Fireplace Stories In The Dark
by Mr. Scade
She ventured inside the cavern with her brush and with a flashlight. The cave was cold and uninviting, and it seemed to go on forever. But the Artist knew that she must continue if she wanted her canvas back, and if she wanted to get rid of the thing that had stolen it.
After hours of walking she found a crevice, wide and big, which she just couldn’t get across. There was no bridge in sight, and nothing to help her jump over it. But there was one person sitting on a plush chair, on a rock, laughing at her dilemma.
The Artist walked up to the person on the chair and asked him how she could cross the crevice. The person on the chair said that she could not cross the crevice unless she had the chair he was sitting on. The Artist asked the person on the chair if, please, she could borrow the chair for a short while to find a canvas that had been stolen from her. The person on the chair shook his head and said that it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to part with the chair he was born on, or else he would not know where he was born on.
The Artist, at this point, had depleted her patience. So, quite innocently, she offered the person on the chair that she would paint something on a rock to remind the person on the chair of his birthplace, and if the person on the chair liked it she could borrow the chair and cross the crevice and find her canvas.
The person on the chair agreed, knowing that he disliked drawings. But once the Artist finished-”
“Hey, guys.”
“Oh, son of a bitch!” The storyteller cursed in frustration.
The group sitting at the table, inside the dark, dark room, turned around to see their friend standing tall next to a golden-haired woman of stunning looks.
“Oh, Roland!” Cried a fellow who quickly rose to shake the man’s hand. “I thought you were not showing up.”
There was a general mutter of agreement around the table.
“Sorry about that, I had to go to the airport and pick Veronique up. She is new in town.” He said, cocking his head towards the girl holding his hand.
“Greetings.” She said, quietly, and then added, “Why is room so dark?”
A girl sitting quietly drinking a cup of wine looked up. “Electricity went out just after dusk, so we have been drinking and telling stories.”
“Indeed! Well, what are ya waiting for!” Someone tall and loud sitting with a flagon of what he called ale yelled. “Sit, drink! We are telling stories, here. Come and join.”
There was a general mutter of agreement and Roland and Veronique sat down at the table.
“So, what story were you telling?” Roland said, leaning over to take a pint of lager out of the cooler sitting in the middle of the table. He gave one to Veronique too.
“Oh, Mr. Freud here was telling us a story about some artist.” A girl sitting across from Roland said.
Everyone turned to look at the guy nicknamed Mr. Freud.
“Okay, again: stop calling me that. And do not expect me to continue.”
There was a general moan of annoyance.
“Oh, come on, Freud, the story was getting good and, strangely, you were not messing it up.”
Freud rolled his eyes. “That’s it, I am not continuing now. Imma tired of interruptions.”
“He gets interrupted much, he is?” Veronique whispered in Roland’s ear and he agreed.
“I can tell a story if my brother won’t stop being an asshole.” A bespectacled man said, sitting next to the big, loud man. “I know another Artist story.”
“Very well, Jim, tell your story. I want to hear a good story.” Roland said, smiling broadly. He turned to look at Veronique, who smiled back.
“Okay, this story is of the abandoned manor in that town Santa Fe we all went to some years back,” Jim began before taking a sip of his beer.
“Santa Fe?” Veronique said in a heavily accented whisper.
“A place up the mountains. I’ll take you there one day.” Roland whispered back.
Jim placed his beer bottle with a theatrical motion of hands before his voice took a lyrical note.
“Some many, many years ago a woman lived in this house, a painter woman. The people in Santa Fe didn’t know her for she rarely ventured outside, and she only did in the shroud of the dark to find more supplies and some food. She never, ever stopped painting, that absorbed with her work was she.
“But, how come the townsfolk knew she was a painter if she never interacted with any of them or showed anyone anything for that matter? It is simple: one night one of the town’s children got curious. He snuck through her uncared for yard and found an open window from where he could see what was going on inside the house. And to his luck he saw, in the best lightning he had ever seen before, walls covered with paint, and several, several canvases sitting on walls and on piles.
“The child didn’t know what a canvas was or what you did with one, but he remembered seeing a show on the tele about it; and so he knew they were paintings. Half-finished and incomplete paintings, but paintings nonetheless.
