The Python of Caspia

by Michael Green

  Dean’s parents made a fuss about Saturday’s trip to the museum. After a few minutes on the phone with Andy’s father, they were convinced that it actually was a museum trip, and not some trick concocted by their son, and his troublesome new friend, Andy.

  Finally, Saturday came. Andy and Dean piled into the car.

  “Here we go. Off hunting for some culture and maybe a little class,” his father said.

  Andy rolled his eyes.

  “If you find any class, be sure to save some for me,” he continued.

  Dean laughed, and Andy stared at him, annoyed.

  “Don’t encourage him, or it’ll be bad jokes and puns the whole way.”

  Andy’s dad grinned at the jab, while turning on the radio to placate his son.

  There was only the usual traffic across town, and after half an hour, they pulled into the lot and parked.

  Dean immediately complained, “Hey Andy, let’s go to the Emporium first. I’ll get a few new packs of Cultural Capitol cards,” Andy sighed, but knew he shouldn’t be surprised. “What? It’ll keep me distracted so you can enjoy the art. Just don’t go chasing any mice.”

  Andy’s dad gave them a knowing glance. “Chasing mice, eh? That’s what you call it these days. We used to say chasing birds.”

  Instead of getting more annoyed, Andy simply added, “Hey dad, why don’t you take Dean to the card shop? I’ll get a head start in the gallery.”

  His dad almost complained, but Andy gave him a knowing wink.

  Andy shuddered internally at the act.

  “Ah, say no more.” His dad motioned Dean to the card shop. “Don’t get in the way of a man chasing mice, Dean. We’ll come in as wingmen—if he gives us the signal.”

  The two walked off to the Emporium.

  Well, that worked anyway. Now that I’ve got a few quiet minutes, I’ll hunt for Rembrandt.

  He pulled out the museum map he had printed at home. He was surprised a minute later when someone handed him a much nicer map for free. “Thanks,” he said to a little old lady minding the door into the Baroque wing.

  “Of course. Now don’t get into trouble, young man,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  “I won’t,” he said and then added, “I’m here to see the Rembrandts.”

  “Oh splendid—mind you, there might be a crowd around his works. He’s very famous, you know. Here, let me mark them on your map.” She took her pen and circled a few places on the floor plan.

  Andy thanked her and went on his way. He’d brought his backpack along, despite the protests of his father and Dean, who both agreed that the backpack reminded them of weekdays.

  “It’s indecent to carry it on a weekend, son,” his father joked.

  But Andy knew he might need his sketch pad, so he brought it along despite the complaints.

  He readied his sketchpad, hoping to spot a few more anomalous letters. As he walked through the carpeted halls, he found himself distracted by the paintings. He tried to make his way to the Rembrandts, but every few steps something would catch his eye: a portrait here, a battle scene there. They all made him want to stop for a closer look, but he had to pull himself away. Andy smirked at himself. He had never been interested in art.

  A few minutes later, Andy found that his feet had stopped still, and his focus was stuck to a painting of a tall ship. The water was vivid and sharp, he almost had to shade his eyes, as if the sun were actually reflecting off the waves. Stepping away he realized that no one else was squinting at this canvas.

  Feeling nervous, Andy continued. He found himself continually drawn to certain pieces, and he couldn’t understand why. The ones that drew his eye filled him with the impression that there was something wrong, something to do with the colors. He stared and stared, certain that he must be mistaken, but after a dozen interruptions, he felt a growing surety that some of the paintings were filled with colors he’d never seen before. The new colors were silvery luminescent and glittered like an oil slick in the sunlight, but more than that, they also had an opacity, like mercury. Andy began to think that something might be wrong with him; he had never seen colors like these.

  He suddenly felt dizzy, nauseous, and found that his head was pounding. Worse than that, he realized that he had been hurting for some time, but he was so fascinated that he had ignored the pain until it nearly overwhelmed him.

