the easternmost part of Asia twice on turtleback, and Ming, who met Sun Wukong and thought the Monkey King was a rowdy and belligerent fool. There were many others with even more fantastic and wonderous stories, some that talked about places and things I could never imagine. So many people from all corners of the world, all in one place. To think the world was so big boggled my mind.

            As for my art, I took up my old habit of taking a sketchbook wherever I went in the castle. As my way of connecting to the world, I wanted to observe whatever seemed engaging to me in that moment. For long periods of time, I sat observing one of the wings of the estate and simply sketched, not minding the servants that flitted in and out of sight. I focused my mind solely on what I sought to capture on paper. If there was a sketch I especially liked, then I would return to the spot where I first captured the image to get a better idea of what engaged me, after which I would translate that into a painting. For that part, I brought my easel and painting set to capture what I needed through color.

I found many subjects to paint around the estate: the entrance hall, the beautiful piano and the stained glass of the atrium, that great tower at the far side of the grounds. Of course, I always remembered my original love of portraiture. As such, the servants were nice enough to pose for me when I asked. Finley especially enjoyed being an art model.

“I remember when I posed nude for several sessions for university students. Ahh, to be a younger man again,” He said wistfully as I sketched his stone face. “Would you need to do a nude study? I’m quite comfortable doing it.”

“No thank you, Finley. That’s not necessary.” I said, half-embarrassed. “Just your face is enough.”

I’d done such studies with Duchanne in the past. Glimpsing a human in the nude was not an issue, as I was only observing to capture it. Honestly, the bare human body never interested me artistically. There were too many invisible elements to remember, too many parts. The face was complicated enough. I preferred the form in motion and in expression. The inner workings were someone else’s problem.

I was in the main atrium with my easel and canvas, carefully observing the piano. I had set up cloth around my work area as to not get paint everywhere. I was busy trying to understand the form of the instrument, the way the limpid lights overhead played on the polished wood, the certain brooding quality of the raven carvings. I was so deep in my observation that I didn’t register the clacking of a cane against marble floor.

“What are you painting?” The Beast said behind me.
            I jumped, my brush flinging from my hand. It sailed in the air and clattered a distance away. I turned and saw the Beast standing near me. She leaned to one side with her cane as support. Her head was cocked curiously like a bird’s. “You startled me,” I said, patting my chest and laughing.

“I apologize,” The Beast replied, bowing.

“No. It’s alright. I get into a trance of sorts when I’m working.” I explained. I got up to retrieve my dropped brush. “How long were you standing there?”

“Not long.” The Beast came closer to my workspace. “I see you’ve taken an interest in the old piano.”

“Yes. It’s very beautiful. So finely carved. And Finley told me it’s been unused for many years. How has it stayed together?”

“One of the many miraculous things about this place. There are artworks and antiquities in my family’s possession that are many years old, but do not decay so long as they stay within the confines of this place. Once they leave, they begin to age normally.” She pointed to the piano. “That piano was made as a commission by Bartolomeo Cristofani, the inventor of the instrument.”

My eyes widened. “The creator of the piano?”

 The Beast nodded. “The moldings were custom, in-house craftsmen. It’s as much a work of art as it is an instrument of music. And when played by the right person, it can transport the listener anywhere in time and space.”

“That seems far-fetched,” I said, furrowing my brow. “Anywhere in time and space? Like to the other side of the world? To the distant past?”

“If the song permits it, yes,” The Beast said, unfazed. “As long as the player performs. Music can take you anywhere if you let it.” I watched the Beast’s gaze grow distant, melancholic. “It is a beautiful thing, to move the human heart through arts. That was my family’s greatest gift.”

“You were sorcerers.” I ventured. “A friend in the village mentioned that about this place.”

“Of a sort, yes.” The Beast answered, still lost in memory. “My lineage provides me a certain mystical ability. As we grew, we discovered a means to channel this power. Without out, it goes wild and unrestrained and can be…unpredictable. My mother was a sculptor, and she made our horse. My sister was a painter, like you. My father was also a musician, talented in many instruments. Mine was the piano. That is, until�"” The Beast regained herself, hanging her head. “It doesn’t matter. It would only bore you.” Her attention turned back to my painting. “How is the old thing working for you?”

            I furrowed my brow. “I’ve nearly gotten the shape, but the color and the lighting is…” I squinted my eyes. “Difficult. The wood is incredibly polished, yet the rest of the piano is difficult to make out. I think it’s the lighting. If the lights were brighter or if were day, then maybe.” I sat back, frustrated. “I’m not sure.”

            “I cannot command the sun, sadly.” The Beast answered. “But I can make it brighter.”
            “You can?” I asked.

            The Beast nodded. She raised a hand and snapped her fingers. The ghost-lights and hanging lanterns in the room slowly rose in brightness, slowly washing the room in brilliant blue light. The atrium was now lit up as if bathed in sunlight. Now every angle of the piano was clear to me, its form sharpened and in focus. I looked to the Beast who curtsied in a gently smug way.

            “How did you do that?” I said, astonished.