“So, as he is straining to take a better look at nearby masterpieces he notices that the woman in the house walks back into the room. And it is then that the kid’s eyes go wide like a toad’s, for, you see, this woman didn’t like wearing anything when she was painting. So the kid got his first look at a naked woman and that event left him with a penchant for painted girls.”
There was a general chuckle across the table.
“Anyhow, the kid, he runs back home, startled, happy and confused. And the painter was oblivious of this breach of her privacy as she painted something she didn’t quite understand.
“The kid reaches his house and he tells his father, omitting the part of seeing a naked woman because if he does he might be punished. And the father asks his son again what he saw, and the kid repeats the story, emphasising the paintings.
“This town, while lacking its own means to acquire the tool to create art, was not artless. Many painters and poets had lived and passed through the town and left their mark. But it had been so long since anyone had taken up a brush, and longer still since anyone who had already taken up a brush sat amongst them.
“The father was excited, of course, since he finally could do something he had always wanted to do. Cameras were good, and photographs cheap, but nothing beats having a painted portrait of your family members, said the father. Quickly, he found where he had hidden his money and, with his son spying over his shoulder, he counted the money. It was not much if you were to buy a care, but up there in Santa Fe it was a small fortune. And, perhaps, he could reason with the painter woman.
“Come the morning the father walked up to the painter’s house and knocked on the door. Once, twice, thrice. On the seventh knock did the door open to reveal a young pretty girl whose body was more covered with paint than with clothes. He ignored her attire and told the painter that he knew she was a painter and asked her if she would be interested in painting his family. He would pay her, he said.
“The painter looked him up and down and closed the door in his face.
“The father, obviously, was angry. What kind of person closes the door in your face without so much as a hello. So, the father, angry and fuming, went to the bar to get rid of his anger and fumes.
“There he started talking to his friends, about this rude painter girl. And his friends believed the story and bought him more drinks and they all decided that they should, each ask the girl if she could paint them something, or if they could buy one of her works.
“Come the next morning the painter was angry. It had been only nine in the morning and many people had interrupted her work already. How could she finish her paintings if everyone kept interrupting her?
“Can you paint me a boat? Asked one man. The painter said no. Can you paint my face? Asked an old woman. The painter said no. Can you paint my house? Asked a young man with seven children. The painter slapped him on the face and said no.
“So, the townsfolk now all knew about the painter and what a nasty girl she was. So, one Sunday, at church, they all started complaining about this girl, some pointing out that she was never in church on a Sunday morning. It was as if there were more important things to do than to go to church, had cried an old woman. And nothing was more important, she pointed out.
“And they talked and deliberated and yelled and worshipped until late at night when they finally decided.
“Come the morning the townsfolk walked up to the painter’s home and knocked on the door. The painter had been expecting them to show up and interrupt her work, so she had painted her house’s façade overnight. The painting was of the town seen from a nearby hill, and in that mural she had painted the face of every person who had interrupted her, and around the mural she had painted what many had asked for.
“So the townsfolk stare at this wall for hours upon hours, transfixed by the work of art. But they are so lost in the paintings they all wanted that they never saw the painter slip out of the house, walk into each of their homes and reclaim something of value. Her painting, of course, wasn’t a cheap thing.
“It took the townsfolk a whole day to look at the painting, and when they all returned to their homes smiling and saying what a nice girl the painter was and that they should make themselves a new painter they all found out that their most prized possessions were missing.
“And what do people do when they realise they have been robbed? Of course, they accuse on another. They locked their windows, and barred their doors, and stopped gossiping as they had once done. Living in a town of thieves, they realised, you couldn’t let them know and see what you did or knew.
“With brushstrokes the Artist changed a town, made the people realise that what was important wasn’t in someone else’s tidings but their own.
“The manor, as you remember, was left there, but the painting faded away in the following years, and when the town finally made themselves a painter he didn’t know how to restore it.”
Jim wetted his lips and throat with a healthy pint of beer. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, smiled at his brother who sat there fuming and transfixed, and proclaimed his story done.
“Well, that was a fun story.” Said tall and loud.
There was a general mutter of agreement.
“Now that you mention it, I think I remember some of the painting on that house’s wall.” The girl with the wine said.
“Yeah, that was a new painting they had the new painter do. It wasn’t that good.”
