Cerulean Blue
by
Andie Scott
Copyright 2011 Andie Scott
Smashwords Edition
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This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters and indicents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used ficticiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales or events are entirely coincidental.
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Cerulean Blue by Andie Scott
Prologue - Fifteen Months Earlier
Chapter One - The Way Through - January 2012
Chapter Two - Watching Paint Fade
Chapter Three - The Colour Wheel
Chapter Four - Cobalt Chemistry
Chapter Five - Colour Men
Chapter Six - Concrete Foundations
Chapter Seven - Fools Gold
Chapter Eight - Thunder Approaches
Chapter Nine - Thine is the Kingdom
Chapter Ten - Behind the Screen Saver
Chapter Eleven - Fire, Sword and Thief
Chapter Twelve - Government Secrets
Chapter Thirteen - Catch
Chapter Fourteen - Signs and Symbols
Chapter Fifteen - The Tree of Knowledge
Chapter Sixteen - Palace of the Prince
Chapter Seventeen - Paris
Chapter Eighteen - Fire of Life
Chapter Nineteen - King of Clubs
Chapter Twenty - Deal or No Deal
Chapter Twenty-One - The Massing of the Damned
Chapter Twenty-Two - The Power and The Glory
Chapter Twenty-Three - Cerulean Blue
Chapter Twenty-Four - For Ever and Ever
Chapter Twenty-Five - Search Engines
Chapter Twenty-Six - Surreal Wanderings
Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Persistence of Memory
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Minotaur
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Chroma Key
Chapter Thirty - Epilogue - January 2012
Fifteen Months Earlier
The street lamps pooled orange halos on the wet pavement, mixing in oily patterns. Leon and Manny stepped off the bus near the Angel, Islington, waved to each other and walked in opposite directions, their heads bowed in submission against the rain which soaked into their new school blazers. A car splashed through a curbside puddle, soaking Leon's shoes and he grimaced as the cold water seeped into his socks.
The two boys had just started secondary school and Leon was surprised to find that his new friend lived just round the corner from him in one of the tenement buildings. Emanuel Fletcher, or as he prefered to be called, Manny, had attended the Catholic primary school so they hadn’t known each other until now.
They had passed the entrance exams to get into Greyfields High, a selective state school. Every morning a couple of hundred Central London pupils would take the train from Kings Cross, swap homework, gossip, and generally have a laugh for the twenty three minutes it would take to get to the school at Potters Bar.
Leon fished the keys out of his pocket and opened the front door to the terraced house off the market street. He dripped his way across the entrance hall and dumped his heavy bag in the hall. He paused at the bottom of the stairs hearing a man’s voice talking in the kitchen. They were so absorbed in their discussion they hadn’t heard the front door slam. There was nothing unusual in that, people often came round to discuss work or buy paintings from his mum who had her studio out in the backyard; but this voice however sent a shiver down his spine.
He wondered if it was the rain trickling down his neck that gave him the creeps. Leon knew better than to interrupt his mother's business meeting, but he was curious. One advantage of being a single child was that he knew how to listen invisibly when adults were discussing something important.
He crept down the side passage where the bikes were kept and hunched behind the utility door that led into the kitchen. He could hear them clearly now, and see them through the crack in the door hinge.
He watched his mother in conversation with a tall angular man dressed in black, standing across from her at the island counter. There was a roll of drawings spread open and they were bowed over them, engrossed in the contents, their heads almost touching. A painting leant against the wall, a self portrait his mother had recently completed.
Leon could see there was something about the man that was odd, but then lots of people who came for dinner or to his mother’s studio were strange. 'Creative' was how his mum described them. 'Sick' was Leon’s usual response, (sick as in wickedly good Leon once had to explain to one of his mother's artist friends who made sculptures from human hair collected from hairbrushes).
Studying the man, Leon came to the conclusion he was sinister. It wasn’t just because of his appearance, although that in itself was unpleasant. He wore a tight black suit with a high collar and a white scarf tied in a peculiar fashion at his neck. His almost translucent hair was scraped back into a long thin plait which reached down his back. His coat hung uneasily across his shoulder blades which gave him the appearance of a hunch backed man, far older than his face suggested. His face with small sunken eyes and a long angular nose in a sallow papery complexion looked as though it never saw sunlight. Leon's gaze travelled to the man's feet which were contained in heavy black boots with chains and metal spikes decorating the leather. The man spoke with a high pitched gutteral voice, incongruous with his looks. The man twisted his long sinewy fingers together showing curled yellow nails, then reached forward to stroke the drawings in front of him.
It was, however, the way his mother looked at the man, her eyes sparkling with delight and interest that horrified Leon and forged his conclusion. He focused on their conversation to try to understand why his mother was so happy to talk to this iniquitous man.
‘I will have the materials delivered to you tomorrow Zoe. I hope you see how important it will be to produce this quantity in the time frame.’
'Well, a fifteen months isn't very long,' replied Zoe, Leon's mother. 'It’s possible if I work on many at once. But why on earth do you want to bring the pigments to me? I can go to Angellisen’s and collect what I need myself, Mr Tyre.'
Mr Tyre twisted his mouth into a smile, which looked more threatening and appeared as a thin red slit across his parchment-like face before replying quietly,
‘My dear Zoe, I am only too happy to supply the materials. They are...special pigments I have collected. They are as old as the paintings themselves and I insist you use them. This will be the most magnificent collection of paintings in the world. The copies of the greatest artists will be a wonder of the twenty-first century. They will be better than the originals or any forgeries. You understand I want you to be my master copy artist. You have great talent Zoe and that is something only you can give me.’