  I guess it wasn’t a joke after all, they really should put a warning up, he thought, rubbing his eyes. He found a water fountain, drank, and splashed cold water on his face, before drying it with a sleeve.

  The water helped, but only for a few minutes. Turning into a new wing, he felt a sudden need to sit down. He nearly stumbled onto a bench, bumping into a seated woman.

  “Hey, watch out, kid.” The annoyed voice was familiar.

  “Sorry—all this art is getting to my head.”

  She huffed at him skeptically.

  “Seriously. I’m seeing things I can’t believe. My head is spinning,” Andy admitted.

  “Yeah, tell me about it—I thought I was going to be a psych major, then I took my first art class.” Her pencil arced across the sketchpad, swift but true, drawing the long lines of buildings. Many lines led to a single spot in the distance. “That was a year ago, and I haven’t looked back,” she glanced up from her sketch pad and her eyes widened in recognition, “Hey, it’s you! The mouse kid—the middle schoolers who got thrown out of the gallery the other day.”

  “Yeah—sorry about that, too.”

  “Not here on another field trip, are you? Are there more of you?”

  “No, well maybe one, but he’s more into the card shop next door.”

  She chuckled as she picked up her pencil. “Yeah, I’ve got a little brother too. But you’re really here to see the collection?” She sounded surprised, “You’re a little young to have an appreciation for the sublime.”

  Sub—what?

  Andy wasn’t sure what to say, but she kept on talking despite his silence.

  “Who are you into?”

  “Oh, I… Something strange happened. I can’t describe it. That windmill, the Rembrandt, do you remember it?”

  “You sound like me. I had the same experience. A few years ago, I saw—” she paused, “Well, the same thing happened to me. So, Rembrandt was the one for you.”

  Andy wanted to speak plainly, but he wasn’t sure how to approach the subject. Finally, he decided to just say it. “I saw something there—in the painting—something that other people weren’t seeing.”

  “Totally, look at these drones.” She cast an imperious glance at the casual museum goers. “They’re too oblivious to suffer. I’m sorry, kid. It’s never the same after you wake up. There’s no going back for us.”

  Andy gawked, unsure of what to say, but she continued.

  “The crowning achievements of human history seem pathetic next to all this apathy. The vapid, walking past centuries, and all they want to see is the Water Lilies, because someone told them, ‘Oh my goodness you must see it, it’s simply tops.’”

  Andy was startled by her sudden change to a blue-blood accent, but more than that, he had no idea what the woman was talking about. He laughed a genuine laugh, but felt a twinge of sadness too.

  “It’s a joke kid, a sick joke, that only we few understand how little we understand, and no matter how hard you try, these people only ever see the paint, the marble, the building, or the ink on the page, and nothing more. They fear their own ignorance so much that they refuse to admit—absolutely can’t admit—that there is more to a piece, because admitting it would mean admitting that they don’t know everything. They’re cowards, kid.” Her pencil tore across the page with such violence that Andy was sure she cut through the paper. “We love to drown in unknown meaning, and struggle to the surface. When I see a piece that I don’t understand I’m grateful that I still have somewhere to go. You know what I mean?”

  Wow—she’s amazing, Andy thought, suddenly nervous. He felt out of place, li
ke he was staring into a bottomless lake. As the moment wore thin, Andy realized she had asked him a question.

  “I—I uh, never thought of it that way.” He said quickly.

  She laughed, and ripped a sheet out of her notebook, “Since you like Rembrandt, have this one. And here’s my email, if you have any art questions. If you ever draw or produce anything, email me a pic. I might be able to swing this as extra credit or community service.”

  “Uh—sure, of course. I’m Andy, by the way,” his face went suddenly red at his badly timed introduction, but she didn’t notice.

  She autographed the sketch, “To Andy, from Kate S. Save it, it might be worth something one day.” She had a sudden look of disgust on her face. “I hope I never get famous—” she trailed off with a half-crazed look in her eyes.