“Who is next?” Asked Roland, who was drinking his second pint.
“Have I ever told the story about the girl with the fire tattoo on her chest who got my cousin to steal a car that then got her to meet the love of her life?” Tall and loud said as he stared into his empty flagon to see if some more ale would magically appear. It did not.
“You’ve told that story, and variations of it, twice tonight.” Said one girl.
“Well, ’tis not my fault if you don’t remind me of what I said.” And he reached for a pint and drank from it.
“I’ve got a story.” Said the short-haired girl with the wine.
“Well, Nancy. Tell it, since it seems no one else will tell their story.” Roland cried, feeling light-headed.
“Okay. So as to warn you, this story might be a bit... strong? No, that’s not the word-”
“Oh, get it over with.” Freud interrupted.
There was a general shut up.
“Sorry.”
Nancy began in a lyrical voice. “There was a lonely man who liked to walk up and down the beach. This was a beautiful beach, with white sands and blue water. In the evening the light of the dying sun would reflect upon the water, and a soft breeze would hike up the slope of the hill facing the beach.
“The lonely man liked to walk this beach, collect seashells, and mope. Oh, did he mope! He was a lonely, sad man who hated his lonely, sad life. He was a successful man, you see, with his own business and his loads of money. But he was not happy, for, as you might have inferred, he had no one to share his life with.
“So he walked the beach, and thought about many, many sad things.
“One early morning, the lonely man had his breakfast and went for his customary morning walk down the beach. He liked to get there early, when no one had had the opportunity to leave his or her footprints in the sand. But when he got there he found footprints coming down the slope of the hill and circling and twisting as if the person walking had been drawing something. The lonely man followed the footprints until he saw someone standing in the distance painting on a big canvas.
“At first he thought it wouldn’t be a good idea to go and greet that one, but then reconsidered—he hated it when people interrupted his work, so why would he do it? But the lonely man wanted to see who this person was, and what he was painting.
“It was not until he was a couple of feet away from the person that he realised it was a girl, a pretty thing that made his heart flutter and his thoughts get all scrambled. She was painting, set on capturing the morning sea on her canvas. She was succeeding.
“The lonely man stared at her like a pervert for a good while before he managed to say something. The girl looked around, startled, and smiled at the lonely man. She looked him up and down as if inspecting his very molecules, and then asked him how he was.
“The lonely man stammered and the painting girl laughed at that.
“The lonely man asked what she was painting, and she showed him her half-finished canvas, which was twice as long as she was tall, where the sea and birds and a pier off in the distance to the left were perfectly captured. If you paid enough attention you could see that she had also captured the different days in the paining. You could see last Tuesday, when the sun had risen with a yellowish tint; or you could see Sunday, when the sky was overcast and the world was dark. And the painting girl knew it, and loved the painting for it.
“But the lonely man didn’t know it and got lost in the painting. He stared at it, for a short while, and in that short while he saw many, many days. Now, what he saw I cannot tell you, for everyone knows that what you see in the painting girl’s paintings is more personal than the things that arouse you, but the man saw something. He saw something personal and powerful.
“The painting girl touched his arm and he jumped and turned towards her. He said he liked the painting, looked at his watch, and excused himself, blushing all the while.
“The painting girl laughed and kept painting.
“The following morning the lonely man was staring at his reflection in the mirror and realised something. He thought that, perhaps, the reason he was lonely was not that he thought girls didn’t find him attractive, or that he wasn’t interesting, but that he himself cast an aura of loneliness that kept people away. The lonely man picked up a razor and shaved. It was the first time he had shaved in a year and the change was immediate—he looked bolder, younger, and the sort of person who would be fun just to follow around.
“Then a new realisation hit him like a hammer falling on your toe. The lonely man found his sneakers, put them on, and went off for a lengthy run down the beach.
“The morning air was crisp and cold and it burned to breathe, which he loved. His blood was pumping, his body aching, his sweat soaking into his clothes. He felt alive, more alive than he had felt in years. He completely ignored the fact that not once in his life he had wanted to run.
“Just as he was tiring, as his body was crying for him to stop, the lonely man found the painting girl again. She was now sitting on a rock, yards away from the spot she had been sitting the previous day.