Mr Tyre’s eyes shifted away from Zoe and bore through the gap on the hinge side of the door where Leon was hidden. Leon shrank from the piercing grey irises surrounded by bloodshot whites, set in dark hollowed sockets The black pinpricks of the stranger’s pupil’s made him shudder.
'I am very flattered Mr Tyre, there are many better artists you could chose so I’m thrilled you want me,’ his mother replied brightly. ‘Lets go through specific artworks and then I can figure out a programme of production,’
‘Zoe, I have waited a very long time for you. You are exactly what I need,’ Mr Tyre said, moving closer to Leon’s mother. She looked up at the man and gasped, backing away. Leon saw her face more clearly, shining brightly in some reflected light. He couldn’t work out the source of it and frowned, wondering whether to go in to the kitchen. But the moment passed and the conversation moved onto contracts which Leon found boring. He retreated to his room to change out of his wet uniform and play on his Xbox. Finally he heard the front door closing over the noise of the game he was playing so he paused it and wandered downstairs to the kitchen.
'Leon! There you are,' Zoe exclaimed. 'When did you get home? I thought you must be late home because of swimming or something.’
'No, I just saw you were busy. Oh wow, you fixed my Necrons! Thanks mum,’ Leon ran over to the table where a tray filled with little plastic figures from a fantasy war game perched precariously next to the roll of drawings.
'Yes love. Manny didn’t sit on them purposefully and you know what I always say...’
‘Yeah, anything broken can be fixed. That’s so cool, I can paint them now.’ Leon said picking up the tray.
‘Homework first!’ His mother warned.
‘No homework to do,' Leon grinned, 'We break up for half term tomorrow remember.’
He put the tray back down and looked at his mother.
'Mum, who was that creepy guy?’
'Oh Leon!’ she said beaming at him. ‘This is so exciting! Mr Tyre is an art collector who is commissioning a whole gallery of copy paintings from the National collection. I’ll be painting them. Look, come and see.’
She spread out the drawings and pictures on the round table. Leon walked over and looked at the images. He saw a photograph of an old painting. It was a picture of stable with a big cart horse in it. They moved the images around and Zoe explained who the artists were.
‘Most of these are from Northern Europe in the sixteenth century, but this one is earlier,’ she explained, turning to a large image. ‘You see it has three panels,' she continued. 'A central one and two smaller ones on either side. That’s why it’s called a triptych.’
‘That’s really gruesome!’ Leon said, pointing to the right hand panel.
‘The whole piece is about the progress of sin. This one on the right is an image of Hell. It’s how Bosch, the artist saw things. He painted this around fifteen hundred A.D. It was the time of the black death plague. Just imagine what he would have seen, cartloads of bodies in mass graves, that sort of thing. Punishments for crimes then involved chopping off bits of bodies, torture was the worst sort. It's easy to see why he painted this as hell. Look at the detail Leon. To think I’ll be reproducing it,’ Zoe smiled.
Leon grimaced and pointed out a detail in the picture.
‘Look at that one. His bum’s been blown off and his insides scooped out. All those creatures in the background are like something from one of our Warhammer battles,’ Leon said, staring at the image filled with twisted animal headed people being tortured. ‘Your Mr Tyre looks like he’d fit right into that painting.’
Zoe looked at her son oddly and then said, ‘Leon, there’s no need to be rude. I’ve accepted the commission. It’s really going to help. It’s enough work for the next year and a half. He also bought the self portrait I recently finished.’
‘Sorry mum. I know it’s great. It’s just that he didn’t seem very nice. I hope he pays you,’ said Leon carefully.
‘It’s not really your concern, but he did. He paid for the self portrait in cash and gave me an advance for the commission,’ she said happily, rolling the images back up and tying them with their black ribbon. ‘Your dad will be so pleased. It’s been a strain for him paying for this place and having to spend so much time on the building project in China. Now I have this commission we won’t have to relocate to China for the two years of his contract.’
'What's Dad going to say?' Leon asked, delighted that he wouldn't have to move abroad. His dad had a large project in China, it had come out of the blue but designing a prestigious municipal building was a dream job for him. His mum insisted they wait to see if the job worked out first before they thought of moving out there. Now Leon had made friends with people in his new school, the threat of relocation was weighing on his shoulders.
'Oh I'm sure he'll be pleased for me Leon,' Zoe replied uncertainly.
'Well it's great if it means I can stay here with my mates. I've only just started to have friends at school that I get to see at weekends.'
'I know,' his mother replied, concern furrowing her brow. 'It's not easy thinking you're about to leave your friends behind and move to a country where you can't even speak the language. Are you seeing Manny this weekend?'
'Yea we're going to the Game Centre to paint some of our figures.'
'What about Judith?' his mother asked.
He and Manny had met Judith when she’d sat down next to them on the train a couple of weeks into term. They'd laughed about something which broke the ice and they had sat together every day since. Leon liked her because despite sometimes being pessimistic, she never gave up on things. She preferred to be called Jude, she liked the androgyny of the name. Leon wondered why she always tried to make a joke out of things but never really succeeded. She explained she needed to be humorous because being larger than most kids, it was easier to laugh off the jokes and turn it around so she didn’t feel bullied. She was always reading about some new diet and would get frustrated with each new government health drive about obese children. Despite being larger than the government guidelines, her clear complexion and olive skin made her always appear healthy even in the depths of winter. She had a heart shaped face, green eyes and cropped auburn hair.