  “Hey, thanks.” Andy was impressed by the sketch and missed her last couple of sentences. The sketch featured a group of militiamen with their banners and weapons. Andy admired her work and looked closer.

  She kept so much of the detail from the original on this small sheet.

  He cast his eyes towards the drummer when he noticed something in the lines of his drum. They looked like letters.

  He looked closely, not sure if what he was seeing was just the strings that crisscrossed the body of the drum, or something more.

  It’s like the windmill; I couldn’t read the letters in her sketch of the windmill, but they were partly there.

  He pulled out his cell phone and searched for the painting on the Internet.

  “Unplug kid. That thing is a waste of time,” she spoke sideways, not looking up from her work.

  “Hold on, I’m doing art here.”

  She put down her pencil to look at his screen. He was scrolling across a photo of the original painting. He zoomed in on the drum and noticed a serious difference.

  “What? Are you checking up on my work?”

  “No, look here. Look at the strings on the drum.”

  She looked back and forth between her sketch and the phone. “Yeah, I see it, but I’m sure that the strings are like this,” she tapped her sketch, “you can’t trust the phone; the resolution is trash.”

  Andy wondered about the windmill and went looking for an image. “Say, Kate, do you still have that sketch of the windmill, the other Rembrandt?”

  She flipped through her notebook. “Yeah—the first sketch was free, but the second is going to cost you.” She held it up for him.

  “That’s not what I mean—look here.” He pointed at the lines on the cliff in her sketch, and then zoomed in again to the same location on the phone. “They’re different here too.”

  She looked back and forth again, frustration spreading across her face. “I wouldn’t—”

  Andy pointed to her sketch. “No, I saw this too. The original is like yours, and this picture is wrong, somehow.”

  She wasn’t satisfied with that. “Well I’m glad you have faith in me, but I don’t understand.” She flipped through her work, looking for problems.

  Andy glanced around for any other people sketching. He recalled the other day. The other sketchers hadn’t drawn the letters. Besides himself, only Kate and Letty had seen them. He felt suddenly bad for Letty. He remembered the dark mist and the exhausted look in her eyes.

  “The other artists that day. Remember, they all left at once?” She nodded. “I had a look at their sketches, they were wrong. Every one I saw looked like this.” he pointed at the phone. “But I know at least one other person saw it the way we did.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “Keep an eye out for other sketchers when you’re drawing. Look at what they do, maybe it’ll happen again.”

  She sat there for a long moment. Andy wasn’t sure what else he could say.

  “Well, email me if you figure anything out. I’ve got to move on—ten copies of the classics due tomorrow. You know how it is.”

  She got up to leave, but he had to ask, “Where did you see this one?” He held up her sketch of the soldiers.

  “It’s two rooms down,” she pointed to the right and stood. “See you, kid.” She walked off in the direction she had pointed. He felt self-conscious and didn’t want to follow so close behind, so he waited.

  Andy looked at the sketch again and could almost make out a few letters on the drum. He checked to see if she had left yet and looked up in time to see a dark mist shrouding the doorway she was heading towards.

  Leaping to his feet, he nearly screamed to stop her, but it was too late. She walked through the shroud, and it burst and swirled like watery smoke. He moved closer to the door, his heart racing. No one else saw it. Kate walked right through, without hesitation.

  Looking into the next room, Andy saw a trail of mist swirling behind her. Some of it still clung in a curtain over the door. Up close, the smoke looked thick and greasy. It swirled in an arc, and gave him a sick feeling. He thought it was reaching out towards him. He instinctively took a small step backwards. Andy blinked, hoping the smoke would vanish, hoping it was simply hormonal mania affecting his vision.

  Andy felt his heart leap when a figure burst through the misty curtain, dragging a wave of the smoke towards and onto him. Tendrils reached out from the smoke and grasped for him.

  “Oh!” A friendly voiced called out as someone bumped into him. Andy stumbled to the ground. He was sure the smoke was on him. He wanted to scream and wipe it off his arms, but he looked and looked and couldn’t see it.