            “This place obeys my will. And I am irresistible.” The Beast basked in her momentary glory. “May I ask one small favor, Marius?”

            “Anything.”

            “May I sit and watch you paint?”

            The request puzzled me. “Why?”

“I wish to see you work. I’ve tried painting before and could never understand it.” She found a small stool and sat down near me. “And it has been too long since I have seen another artist work. I only wish to watch for a short while. Just pretend I’m not here. I’ll be gone before you know it.”

I considered the situation. It was strange. My painting was always a solitary activity. But then again, what was the harm in it? As far as I knew, she would not judge my performance. “Alright,” I nodded. “You may watch me.”

            With that, I turned back to my canvas and began working again. My attention was only on the paint, then the piano, and back again. At first, I was conscious of her presence. But with enough time she became just another part of the scenery. Only the corner of my vision did I see the Beast’s dark form watching quietly, lights of the room glinting off her bright eyes. There were only the strokes, the dabs, the blending, the cleaning of brushes. Carefully maneuvering the paint over here, adding tones there. The little game of pushing mud around until it began to resemble a picture. When I finished, it was still not done. The lighting still wasn’t right. Yet I still felt like I’d made progress with the background and the main shape of the piano.

“How do you think this looks?” I asked aloud. I heard no answer. “Beast?” I turned around. But she had gone.

 

“Beast,” I asked one night as we walked. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“What’s that?” She replied.

“You move like a ghost through the halls. You are so silent most of the time. It’s as if you are one of the servants sometimes.”

“I am very quiet, yes.” She said, nodding. “What is your question, exactly?”

I took a moment to choose my words. “Do I frighten you?”

The question caused the edge of her beak to twitch. We walked in awkward silence for a moment.

“I meant no offense.” I stammered. “The thought came to me, and I felt comfortable enough to ask you.” I put my hands in my pockets.

“I am not angry, Marius,” She finally said, hanging her head. “No one has ever asked me such a thing.”

Relieved, I continued. “I would only ask someone I trusted of that. You have been very gracious to me, so I see no reason to worry. But if you don’t wish to answer�"”

The Beast held up a hand to silence me. “Your concern is appreciated, Marius. The truth is, well,” She took a breath. “I have been alone for many years, so many I cannot say for certain. There have been no new visitors to this estate since, well,” She gestured to herself. “I became this.”

“You were cursed,” I said semi-declaratively.

“Of a sort, yes.” The Beast steadied herself with her cane. “I cannot leave this place, you see. And the beasts in the wood keep everyone else away. Your mother crossing the threshold into my demesne was the first soul to see me in a very long time. I stayed out of sight for both our benefits. But she violated my hospitality. So I acted.”

“Ancient laws and such,” I said, Mother weeping in the snow surfacing in my mind.

“Correct,” The Beast said. “Now here you are. A guest from the outside who does not know me and whom I do not know. You are stuck away from your family, and I can see how much you miss them.” The Beast shut her eyes. “That first month you spent here was…difficult for me. Difficult in that I did not know how to approach you.”

“Why is that, Beast?” I asked.

“Because the fact that I am responsible for tearing apart your family weighs heavily on me. There is too much I regret already. But seeing you like that�"” The Beast turned away from me, composing herself. “The pain was too much to bear.”

I had grown up with love in my life before. I felt I’d taken it for granted all those years, and now I was separate from my family I realized how much it meant to me. But it meant much more to hear these thoughts coming from my mysterious captor, this Beast who was keeping me in her domain for reasons I barely understood. To hear the genuine vulnerability in her voice, to truly know there was more than a solemn creature beneath that bird-like visage sent a flood of emotions through my chest. I was overjoyed, moved, elated all at once. I felt my eyes dampening. “That’s�"that’s nice to hear.” I wiped my eyes. “You have been a very good host, considerate and kind.” I gently touched her scaled hand. “Thank you.”

           

            One time while searching for things to sketch, I came into the library while the Beast was reading. The great fireplace roared, it’s warmth intense. Meanwhile the Beast sat in her large chair, her beak in a book. She looked up for a moment, then returned to her book. “Hello.”

            “May I sit and draw with you?”

            “By all means,” The Beast said without a second look.

            So I sat and drew, observing her reclined form closely alongside her large stack of books. After a while, I asked, “How many of these books have you read, exactly?”

            The Beast set down her volume. “What do you mean?”

            “I’ve always imagined massive libraries like these in castles and manors,” I said, nodding to the shelves. “But how can anyone have time to read so many? You could spend an eternity in here and do nothing else.”

The Beast laughed. “I have had plenty of time to do just that, and more. You see, this is no normal library.” She beckoned me closer to the stack of books on the side table. There were the volumes of the Chinese epic Journey to the West and the works of Euripides and Aristotle and the plays of Shakespeare. There was the philosophy of Voltaire and Descartes. Strangest of all were the titles I didn’t recognize. Arthur Miller? Madeleine L’Engle? Diana Wynne Jones?

“I don’t know these authors.” I said.