'We were hoping to see the new Predator movie together. Try and get a group of friends to go with us on Monday. Oh and go trick and treating on Sunday.'
'That's great, why not invite them all back here on Halloween?'
Leon smiled and gave her a hug. ‘Thanks mum ... and I am pleased for you, about the job. It’s great news,’ he said quietly.
‘It’s great for all of us. I’ll phone your dad later, it’s three o' clock in the morning there now,’ she calculated. ‘Hey, lets go out and celebrate tonight.'
‘Can we go to the sushi place?’ he replied.
They bundled on coats and headed down Chapel Market into the new Shopping Centre. The upstairs area housed a number of restaurants and they went inside the sushi bar with it’s conveyor belt turning endlessly. Leon ate loads and his mum sat listening to what he’d been doing and his plans for half term. They talked about visiting his dad, David for Christmas and what they’d like to see in Hong Kong.
But later that night he was woken up by the one sided argument between his mother on the phone to his father.
He lay awake for a long time wondering why his father was against the project his mother had secure. His dad hadn’t even seen the man so he wouldn't have known how creepy he was. Leon worried whether he should have been more supportive and gone in to the kitchen when the strange man was there to find out a bit more about Mr Tyre.
The Way Through - January 2012
Leon jumped off the bus and the cold wind hit him making his eyes water. He high fived Manny and turned towards home. Since last year Manny had grown tall, he was now closer in height to a fifth year than most of the other second years. He towered over Leon and had let his hair grow into dreadlocks. The dreads were now a couple of inches long, sticking straight up on his head. Leon’s long curling blond hair would never do that, although it tended to form into twisted tails because he never liked brushing it. Leon had grown broad across the shoulders from all the swimming and his feet looked over sized for his average height.
Jude looked different too. More grown up and although she hadn’t lost weight, she was fitter and stronger from joining a fencing club on Saturdays. She was progressing so rapidly that she’d started competing. The boys sometimes went to support her and she’d do the same when they were competing in swimming galas.
He shivered and pulled his gloves on. Unusually, it had snowed on and off since the beginning of December. Christmas had been a wipe out. He and his mum hadn’t been able to fly out to Hong Kong to see his dad like the previous year because the airports were snowed in. His mum had spent most of the holiday shut away in her studio working on the commissions for Mr Tyre. The only time she looked happy was after a visit from him. Leon wasn't glad to be back at school but it felt better than hanging around the house after New Year with the series of gloomy paintings growing in the studio and his mother muttering about deadlines.
He had a headache from the cold and a sinking feeling in his stomach that he’d forgotten something really important. Leon took his keys out of his pocket and opened the tall front door, flicking on the light switch in the hallway. Flinging his coat and bag down, he wandered through to the kitchen .
'Mum!’ he shouted. There was no reply.
'In the studio, what a surprise,' he thought despondently, looking out of the sliding glass doors across the courtyard to the glazed screen opposite. The courtyard garden with it’s high brick walls and jungle of plants led to his mother’s painting studio. He peered through the glass. The lights were off in there, only reflecting the glow of the kitchen and his distorted face in the double glazing.
Quickly Leon ran to the hall and took out his keys from the discarded coat. He came back through to the kitchen to unlock the heavy sliding door into the courtyard. It was already unlocked. Surprised he slid the door open, closing it behind himself and walked across to the studio. He pulled up the handle. It was open too but his mum wasn't inside.
'That's weird,' he thought, 'she never leaves the doors unlocked.'
He turned on the lights, walked between easels and canvases to the row of cupboards and opened one. He looked at a row of spray cans thinking about which ones would be helpful on the school graffiti project he was involved in. It was one of the few things his mum would get cross about. Taking materials without asking. It was annoying because she had so much stuff in there she wouldn’t miss and she hadn’t used any other paints in the last fifteen months other than the ones Mr Tyre brought her. He closed the cupboard door deciding to wait until he could ask.
Leon turned round and looked at the paintings on the easels. They were in various stages of completion. He walked towards one that was virtually finished, needing only some highlights before varnishing. The painting depicted hundreds of figures receding into the distance filled with burning buildings and cavernous pits spewing flames.
In the foreground was a bird man sitting on a chair which was a toilet, eating a human with a cauldron on his head and laying a transparent egg filled with more humans which would fall down into a cesspit. There were other weird kinds of tortured people which he knew showed the seven deadly sins. The river of Hades cut the middle distance with boats sculling across to the other side and an egg-tree-man looking back towards the viewer, his cracked shell like an exploded bottom filled with more people. A knife balanced precariously on the bank and another was trapped between two enormous ears. The figures had started to loose their humanity as though their sins on earth made their suffering in hell turn them into beasts. Leon shuddered and looked at the next picture of an interior.
It was painted with subdued colours and showed a woman trying to remove a man’s hand from her long skirt. Two other figures were watching, one with a pewter tankard in his hand the other seated in the foreground filling a long clay pipe. There were broken eggs on the floor. Leon liked history of art and was quite good at recognizing painter’s works, but didn't know this one.
Leon frowned. He’d grown up with the smell of linseed and turpentine clinging to his clothes. He remembered how when he was still small enough to be carried, he would fall asleep in the studio on a tiny mattress, snug under a duvet while his mother painted into the night. There was always music surrounding his dreams which were filled with the images he watched her pull out of her mind with the wet oily paint. The paintings weren't like these dark foreboding scenes. They were paintings filled with colours and figures floating in dreams. He would wake up in the morning in his own room knowing she’d carried him up to bed. There were always smudges of paint on his pyjamas where she’d held him close.
