by Jeffrey Ford
Strange sounds came out of the dark, growling, weeping, and a prolonged laughter that always petered into anguish. Talejui pulled his cape tighter around himself. For a solid hour, he was transfixed by what appeared to be someone walking out on the lake. Eventually it became clear that it was merely an illusion of the starlight, the water, and the wind. Hermes was agitated, braying often, his eyes wide, nostrils flaring, and the artist, himself, shivered at more than the cold. Sleep was fitful, illuminated not by the presence of the Holy Ghost but by quick glimpses, shards, of a grisly murder. Three times he woke up spitting, and twice he roused enough to hear a distinct whispering, someone out in the dark, feverishly praying. He fled back into sleep as if it were an iron cocoon that would protect him.
The morning was overcast, and ever since waking he couldn’t get the taste of ashes off his tongue. After eating a strip of dried venison, and drinking the last of his wine, he walked, accompanied by Hermes, to the shore. The tide had definitely gone out, but the wind was cold and the knee-high water frigid. He pulled on the donkey’s rope to bring him along, but the beast would have none of it. Cursing Hermes, he dropped the rope, and inched forward into the lake. The icy water was startling, and he momentarily lost his breath. It was at this very point that the mystery of the open road lost its charm. He slogged forward, into the wind, his cape quickly soaked by the wavelets breaking against his knees. Halfway through the crossing, a powerful gust lifted the hat from his head and carried it up toward the clouds.
It took over an hour for him to reach the shore of the island, which at times seemed to retreat as he grew nearer. He was shivering and blue as he scurried up the beach into the forest. Immediately, he set to gathering kindling and fallen branches for a fire, his desperation guiding him. By the time he took the flint from his pocket, his hands were so numb he could hardly hold it, but eventually a fire sprang to life and he felt relief from the cold. He rested for a time, letting the heat of the flames dry his clothes. In late afternoon, when the sun had partially broken through, he headed in the direction of the abandoned palace.
The limestone façade was crumbling, the stained-glass windows nearly all broken. Enormous rooms were still furnished with mildewed couches, divans, and rotting chairs. The chandeliers and their chains had turned to rust, the pendants shattered on the floor like a pile of crude salt. Pigeons were living in a wardrobe in one room, a fox growled at him from a fireplace a few rooms later, and the rooms went on and on. Some sections of the palace roof had caved in. The stairs to the second floor were splintered and too rickety to climb. He passed through an inner courtyard where weeds grew to prodigious heights, and then down a colonnade and into another labyrinth of rooms. In one he found a well-preserved mural. It was contained in an archway, a view of the sea, and a wave breaking at the opening from just outside so it appeared the water would rush into the room.
Talejui wondered about the days that were spent by those who had once lived there and about the story as to how the devil had eventually taken it over. “The devil, my ass,” he finally said, and turned back in order to make it outside before sunset. In his retreat he passed through the courtyard of weeds, but when re-entering the palace must have chosen a different door for he couldn’t remember traversing the rooms he now passed through. In one, he found the skeleton of a child in a rocking chair, something he was certain he’d not passed earlier on his way in. More rooms as if they were multiplying, and all the while the sun sank lower and the shadows grew more pronounced.
Then Talejui was in a hallway of peeling green paint, and at the end of it was a door. His first thought was of escape. He ran to it and opened it wide. Instead of it being an exit it revealed a set of steps leading down into the darkness of a basement. The smell that rose from that lower floor made him wince and turn away. He was shutting the door, when he heard a step of the stairway creak down below in the dark. Then there was a knock and another creak, and another. Out of the gloom from below appeared a face pointed at both the crown and the chin, hair and complexion a frosty blue. The wide eyes revealed vertical slits in yellow irises. Horns curled like a ram’s jutted from bulging temples. By then the entire figure of the devil was visible. Hooves, an icy coat, and a sharp smile.
The artist backed away slowly, dumbfounded by the reality of legends. The devil reached the top, stepped into the room, and quietly shut the door behind him. “A visitor,” he said. “I don’t get many.”
Talejui tried to compose himself and tell the devil he’d come to paint his portrait, but instead all he managed to get out was, “Why blue?”
“The color of the stillborn,” said the fallen angel.
“I’m an artist. I was told you lived here and was wondering if I might paint your portrait.” In a blink, the strange figure before him transformed into that of an old man dressed in fine golden attire. That icicle head had rounded and become more jolly. Tufts of white hair like innocuous summer clouds had sprouted just above the ears.
“What’s your game?” asked the devil with a smile and a voice now weighted with age.
“My game?”
“I know the Prelate sent you.”
Talejui was about to lie, but the old man shook his head in warning. “Yes, then, the Prelate sent me.”
“You did the figures of the new fresco in the cathedral of St. Elovisus.”
“I did.”
“I’ve seen and admired them.”
“Then you will allow me to paint you?”