“Those are writers from another time. This library can populate with volumes from any era. I’ve read scrolls from ancient Egypt to books written in the distant future. Of course, I only read to completion that which interests me. I could place it back on the shelf and it will disappear just as quickly as it appeared,” The Beast explained. “The ones I remember spoke to me in some way. But in truth, I’ve read so much that it’s hard to remember everything I’ve finished.”

            “You have varied tastes. I find philosophy dreadfully boring to read. Fascinating, but boring.” I admitted.

            “I think of it like poetry for life. It provides an interesting sound and meter to simple truths of life.”

            “I suppose you’re right,” I said, shrugging. “I just can’t imagine sitting somewhere and reading all day. I would get tired eventually.”

            “Well, when you can never leave a place, sometimes the best place to escape to is imagination. And it can better than memory.”

            “Maybe,” I said quietly. “Maybe…”

 

            As I sat in my room painting, I looked over my collection of sketches stacked in a corner of the room. I noticed a lot of them were of the Beast, from quick scribblings to longer more detailed studies. I’d taken to drawing her as means of spending more time with her, what with her finally revealing that she spent most of her time in the library reading. Several elements kept resurfacing in the sketches: the regality of her stature, the striking nature of her eyes, her feathers that sometimes appeared jet-black and other times dark blue, the subtle curve of her beak. Her appearance had a gravitas and interest that I wished to capture. And it came one breakfast that I made a proposition. “I wish to paint a portrait of you,” I said.

            The Beast turned up from her breakfast, surprised. “Oh?”

            “I want to repay you for your generosity. I also think it would be an interesting challenge. I’ve never painted a giant raven before.” I smiled.

            The Beast laughed drily. “I can’t think of many who have.” She nodded in agreement. “I accept.”

            From there, we discussed the initial idea of the painting: It would be a portrait of regality, authority, and beauty; a flattering image that would complement the grandeur of the estate and the Beast’s legacy. I found a room with minimal lighting which I could easily set up. The ghost-lights were a godsend for that. The servants assisted in preparing the scene, using a large curtain and a golden chair. Then came for the staging of the figure. We sat together and experimented with different poses that best captured the intention of the painting. Soon we settled on a pose in which she reclined in the chair, her large taloned feet slightly crossed, and her chin upturned. Her head had to be at the right angle for me to capture it what with its strange shape. Her cane was placed on her lap, the light hitting the silver brightly enough to draw attention to its brightness and to keep the viewer’s eyes searching the painting.

            For about a week, we sat together in that little room as I painted the Beast. She stayed still as a statue, only budging to eat or to scratch an itch. I watched her closely, measured every angle and managing every brushstroke to best reflect the subject. I felt as if my teacher was speaking to me again, encouraging me every step of the way. At the while, I felt the Beast watching me. Sometimes I noticed, after which she would avert her eyes.

            In between our sessions, we continued our regular routine of meals and walking in the garden. I noticed the plants were on the cusp of budding. There were bushes and vines that were studded with thorns as well as pods.

            I recognized them immediately. “I’ve seen these vines in the village,” I said, brushing my finger on a thorn. The thorn drew blood like a knife’s edge. “What could possibly grow on these?” I asked.

            “Roses,” The Beast replied simply.

            “Really?” I balked. “These vines?”

            “Indeed, these very vines. The most beautiful and radiant blue roses in the world. They were an heirloom of my family, one our most prized. They were difficult to maintain and only bloomed under a full moon.” The Beast motioned to the night sky. “But when they did, they could catch the light and glowed like stars in the dark.”

            “That sounds lovely,” I said, inspecting the buds again. “Are they close to blooming?”

            The Beast shook her head. “They have not grown in many years. I doubt they ever will again.”

            “How sad,” I said, frowning. “I guess when they’re ready, they’ll bloom again.”

            “You hope?” The Beast said with a skeptical tone.

            I shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt to, sometimes.”

 

            It was in the spare room that I put the finishing touches on the painting. After much adjustment of tones and comparing my sketches, I took a small amount of paint and dabbed it gently on the Beast’s exposed shoulder. A brighter shade of blue as a highlight amidst the very dark values of her feathers. I slid back in my chair, observing my work. The Beast hobbled over, observing the painting as well. “I think I’ve got it,” I exhaled. I turned to the Beast. “What do you think?”

            The Beast stared long and hard at the painting, eyes dancing up and down the picture. She furrowed her brow deeply as she looked. I could tell she was searching, though I could not discern what. Then I watched as her stern expression melted into something altogether different, as if realizing a great truth. “Beast?” I asked again. “Is there something wrong?”

            The Beast turned to me. “It is beyond words, Marius. It is…like a mirror.” She swallowed hard. Her bright eyes became clouded with tears. “Excuse me,” She said quietly and hastily left the room.

            I watched her leave, confused. I turned back to the easel and looked at my stained hands. What could have upset her? I stared at the painting again, searching for something that could’ve provoked her reaction. Then it dawned on me how little I knew about her. There is something in her past she will not tell me, I thought as I looked into her painted eyes, stern and bright as they were. What happened to you, Beast? What happened to make you this way?

 

Author's Note

General thoughts please