He looked at the table next to the easels. The paint tubes lay in a heap and brushes coated with paint were strewn across it. An anger bubbled up below the surface towards his mum but mainly against her patron Mr Tyre. She was always tired when she stopped work now, distracted over dinner when he would tell her about his day. He noticed she looked ill now, like the life was slowly being drained out of her. He’d tried to explain his concerns in e-mails to his dad but the replies admonished him for not helping his mother around the house enough.
Leon shook the negative thoughts from his mind and turned his attention back to the paintings. His eyes halted, he was sure he’d never seen this one in the collection of drawings; it didn’t fit in with the other paintings. He looked at the two silver birch trees in the foreground. The bark shimmered with life reaching up to a clouded sky. The clouds spread out like great hands reaching forwards from the distance, light breaking through underneath them. The watery sun sitting low on the horizon suggested that night wasn't far away. Tendrils of vapour hung in the middle distance like cobwebs. The heavy painted clouds looked filled with snow and Leon shivered.
The painting showed a natural woodland, but he couldn’t recognize the other types of trees with no leaves and bare twigs. It was an amazingly sparse picture and yet he was drawn to it. He studied the wet brush strokes and suddenly stood transfixed. There along the right edge was a hand print. A spread hand had pressed against the wet paint, the whorls of the finger prints made a raised pattern in the oily colours Without thinking he lifted his own hand and moulded it on top. He watched his hand slide through the canvas into space and gasped. It didn’t damage the canvas but his hand felt as though it was no longer part of his arm. The muscles and bones became fluid, like he’d cut his hand and blood was dripping down his arm only it didn’t hurt. He drew his arm back, frightened that there’d be nothing at the end of it. But his hand returned through the painting and he experienced the roughness of cloth against his skin. He was whole again. The paint smeared across his fingers and wrist. He gaped, looking at the painting in astonishment.
He went round the back of the canvas to see the edges of cloth pulled tight around the wooden stretcher and nailed into place with traditional tacks. He pressed his hand against the back of the painting. Nothing happened except that he left a dirty big hand print.
'Great ' he said aloud, 'how am I going to explain that to mum?’
Then he laughed. Here he was seeping through a painting and worrying what his mum would say about a hand print. He walked around to the image again and placed his hand back on the picture, expecting resistance. Again his hand slid through and he held it there. He felt his fingers returning to solid in the void, it felt like when he’d covered his hand in PVA glue in art class and waited for it to dry. It left his hand tight and stiff until he’d spent the time peeling the clear glue off his hand like a second skin.
He rubbed his thumb into his palm and stood wondering at how his wrist had this fluid rubbery quality to it yet his hand in it’s invisible space was normal. He felt something cold land on his hand wherever it was and withdrew his arm quickly. There were flakes of snow in his palm.
He stared in amazement at the droplets of melting snow. Fascinated, he pushed his whole arm in and suddenly there was an immense pull on his body. His head span and he thought he was going to be sick. He closed his eyes, feeling his whole body become fluid. A rushing filled his ears like pebbles tumbling on the shore. His heart pumped with fear and he wondered if he was about to die. The hammering in his chest slowed and he gulped a mouthful of freezing air, the cold catching in his throat. Opening his eyes he saw he was standing in the wood depicted in the painting.
Only it wasn’t a painting any more. Brown leaves lay on the hard frozen ground under his feet and big wet flakes of snow were falling around him. He shivered in his thin school sweater and turning around, he saw more trees not, as he expected, the back of a canvas. He reached out his hand to steady himself, catching the rough edge of cloth and realized with relief that the painting was still there. He clutched the side, scared that if he let go he would never find it again and be lost in this strange cold Picture World forever. Carefully he edged around to the front of the invisible painting and pushed his hand into the view. It disappeared into nothingness.
'I must be able to get back through so long as I fcan ind the painting again,’ he thought with relief. The snow continued to fall about him while his mind battled and his body shivered.
'If mum is here she must be close, but if I go and look, I may never find this again,’ he deliberated.
He dug his heel into the leaf mould scuffing it out of the way to form a shallow channel, but realized if the snow fell thickly, his weak landmark would disappear under the whiteness. He felt in his trouser pockets for something he could use to make a mark on the canvas and pulled out a packet of chewing gum. Unwrapping a piece and giving it a quick chew he stuck the shiny wrapper onto the picture with the soft gum. Looking carefully at the view framed by the virtually invisible canvas one last time he set off into the failing light, his feet marking the light fall of snow, crunching on the stiff frozen ground.
He had only gone twenty paces when a disembodied howl tore through the trees making the hairs on his neck stand on end. A second howl joined the first, closer and chillingly loud.
Run! his body screamed, run! His feet stumbled through the raised roots hidden by frosted, fallen leaves and he began to run. He could hear the snarling and panting of the creatures getting closer which made his feet move faster of their own accord. He ran blindly, with hands knocking against rough bark, feet tripping over tree roots. He slowed to take a backward glance, dismayed to see dark shapes massed together, a solid wall of malevolence. Eyes glowing amber and red were now visible in the growing dark of the night. He smelled a sulphurous putrid sweat of the creatures and retched, shoulders heaving from running, a stitch growing in his side from the effort.
'Come on Leon,’ he muttered, 'move!’