“The lonely man saw her and felt curious and nervous and as if butterflies would burst out of his stomach. But, for the first time in a life where that feeling was incredibly common, the lonely man walked up to her, smiling a smile that was close to being charming.
“He greeted the girl with the ease of someone who always greeted girls on the beach early in the morning. She greeted him like a girl who liked what she saw in a man.
“The lonely man, this time, asked for her name. The girl said she didn’t have a name, but could call her the Artist. The lonely man said he didn’t have a name either and said she should call him the Sand. She laughed and he laughed and they shared a moment. And how many people can say they shared a moment with a stranger painter girl who was painting a big canvas at six in the morning in a desolate beach?
“The Artist asked the Sand if he wanted to see how she was doing with her painting, and the Sand said yes. He looked at the painting wondering how she could be painting something if she had moved from the spot she had started on, but then realised it wasn’t needed. You see, the Artist had been painting the beach, its entirety, from what your eyes couldn’t see to the left, to what your ears could barely hear to the right. And not only was she painting the beach, with its rocks and sand and waves and massive stone arch, but the days she had spent there. She painted the beach and the waves and the rocks from day to day, all the way to the end of the month.
“And Sand looked at the painting, seeing what only he could see, and the days past, and the memories he didn’t know were memories.
“The Artist told him something and he smiled and then the two parted ways.
“The next day the lonely man didn’t go out running, but rather he went out swimming. After swimming he went up to his house and got rid of his old clothes and then went into town to buy new clothes. That very day he saw a cute girl that looked strangely like the Artist, with the same short, black hair and the same laughing eyes. He really wanted to talk to her, to say hello, and he actually did.
“The lonely man walked up to the girl, said hello, asked her name—Jasmine, like the flower, not the Disney Princess—and arranged for a date. Now, if you knew that the lonely man had never, ever been out on a date you would understand why that evening, as he ran up and down the beach, he was screaming in joy.
“And as he ran, and ran, and thought about his life up to that point, and of his nights sharing his pains with a bottle of wine, and his holidays reading books alone in his alcove, the lonely man realised that he didn’t need to be a lonely man anymore. He laughed loudly and crashed into the Artist.
“Luckily the painting she was carrying wasn’t damage, and luckily she wasn’t either.
“The Sand apologized for his clumsiness, and the Artist apologized for not listening to him, saying she was absorbed on the patterns left on the sand by little sand animals. The Sand asked her about the painting and she said that she had finished it, saying she had painted the month. The Sand was confused, slightly, but he checked his watch, which was one of those watches that can tell you the date and saw it was the last day of January.
“The Artist asked the Sand his opinion of the painting, and he, dutifully, stared into the whole month of January in that beautiful beach where he lived and walked and spent his most intimate moments.
“And the lonely man, who said to call him the Sand, saw what he had missed in life, what he wanted in life, and what he didn’t need in life. The Artist’s art can lead you through worlds of thought, or thoughts of worlds, and to the lonely man it lead him through a star system of epiphanies.
“The Artist covered her painting, placed it against a nearby rock, held the Sand’s hand, and asked him what he saw in her brushstrokes. For a second the world stopped. He looked at the Artist, and saw beauty and a future and a dream and a terrible, terrible nightmare. But in her eyes he could see his reflection of a person he didn’t want to be. The Artist asked him again, thinking he had not heard her, and the Sand’s reply was to steal a kiss from her.
“The Artist was not startled, and was not angry, and did not pull away.
“The Artist and the Sand made love just as the sun kissed their bodies goodnight.
“Now, if you were to ask the Sand what happened that night, he could not be able to tell you. You see, the Artist was naked, and under the light of the half-moon the Sand saw her tattoos, which were art on par with her painting.
“The next morning the Sand walked down the beach, and found the Artist’s painting and a note written on the sand that told him that smiling suited him. He smiled, took the painting to his big house and put it on a wall where he had had a giant television. Soon after the Sand got rid of those things he could do without, and threw out those things that reminded him of the reflection he had seen on the Artist’s eyes.
“That evening he called the girl that looked like the Artist and said that he was not the lonely man but rather he was a jovial fellow and they arranged to meet up in a restaurant and then walked down the beach to collect seashells and draw things on the sand with their feet.”
The dark room was silent and still. The beers in the cooler moved as the ice melted, making a beautiful clinking sound. Nancy drank healthily from her glass of wine and proclaimed her story finished.