  He thought back to the mist floating over Letty.

  I can’t always see the smoke on her either.

  Andy’s stomach sank, but a moment later he felt a hand on his arm.

  “I’m sorry, young man.” A heavyset and well-dressed man pulled him to his feet, “but a doorway is no place to stand.”

  He tried to catch his breath, but still sounded scared, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t—I was distracted.”

  “Mmm, that’s the danger of a gallery. I was probably a little distracted myself.” He took a quick look at his watch. “In the future we should both endeavor to be distracted on a bench, or in front of a painting.”

  Andy stepped aside as the man went on his way with a smile. He felt like he had seen that man before, but was too distracted to give it much thought.

  Andy’s legs were shaking. He tried to steady himself and looked over at the doorway. The mist was gone. He looked himself over again, but still saw nothing.

  Going crazy won’t help.

  Andy walked into the next room to look for Kate, but she was gone. He went one room further and couldn’t see her anywhere.

  His head was spinning and he felt another wave of dizziness. He sat down again, only more carefully this time, and kept his head down until the spinning stopped.

  He finally looked back up.

  Oh.

  He was staring at the painting of the militiamen. His skin still crawled with the memory of the mist, but the painting felt more important. After a moment of effort, he gave it his whole attention. He read the title on the wall.

  The Night Watch.

  His eyes moved with the lines. He saw the faces of the militiamen; they were moving out to protect their city from whatever lurked in the dark. He considered the drum in the bottom right. There were the letters, and they were as clear as day. They shone and glittered like the waves of the other painting.

  Sketchpad at hand, he copied the letters down. It was Dutch again. But after the message there sat a curious shape, almost like a character of an alien alphabet, or some mathematical symbol. He tried to sketch it, to copy its lines, but found what he had drawn was wrong. He tried again and again; each effort was as bad as the first.

  It’s not that hard, just slow down.

  He tried again and failed for a fourth time.

  He stopped and looked at the symbol, he stared and stared, trying to take it apart. It didn’t seem that complicated.

  It’s a sideways eight, inside an oval. The sharp ends of the oval
meet the left—no?

  He turned the page and continued. It was wrong every time. He tore the page out and tried again. A few people stared at him. He looked over apologetically and saw a burgundy shape dart across the floor.

  That mouse!

  He felt the urge to give chase. Standing, Andy immediately felt like he would tumble to the ground. He let himself sink back onto the bench and shook his head until the world straightened.

  “There he is.” He heard Dean’s voice.

  Andy didn’t want to look up just yet, but he heard his father too. “We’ve been all over this place trying to find you. Are you okay? Lysander?”

  “Not my name, Dad, please. I’m fine.”

  “What’s wrong? You look ill.”

  “I’m all right, just give me a second.”

  “What is it?” Andy felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m just a little dizzy, it’s nothing.”

  Dean chimed in, “It’s all the art, Andy.”

  They sat down next to him, and Dean showed him the cards he had just bought. Andy tried to be interested.

  “Who’s Kate, big boy?”

  Andy nearly fell off the bench when he saw his father going through his notebook.

  “She’s good, very good, but it looks like you need some practice.”

  “Thanks,” Andy grumbled.

  His father flipped through all the ripped-up pages, “What are you trying to do here?”

  “It’s nothing, just give it back—please.”

  He kept flipping the pages and then glanced at Rembrandt’s painting. “Oh.” He looked back and forth between the two and let out a concerned sound. “I understand trying to impress a girl. But trying something she’s great at might not be the best move.”

  Andy sighed.

  Dean had something to say though, “Who’s this Kate girl, Andy? I haven’t seen her in class. Is she a high schooler?”

  “Guys, can you just lay off?”

  His father ignored him and continued looking at his sketches of the symbol. “Where are you getting this from? These lines aren’t anywhere on that painting.”

  Yeah, I know.

  After a minute’s silence his father finally concluded, “We need to get your eyes checked, young man.”