He veered off the path through the trees, his breath punching the air in shuddering clouds. The bitter wind was held back by the towering living barriers but then he was in the open clearing, the sharp cold bit into his face, snow blurring his vision. He slowed down and saw two dark shapes leering from behind a gnarled tree trunk towards the direction he was headed. He swerved to the left and ran on, hoping they hadn’t cornered him. Sweeping damp hair away from his eyes, he stopped again, confused. He was back where he started, the two silver birch trees standing like a gateway. Stumbling forwards he looked for the marks he had left. The swirling snow covered the ground and the silver chewing gum wrapper had blown away. He felt with his hands for the edges of the painting. Nothing!
Frantically he tore at the air trying to find his way out, glancing nervously behind. He surpressed a scream as he saw two tall cloaked shapes dragging themselves towards him. Horrified he saw that they were more like men than beasts, yet their flesh was peeling from their grey skin. Their eye sockets contained no eyeballs but glowed with a red light. Panic rose into his throat and his eyes scanned around wildly looking for somewhere to hide. In the gloom he could just make out a light flickering in the distance and his feet lifted in answer to the hammering hope in his chest. Snow soaked his trousers, hampering his progress but he raced towards his goal not caring to see where his pursuers were now.
A small stone cottage became more distinct with it’s crumbling walls of rough limestone, the old wooden shutters leaking the pale light that had drawn him. He ran forward, chest tight with spent air and fear. He reached the shambling cottage and stretched out his hand to lift the latch. A bony hand clawed at him, throwing him down into the snow. Hot sour breath filled his nostrils and a voice rasped from a mouth crammed with broken yellowed teeth.
'Give us the stone!'
The creature, wrapped in a torn cloak that billowed out in the wind and whipped up snow from the ground pressed his brittle fingers into Leon’s neck. Red eyes blazed out of the pallid leathery grey skin. It was a human face but it had twisted into hatred so long ago that it had become wild, bestial. Beneath the cloak it’s bare chest was a carcass of reptilian scales and it’s pounding heart was noticeable beneath the skin, beating out it's blood lust. The creature opened it's mouth wider, bending down dripping drool onto Leon’s face.
'You will give it to us! Now!’ the voice screached, breathing out the smell of formaldehyde.
Soaked from the snow under him and frozen by fear itself, Leon could neither move nor cry out. He was gasping for breath. The creature’s birdlike talons reached towards his chest, ready to rip out his insides.
'Be gone!’ a voice screamed out.
Leon turned his head and looked towards the open door. A woman stood there, a shapeless shadow holding out a hand which shone with a blazing blue light. A shriek of agony pierced the air followed by a chorus of screams from the dark woodland. Leon watched horrified while the grim creature transformed, melting into the shape of a cowering man caught up in a dark filthy cloak which began to smother the bent figure. The red light of the creature’s eye sockets flickered and went blank, fizzling like water on the embers of a fire. Wisps of smoke swirled away from the dissolving reptilian man. All around Leon could see other forms slinking and stumbling away back into the night, moans and howls fading with their bodies. In front of him the cloak was lying on the ground, empty in a pool of glowing liquid.
He looked with wide eyes at the woman standing there against the light, his chest heaving with the last exertion. Her eyes caught his, her gaze was distant, distracted.
'Mum?'
'Come Leon, let's get you inside,' his mother murmured with a softness and authority that soothed his trembling body.
'What is this place? Why are you here? What was that thing?’ he asked shakily, following her into the run down cottage. The open door had chilled the single damp room. The one flickering candle exaggerated the stunned look on Leon’s face. Trying to focus his thoughts on what had just happened was too much. A light popped inside his head and went out. He felt himself falling.
Leon woke to find himself sitting in a low seat near the fire. His eyes began to focus on the room and he studied it; his head throbbing. Under the window was a tall bench piled with bowls and pans, a few tired looking vegetable roots and a large grey tabby-cat. The cat was curled up asleep, but the slits of his eyes were not quite closed. Leon watched his mother walk across the room to an old wooden table where jars of coloured powder and small bottles of oil lay next to rags, a glass block and brushes.
An easel stood in the corner near the door. A canvas was turned to the wall, whether defeated by it’s subject matter or a masterpiece of inspiration was, by it’s blank back, indecipherable. She stooped towards the canvas, lightly placing a hand on the edge of the stretcher, before straightening again with a change of heart. She went back to the small table and scraped some green paint off a marble slab placing it into an empty glass container. She picked up a blue stone and studied it.
Leon gazed around the space. The ceiling was a series of old dark wooden beams which propped up the grey slate roof tiles, a few of which were broken and rags had been stuffed into the holes to stop the worst of the weather seeping in to the room. Melted snow dripped off the ends of these onto the floor where more rags soaked up the chilly water. Tied to the beams and hanging from hooks were bunches and bundles of herbs.
Furthest from the door was a mattress on the floor heaped with rugs and blankets made of rough wool. The whole cottage was devoid of colour except for the table of glass jars filled with coloured powders and mixed pigments. The harsh wind rattled at the door and squeezed through the gaps in the timber shutters guttering the candle. Leon shivered waiting for another attack from the half human creatures outside.
Zoe looked up and caught Leon's eye. She walked quietly over to the fire and sat down next to him and stroked his forehead. The blond hair shone where it had dried and the dirt on his face couldn’t disguise the strong mouth that naturally twisted at the corners into a constant smile.
'W-what was that thing?’ he finally stammered.
'It’s called a Night-Tormentor,’ Zoe replied.
'What was it doing?’
'Looking for me. Well, trying to recover this, the Cerulean stone.' Zoe held out her hand to show him the stone.
'What is it for?' Leon asked.
'It’s a grinding stone for mixing the pigment with the linseed oil. But it’s something else as well. I think it keeps me safe. It's made of Cerulean.'