“You know, forget my story, that was way better than what I had.” Freud said, leaning closer on the table. “Where did you get that one?”
The wine girl smiled at him. “That is a secret.” She said, winking and brushing her black hair from her face.
Tall and loud laughed, slamming his now full flagon on the table. “Oh, now that is what I call a story. Not any swords or thievery in it, but it was a wonderful tale nonetheless! You know, we should tell stories more often.”
“Excuse me,” Veronique interjected, placing a beautiful hand on the table. “But all these histories you have said—how to say it—have they all been the same person in them?”
Roland looked at Veronique, an eyebrow raised. “What do you mean?”
“Well, seems it to me that entirety of your histories have had a painter, no?”
“You know, she is right, now that I think about it.” The girl sitting across from Roland said. “We all have told Artist stories, haven’t we?”
“Hmm...” Tall and loud muttered. “True, even mine was going to be about the Painter Girl.”
“But, you see... this histories of yours are bad.” Veronique added.
Everyone turned to look at her. “How do I say? Badly told, yes. The painter of old was no girl, was it? I remember correctly the histories, the painter was a man.”
“Okay, start making sense, please.” Freud said.
“Oh, no. Excuse me for making no sense. As I said, the histories speak of a male painter who could trick kings and do amazing worlds in art. Seems similar, but he was not a she.”
“Wait, you have Artist stories where you come from?” Someone who had kept quiet leaned closer to the table, his face unable to grasp the concept.
“Yes.” Veronique nodded.
“Now, that is interesting! I thought the Artist only came around these parts. But she also went to, where are you from, Russia? Finland?”
“Brock, that doesn’t matter. Don’t you see, she said the Artist was a man, not a girl.”
“So, the Artist is the Artist and stories are stories! Regardless, if the stories speak of a similar person from different parts of the world, now that is lovely!”
“Speaking of stories, Brock,” Wine girl interjected between the murmurs. “Weren’t you going to tell a story?”
“That I was, but I’ve told it already.”
“I haven’t heard it,” Roland said, smiling at Veronique. “She hasn’t, either.”
“Well, every time he tells it it gets better and better,” Jimmy pointed. “Why don’t you tell it again, Brock?”
Brock shook his head, looking at his drink. “I be too smashed to tell a proper tale, mates. Perhaps for next time.”
There was a general feeling of disappointment.
“Say, is it me or does this Artist character always seems to mess with people’s heads?” Jim added.
“Oh, she does. In my story she does this and more.” Brock said.
“I have another one a bit more explicit where she steals someone’s ability to say no.” Nancy said meekly as she hid her lips in a new glass of wine.
“Bah, sounds like a load of manure.” Freud pointed. “In my story you didn’t have any of that.”
“I am with Freud on this.” Roland added.
Veronique placed her hands on Roland’s arm. “Oh, this be no lie, Rolan’. The Artist of histories could truly do that.”
Everyone turned towards Veronique.
“What?” She looked back at them.
“You mentioned that you have stories about the Artist where you come from. I think I speak for everyone when I say I would like to know them.”
There was a mutter of agreement.
“Oh, this be nothing. Just a story of the Painter Oglaf and Two Kings.”
Everyone leaned closer, preparing to listen to the story.
Roland placed a hand over her shoulder. “Sorry, Veronique, but you’ve just got their interest picked. You should tell the story.”
“Oh, no? I no telling story. My English is too broken for it.”
“I can understand you just fine, Vero. Come on, tell your story!” Freud called.
Veronique looked around the room at the faces on the table. She took a tiny sip from the beer she had yet to finish, took a deep breath, and then began the story in an amazingly lucid tone.
“This be the story of two kings, one bad king and one good king. The two kings coveted a single throne, a big throne for the whole of the land that would, one day, become known as Russia. These two kings had equal, how do you say, birthright for the throne, and thus were at war for no one could decide which one would sit the throne, and neither would share the throne with the other.
“The two kings were in bloody war, war that had lasted years and years. The two kings hated one another, and their, ehm, supporters hated one another more. But there were some who were tired of the war, and wanted peace. So they looked at old texts of the kingdom, and then talked to their kings and told them that there was an old tradition. The tradition was from an oldest king who said that if every there was a big bloody war, and the throne was fight over by two, then only a great artist and thinker could decide who was to sit the throne.
