The Python of Caspia

by Michael Green

  “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, like 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.”

  “What?” He nearly yelled. The guard hushed him.

  “No need to get upset. Dean wears glasses, I got them at your age, too. You can get contacts eventually.”

  No! No! I can’t do that!

  Andy was surprised by the force of his own negative reaction.

  Why am I so upset about this—the windmill? Rembrandt’s message. It said to avoid eye physicians. But, really?

  “We’ll go tomorrow.” His father decided, before helping him to his feet.

  Andy wanted to argue, to scream, to blame Dean for being okay with glasses, but he knew none of it would work. Rembrandt had said no eye physicians.

  He nearly opened his mouth, but thought better of it.

  They won’t believe a word I say. Dean already thinks I’m cracked; I don’t need that at home too—worse than it already is.

  They left the museum, and Andy had to keep his eyes on the ground the whole way to the car. Dean talked his ear off about how glasses weren’t that bad, and how he used to get nausea. Andy just listened. A large part of him wanted to forget about Letty and Kate, and the paintings, and the mice, and the dark mist most of all. He wondered if this was the adolescent craziness Dean had warned him about, or something more.

  They made it home in good time. Dean stayed for dinner and then his parents stopped by to pick him up. Both sets of parents talked for far too long about Andy’s newfound dizziness. It took half an hour, but, eventually, they determined that the best thing for him was a trip to the optometrist.

  He spent the rest of the evening trying to fight off the headache and spinning that took him, even when he closed his eyes. Getting to sleep was difficult, but when he finally did, he found himself troubled with rude dreams.

  “Lysander,” a voice called out.

  “Call me Andy, please.”

  “Listen to me!” The voice felt like it was right in his ear. “They’re going to take you tomorrow. When they give you the test—fail. Fail the test. Refuse to see the symbol, don’t let your eye rest on it.”

  “Okay,” Andy drawled in sleepy obedience to the voice.

  “And don’t walk through any more of that ink, it makes your symptoms worse, and it’s almost impossible to get off.”

  What?!

  Andy forced his eyes open. He struggled to lift his head and looked.

  There was a score of mice, no two alike, brushing black lint off his arms. The white and red mouse sat on his chest, staring him squarely in the face.

  “Sure, no more ink, and by ink, you mean that dark mist I’ve been seeing around.”

  The mouse nodded his head.

  “Hey, uhm, mouse, I tried, but that big guy slammed into me.”

  Andy wasn’t sure, but he thought the mouse was staring him down. He seemed a no-nonsense sort.

  “Did you guys clean the mist off Letty? Because the same thing happened to her, and I think it’s my fault,” Andy rambled.

  “That’s a different team, but yes, she should be fine.”

  “Thank God,” Andy said, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders.

  A second mouse approached and whispered to the first.

  The first sputtered in outrage. “What he ate at dinner won’t serve through to tomorrow! Rush back and get more carrots! We need them diced and ready for his breakfast—and bring a spare for Coriolis’s team; those bumblers will have forgotten as well!”

  The second mouse hopped to it. He bounded over the bed and disappeared in moments.

  Andy blinked, mystified. “What was that about carrots?” he asked.

  “Forget all of that—and just remember what I told you!” The mouse said sternly.

  “All right—no more mist, don’t see the symbol, and forget the carrots. If you don’t mind, I’m going back to sleep.”

  The mouse leaped off his chest without a word, and a moment later it was like nothing had happened. The naturalness of his conversation, coupled with fatigue let him sink back into sleep, but, whether hours or minutes later, the better part of his mind finally caught up and his eyes burst open. He looked around and saw nothing, no mice, and no mist. The sound of lonesome cars on rain-drenched streets leaked in through his window.

  Andy let his head fall onto the pillow. He dreamed of Letty, and of mice.

  Andy woke with a shock. He recalled the mice and the one with the red face in particular. He’d conversed with this mouse, but there was something else.

  He leaped from his bed and inspected his arms and legs. He looked all over for signs that something had happened to him. Again, he found nothing.

  More than that, he felt great. The dizziness was gone. Everything looked normal, but that dream.

  Andy tore apart his room. He looked under everything. He pulled his bed away from the wall and flipped over the mattress and box-spring. Nothing.

  Next, he tore into his closet, pausing only to grab a few plastic bags to finally get rid of the piles of old and ragged toys he had
lying around.

  The mice are making me clean again.

  For a moment he wondered if it was all a trick to get him to sort out his room. It seemed too involved for his parents.

  As he pulled his computer desk away from the wall, he cringed at the noise it made. A moment later, his parents poked their heads into his room.

  “What’s going on in here?” his mother asked.

  They came in and looked around. He could only stare. Worse yet, he felt a guilty look growing across his face.

  His father sensed the issue. “Finally cleaning your room? That’s great. But you’re still going to the optometrist.”

  His mother stared at the bags and piles of clothes as well as the moved furniture, clearly concerned. “You are cleaning your room, right?”

  Andy nodded. “Yup, it needed it. I’d swear we have mice in here too.”

  His father looked behind the desk. “It’s probably just mouse-sized tumbleweeds of dust rolling around.”

  Andy was silent. He didn’t want to go to the optometrist, but he couldn’t come up with an excuse. Then he remembered the dream and what the mouse had said. It was something about the symbol.

  “You’ve got a few minutes to sort this out before we leave for the optometrist.”

  His parents closed his door. He heard them muttering between themselves moments later.

  Distracted, Andy couldn’t recall what the mouse told him the night before. He knew it was important, and that it had to do with seeing the optometrist, but he couldn’t remember the exact words.

  He rushed to rearrange his room. When the last piece of furniture was back in place, he breathed an exhausted sigh and lay on his bed.

  “No way!” He exclaimed, seeing the symbol from the painting glowing on the ceiling above his bed.

  “Don’t try and argue your way out of this, mister. You’re going to the optometrist,” his mother called to him from the front room.

  “Yes, mom!” he said, leaping to his feet for the second time that morning.

  How?

  He stood on his bed and gently touched the symbol. It pulsed ever so softly, and it felt slightly raised, like it had been painted on.