Suddenly Leon’s mind filled with questions.
'But, how did you get here?’
His mother stood up and picked up an old blackened kettle from the fire that was steaming away. She took it over to the counter where the cat slept and poured a clear liquid from a glass bottle into two cracked cups, then filled the cups with hot water from the kettle. A smell of summer meadows, cut grass and sunshine pervaded the room from the hot drinks. Leon watched her bent form, the dark hair hung down her narrow back. She drew the shawl tighter around her shoulders, rough hands showing red in the firelight against her pale face.
Zoe handed him a cup with a sigh.
'Here, drink this, it's elder flower cordial. It’ll warm you up.'
He sipped at the drink quietly waiting for her explanation.
'Leon,' she continued. 'I'm trapped here. You can get back but I can't, not yet.'
Leon looked at her then down at the steaming cup. He took another sip of the scalding sweet liquid. A log shifted in the fire and he shivered, remembering the night creatures, the running, his fear.
'Tyre will know I have the stone soon, now that I’ve used it,’ she continued. 'He’ll find out you have made your way into the painted world. With luck, the Night Tormentors and corrupted creatures in the forest will have all perished and not be able to tell him. But he'll find out soon enough through the Colour Wheel.'
She examined the polished blue stone, shaped like a round doorknob with the other end flattened, looking closely at the sparkling vein of gold running along one side of it. She said nothing more but stood up and walked slowly to the small painting resting against the wall, picked it up and set it on the easel. It was a picture of a space so different from the cottage but very familiar to Leon. It showed a room with skylights throwing bright sunlight onto a white wall. Raw umber created the sharp shadows. He stared at the painting of his mother’s studio. Tiny, but accurate in every detail.
Zoe picked up a jar of blue powder and tipped some of it onto a marble board on the table. Opening a tiny bottle she measured a few drops of oil onto the slab. After closing the bottle and setting it down she picked up the blue stone, placed one hand on the knob of it and the other on top of that. Slowly she pressed down, rubbing the stone around the slab in circular motions to mix the powder and oil together. She used a flat knife to scrape the colour back together, then started to grind the colour again.
Leon watched each tiny familiar action. He frowned and spoke angrily.
'Are you going to explain what's happening or am I supposed to guess?'
Watching Paint Fade
Zoe didn’t look at Leon sitting by the fire, but carried on with what she was doing.
'I did exactly what you did, the woodland picture in the studio just sort pulled me in, about a month ago.'
'But you were at home this morning,' Leon argued, confused.
'Time works in a different way here because of the Colour Wheel. '
Leon shrugged his shoulders uncomprehendingly.
'The Colour Wheel pinpoints where we all are in time, but it’s based on light, so it relates to our own world differently. Think of travelling at the speed of light. You arrive almost before you've left. Well here in this world, the future is closer than the past.'
Leon puzzled over this and said thoughtfully, 'that means if you come back with me now you will be a month older than when you left.'
'When you found me missing and came into this world, time had changed. The longer you spend here the more fixed to this time line you become. It's better for you to go home now. Tyre is using the self portrait I sold him to control me and I can't leave this world without it destroying me.'
'What does Mr Tyre want with you?'
‘Mr Tyre is called the Prince of Tyre here,’ explained Zoe. ‘His palace is full of portraits. Self portraits to be precise. He has used artists through the last century to paint what he wants. When he bought that self portrait I didn't realise if he destroys it I will die because he placed my soul in it. I can’t leave the Picture World that easily.' Zoe pointed to the fire. 'Put some logs on the fire Leon. You’re shivering.’
Leon bent forward and picked up a log by the side of the fire, placing it on top of the glowing embers. The heat flared around the sides of the new log and small flames licked it hungrily.
'You must try to stop the Prince,’ Zoe continued. 'Get Manny and Jude to help you. Take the blue stone which will protect you. I’m certain it can be used against him. Horace, his servant, told me that it is the key to the destruction of the Picture World so I stole it from him just before I escaped from his palace.'
Leon noticed that his mother looked very tired. Actually not tired, cracked. It was as though the varnish on an old painting covered her clothes and face with fine lines crossing her features, even her eyes.
'Ok,’ he said clearing his throat. 'Mr Tyre can move between both our world and this one with the same ease. He’s known as The Prince of Tyre here and Mr Tyre in our world. The paint he supplies is not normal so what does it do?’ he asked.
'Well the things are alive that are painted with it. If you think about it, what would your worst nightmare be?' she asked rhetorically. 'Not being able to think for yourself. Being controlled by someone else, Well this is what Tyre’s doing. He wants control of everything, change what people believe; what they think. The Prince of Tyre was Lucifer before he was thrown down from heaven. He swore revenge on his brother Archangel Michael,’ she continued.
Leon frowned. ‘If he can control what we think and make those creatures as real in our world as they are here, then all he’s interested in really is taking over the world. Classic villain.’
'That's not all he wants,’ replied Zoe. ‘I think he wants to destroy our world, not rule it. This one is linked to ours through the pictures. He has a world of the hideous images at his disposal from the whole history of art. If he has the creatures from all those paintings he has an unlimited army at his command. He wants to control the universe.’
Leon shifted uncomfortably. 'Then it’s just about revenge. If he destroys our world’s religions he destroys the whole idea of god and everything that has portrayed him as bad.’ He stared at his mother who was dabbing indiscernible touches of paint onto the tiny canvas propped on the easel. Brush poised in her hand she spoke quietly.