“Now, back then, there was but one... what is the word? Undispused? Undis... there was only one great artist and thinker. This artist was known as Painter Oglaf, and he lived in the greatest city there was, where the throne was hidden, and where the two fighting kings didn’t go because it was holy.
“Hearing of this old tradition, the two kings called the great painter to their homes. One, the bad king, wanted to torture and force Painter Oglaf into deciding for him; the good king wanted to feast and give money to Oglaf so he would decide for him.
“Two big, big caravans met at the city doors, and they sent gifts and shackles to the Painter Oglaf. But, you see, Painter Oglaf was a great artist and a great thinker and he knew what these two kings wanted of him. So Painter Oglaf met with the caravans and speak to them, telling them he would not move from the untouched city unless the king would come and meet with him.
“The bad caravan wanted blood and wanted to capture Painter Oglaf, but Painter Oglaf was a great thinker and he outsmarted them. Only two persons from that big, big caravan returned to the bad king.
“The good caravan gave Painter Oglaf many gifts, most of which Painter Oglaf left on the ground and gave to city people. The caravan leader was disappointed and angry that Painter Oglaf rejected the gifts, so he ordered him to be arrested in the name of the good king. But Painter Oglaf was not a dumb man and he had talked to the caravan leader from a tall building surrounded by the many city people who were taking the good king’s offerings. The good caravan left angry and disappointed.
“Hearing that Painter Oglaf would not come and decide for them, the two kings decided that they would have take him by force. The two sent armies to take Painter Oglaf, but when they got there they found he was long gone, leaving his massive statues around city walls. The army stared at the works of art for weeks. The two kings lost a big part of their armies.
“Time later the two kings then heard that Painter Oglaf had returned to the city and had made a big, big statue of the future king. He had decided after seeing the might of their armies.
“Both kings rode their horses as fast as they could and reached the city. The two kings didn’t know of the other king coming to the city at the same time. When they got there they found the city curiously empty, and they followed a trail of statues all the way to the big tower where the throne usually was.
“When they to the throne room, only one thing was in it and it was covered by a blanket. Then they see each other standing on opposite end of room.
“The two kings hate each other and they fight each other. They fight and fight and fight until they are too tired to fight more. They agree to a truce when Painter Oglaf comes out of his hiding spot.
“I have decided who king will be, said Painter Oglaf. Who will king be, asked the bad king. Will it be me, asked the good king.
“But Painter Oglaf destroyed their dreams when he uncovered the thing that they thought was the throne to see that the throne they both coveted was now a table.
“You two are not fit to be king, so the land will have no king, said Painter Oglaf.
“But who would rule over people, asked the good king. People must be ruled, said the bad king.
“The people will rule the people, said Painter Oglaf and the matter was decided. A council of people would rule the people instead of one king.
“Now, the two kings were angry and tired and angry. So they nodded to one another and attacked Painter Oglaf, but Painter Oglaf was not a dumb man and he took the blanket that had covered table and turned it to reveal a big painting.
“The story says many things at this point. Some people say Painter Oglaf had them turned into servants, other say he had them turned into statues, other say the kings were killed by his hand. But what I believe happened is that the Painter Oglaf turned them into peasants, hard working farmers. And then he let them go, and brought in the council and he kept painting and thinking like he always did not bothered by politics.”
Veronique looked around, saying nothing. She didn’t know if she had done it right. “That is my story.”
But Brock lifted his head and proclaimed. “No, that story I liked. And, yes, he was the Artist, alright.” And he went back to his drunk dreams.
“It was an Artist story, yes.” Freud added. “But it was... different. Not really what I am used to.”
“Well,” Veronique said, looking Freud in the eye. “Not Disney make movies out of popular tales? Adaptations, you call them. So, stories are like that.”
Silence grasped the group as they thought about that. The nature of stories—to be told regardless if it has already been told. Suddenly the lights turned on in the room, blinding them with their light. Some moaned at the sudden light, others cheered at its return.
“And so ends the Midnight Society meeting of the night.” Proclaimed Jim.
There was a general laughter, and then Roland explained the joke to Veronique, who didn’t quite get it.