'He forces me to paint the future that he wants, filled with creatures of his nightmares to give them substance and make them real. It’s my life that goes into the pictures. You would have to find something that gives me my life back if I'm to return to our world.’
‘Like what?’ asked Leon perplexed.
‘An eternal flame,’ Zoe answered.
Leon scratched his head, his brow furrowed in thought. 'How did you get out of the palace?’ he asked.
'At first I thought I was trapped in the self portrait with no way out but it works differently when both places are in the picture world. I opened the window and climbed down the plant that was growing against the wall, ran away and came here to try to get back out of the woodland picture,’ she explained.
Leon wished suddenly that he was at home with everything familiar around him. He picked up a metal poker and shuffled the logs in the hearth. The embers settled and sent sparks up the chimney and the wood squeaked and sighed. He looked at his mother, aware how grey and colourless she seemed, then noticed that the room with it’s dried herbs hanging from the ceiling and the stone walls was fading too. The only things in the cottage which still resonated with colour were the grinding stone and the small painting. He got up and walked over to the painting of his mother’s studio and studied the minute detail of a space he was so familiar with. Clean brush strokes depicted the long drying wall with a few paintings turned, their backs showing the rough linen and frayed edges of the taught nailed canvas.
'Mum. How do I get back?’ he asked seeing how ghost-like she looked against the flickering light of the fire.
'Through this painting of the studio in the same way as you got here from the woodland scene. Except that you need this paint,’ she replied holding up the pallet with the colours mixed on it.
'It’s paint from our world. When you get home, keep the canvas with you at all times. Where ever you are, it will act as a door back home. It’s finished but you need to have paint from the studio on your hands to make the connection,’ she replied quietly and continued to instruct Leon.
'You need to be careful which paints you use. The paint from Tyre creates bad stuff and absorbs you life,’ Zoe explained. 'It won’t work on this painting or any other paintings in the Galleries. That paint works on those produced by me for him.’
'I have to take you home with me, now, before you fade completely,’ said Leon resolutely.
'No. I fade because you are here at the wrong moment. I will be back in my self portrait in a few minutes. You must go to the gallery and find the eternal flame to rescue me and if you can, get the sword too.’
Leon noticed how much older his mother looked and as she faded there was something about her that suggested a finality. He stood up and began to pace the floor in agitation, until Zoe placed a calming hand on his arm. Although it felt forceful he could see his own jumper through the fingers on his sleeve.
Zoe looked at herself, her ghostlike features resembled an outline as though she had laid the foundations of a painting ready to add the colour She looked down at her hands. The red chapped skin had changed. A thin blue line had appeared along the edges of her fingers, her skin looked worn through and was the texture of canvas. Leon was now more solid than the furniture. She exchanged an alarmed look with Leon and said to him.
'I'm becoming a cartoon sketch. The first lines on the canvas. We really don’t have much time.’
She returned her gaze to the canvas quickly adding a little colour to the painting.
'I know why the Prince chose me. He said that he’d tried many different artist but none had the soul that I could put into the pictures. Now I know he was literally talking about my life going into them. I just don’t know what is different about mine.’
She paused, picked up a rag and wiped the brush before continuing. 'It doesn’t make sense. You’d expect him to go for an artist with less imagination and more skill. But once he found me, it was easy for him to....’ she stopped talking and turned back to the painting, dabbed it again with the small brush which she then set back down on the table.
'It was easy for him to manipulate me,' She wiped her hands along the rough skirt she was wearing. 'There, you can use this to get home Leon.’
Leon smiled weakly at her and said, 'tell me again what I need to do to get you back.’
'First, collect eight pigments from Angellisen's. You know the place, near the British Museum. Ask for some linseed oil and drying poppy oil for mixing. I have an account there, just give him my name and address. What ever you do don’t use the paints in my studio. They are from Mr Tyre, so they’ll take your life from you.’
Leon nodded. The eternal flame quest concerned him the most. He realized with a jolt that his mind was spinning off into the challenges that lay ahead without concentrating on what his mother was telling him.
'...then go to the Alchemist. Find the manuscript. He moves between the worlds too. He brought these colours from our world for me to use. That is how I know the painting of my studio will work for you. Go to him and ask him for the meta-materials. It’s a device so you can walk around without being noticed.
'Leon, make sure you buy Titanium White and Raw Umber. Oh and get some Black, that will be very useful. It will keep you hidden in this world. Use the black on the copy paintings because it will obliterate what is there. From eight colours you can create any image. Take the blue stone. You saw how it harms the Tormentors and I’m sure it will destroy his plans too. I have every confidence in you, Leon...I'm sorry I’ve involved you in this..’ the unfinished sentence hung in the air. Her body had disappeared completely.
'Mum!’ Leon cried out.
'Go through the painting of the inn and find the horse, he'll take you to the Alchemist,' her voice replied in the air around him. 'Take some sugar with you. It'll be useful, like money. There is a manuscript the Alchemist has, I’m sure that will tell you Tyre's plans. Collect the fire from the picture in the gallery...if all you do is set the blue stone in the fires of hell then you’ll have helped stop the destruction of our world, I'm sure of it.'
He heard her whisper ‘good luck’ and then Leon was left alone in the little room. He stood looking around and watched the sleeping cat on the bench become a brownish wash. It disappeared without even moving and all the objects in the room started to fade in the same way. He opened the door to check if his mother was outside. Looking into the darkness he could make out the shapes of Night Tormentors moving through the trees towards the cottage. He shuddered, wondering if there were objects that protected the cottage which had faded and no longer kept the creatures from coming .
Leon stood transfixed in the doorway, watching the shuffling figures moving towards him, red and ochre pinpricks of the eyes glowing in the darkness. A howl broke the silence and in answer a noise like a pack of baying hounds ready for a hunt filled the darkness. Fear trickled down his body with a creeping cold that made his breath catch in a muted scream. The creatures were moving more quickly, stumbling blindly through the trees towards the cottage, all eyes locked on Leon.
Panic took hold, he slammed the door and pushed the bolt across. He felt like his legs had a mind of their own as they jumped and ran in no direction just desperate to get away. A shutter groaned from something large hurling itself at it with determination to break the hinges. He heard a creature scraping at the shutter on the small glass-less window next to the table and easel. The sound of splintering wood and the smell of rotting flesh filled the room bringingt him to his senses as the door began to cave in.
Trying to control his trembling legs he ran towards the table, picked up the blue grinding stone, grabbed the little painting and spun round as the door crashed to the floor. Standing in the doorway was a monstrous creature. It’s cavernous body filled the frame and it stooped to squeeze it’s spiked shoulders into the room. It howled when it hit it’s head on the wooden beam just inside the door in it’s fever to reach Leon. Immense legs of rotting flesh were the supports that held it upright, crawling with flies and grubs visible through the rags that bound the muscles together.
Leon backed away but another snarling creature tore through the little window. This one was skeletal with a hard pointed crest over a thin birdlike head. It pulled two sets of arms in through the opening. These ended with twisted claws and had thin jointed bat-like wings attached. It opened a beaky mouth and shot out a long purple tongue at him.
Leon’s breath caught in his throat, too dry to scream as he tried to press his hand through the painting. It didn’t work; but he already knew the reason. He didn’t have the paint on his hands to match. He couldn’t reach the jars on the table without passing the two creatures that were advanced towards him not yet within striking distance.
In acknowledgement to his thoughts of impending death the only light in the room from the fire guttered and went out. All he could see were the red eyes of the creatures and their dark shadowy forms, standing like columns holding up an ancient temple. Leon looked up at the ceiling of the cottage with it’s failing tiles. Instinctively he acted and his body pumped a mass of adrenaline through it in response. He jumped onto the table and launched himself at the beam, swinging himself up onto it. He stood up and ripped off the roof tiles with his free hand and hauled himself up onto the roof.
The creatures bellowed and screeched below realising that their prey was escaping. Leon fumbled around trying to find the area on the canvas that his mother had just painted and must still be wet. His fingers shook and his breath rasped. He was seconds away from being caught. Frustration brought tears to his eyes wishing he’d picked up the pallet of colour as well as the stone that she had used to grind the colours. That was it! He ran a hand around the stone in his pocket feeling the damp oily paint on his fingers.
Suddenly the tiles started lifting and a great fist came through inches from his legs. He pulled his knees up to his chest while he placed his hand on the canvas and felt it slip and melt through the surface into a space beyond. He pushed the rest of his arm through, noticing that the pigment on his hand was emitting a strange glow. With the sensation of a bucket of cold water down his back he fell through the painting, noise rushing in his ears. But something was holding his jacket and keeping him back. Determined, he tucked his head to his chest becoming a curled up foetal ball and pushed his fluid head followed by the rest of his body into his mother’s studio and safety. Tumbling through he knew that he’d brought more than just himself into this world. His legs buckled under him and he lay on the floor looking up at the creature from the painted world looming over him, the fluorescent lights on the ceiling casting an insipid glow across the inhuman face .
'Give it to us. It belongs to our master and he will have it,’ the Night Tormentor screeched with it’s dark leathery bat wings spreading out into the space.
Leon assumed this hideous man creature was talking about the painting in his hand. 'I haven’t got anything,’ he shouted hiding the precious painting under a trolly of equipment to his left. There was no way he would part with that, it was the only link he had for rescuing his mother.
'The stone! Give it!’ breathed the Tormentor. His face was so close to Leon’s that he could see the veins beneath the translucent skin, and how the blood vessels in the eye sockets were hideously broken, penetrating Leon’s mind, stopping him thinking.
The pocket of his trousers started to burn against his skin. He twisted away from the nightmare in front of him, put his hand in the pocket and his fingers curled around the grinding stone. He pulled it out and held it up in front of the beast. Blue light shone from the stone and the figure shrank back towards the easels. Leon grew bolder and staggered up off the floor to advance on the Tormentor.
'What are you! Who is the Prince? What is it he wants? Tell me!’ he shouted, the burning sensation in his hand forgotten with his growing frustration. The creature shrank further back, it’s wings began to shrivel and dry until they started to crumble like dry leaves into powder on the floor. While it decayed in front of Leon it laughed menacingly.
'You hold the stone in your hand and don’t even know what it is you have. If it weren’t for the blue we could kill you and we, the corrupted could take it for our master.'
It snarled, unhinging it’s lower jaw like a snake showing a gaping black chasm devoid of teeth, a black forked tongue flicking in and out. It moved towards Leon like a python about to swallow a deer.
Undaunted Leon held the shining blue stone out in front of him and watched the creature’s face begin to crumble. It’s bloodshot eye sockets dimmed and the light in them extinguished. Blind and crippled the creature fumbled to find the painting of the wood, It caught hold of the wet canvas and dissolved into it. In parting it let out an almighty shriek and the light bulbs in the room shattered, glass tinkling down onto the floor in the ensuing quiet. Leon shuddered, sinking to his knees dropping the stone as the world turned black for a second time as he slumped to the floor.