“I might.”
“It must be your true self.”
“I’m not in the habit of showing my true self to the Lord’s clay dolls, but I will for a price.”
“What would you have?”
“If you’ll kill someone of my choosing, I’ll present myself to you in order that you might complete a portrait.”
“Who?”
“First you must agree, and then I’ll reveal my choice.”
“I’m no murderer,” said Talejui.
“Not yet.”
“Even if I thought the payoff worth it, I’m skeptical that such a portrait would be worth anything. I’m sure you don’t always appear as Jack Frost or an old man.”
The devil laughed. “You artists have balls,” he growled. “But I see your point. I’ll make it so that anyone who casts their eyes upon the portrait will know me when I approach no matter what guise I’m in. You can’t get a better deal than that at the market at Cathool.”
Talejui found the devil’s offer tempting, and at that moment he knew he was in danger. He took a step back and brought his hands up to cover his face. “I’ll not murder anyone,” he said through his fingers.
“Not just anyone, but a certain someone,” said the devil.
When he awoke on the sand of the shore across the lake from the palace island, Hermes was still there. Talejui knew days had passed but could remember nothing after his encounter with the devil. Lying next to him on the beach, he found a framed blank canvas. He picked it up and added it to Hermes’ load. He stretched, took in deep breaths of cold air, shook his head, grabbed the donkey’s lead, and headed back toward St. Elovisus. The return road seemed longer than the way out and the night chills left morning frost in the steaming fields. Winds from the north stabbed through his cloak and hood, and sleep became the act of shivering. No matter the roaring fires he built, there remained a winter chill within. He drew so close to the flames that one night he burned his hand. The pain coursed through him and, in its wake, he remembered.
The blue devil had his arm around Talejui’s shoulders as the painter suffered the coarseness of icicle hair and a bad-meat stench. “The painting is done,” the devil whispered, pointing to the blank canvas on the easel. “Take it with you. Kill who I tell you to. The moment your victim’s heart stops beating, the canvas will reveal the portrait of my true self to the world. All who see
the painting will know me when I approach them. Now, go back to the village and await word from me as to whom I’ve chosen for you to take.” Talejui now recalled how he’d shaken his head and said, “No,” only to find a moment later that he was nodding and saying “Yes.” Then they were on a balcony, and the devil was biting the head off a pigeon that had landed on the rusted railing.
Just before the snow came sweeping down from the mountains, the painter and donkey arrived back at St. Elovisus. Talejui wasted no time in going to see the Prelate, and it wasn’t until he was sitting in the old man’s red velvet office, smoking tobacco and drinking honeyed wine, that the chill began to leave him.
“I thought this might take longer,” said the Prelate. “You mean to tell me you met the devil and convinced him to sit for his portrait and completed that painting in a few brief months? You must think me a fool.”
“Hear me out, your holiness,” said Talejui. “I met the devil in the palace on the island you had told me of. Over a period of days, I painted him, but I don’t remember everything. While I worked, it was as if I slept. Here’s the painting.” Talejui lifted the framed canvas from beside his chair and handed it across the desk.
The Prelate’s eyes widened when he saw it was blank. “What is this?” he said.
“The painting is there, but you can’t see it. It will only be revealed on the condition that I murder someone of the dark lord’s choosing. I want your permission to kill in the name of the church.”
“The serpent’s mind is twisted,” said the Prelate. “Imagination run amok. Yes, of course, kill someone. If one person must be lost to save thousands, it shall be done. Do you have a dagger?”
“A dagger I have, but not the courage.”
“When you find out who your victim will be, tell me, and I will help you.”
Talejui shook his head but said, “Yes.”
“I will hang the portrait here behind my chair. When you’ve done the deed, I’ll know.”
The prelate threw Talejui another bag of coins and blessed him with the sacred signs.
“Wait,” said the painter. “What if he tells me to kill you?”
The Prelate sat back and lifted his hands. “Then you must.”
Talejui returned to Codilan’s studio and threw himself into the work on the sculpture of the Holy Ghost. The master’s workers had long returned with an enormous block of the finest white marble, the perfection of which made the painter forget the devil’s portrait. Freezing, snow-covered days passed with Codilan and Talejui sitting at the drawing table, a fire roaring in the hearth, discussing the Walsneers’ project. “After all my research, I’m convinced no one truly knows precisely what the Holy Ghost is,” said the master.
“You can’t see it,” said Talejui.
“And yet it has the power to impregnate.”
“It’s a ghost, but not of the dead.”
“Here’s what I propose,” said Codilan. “I want to create an enormous marble globe that will rest upon a base that will give the illusion that the granite ball is floating in the air.”
Talejui laughed.
“It can be done with mirrors. The base must be concave and the globe must touch it only at a single point. The illusion isn’t difficult, but balancing the weight of the globe will be.”
They began work on the sculpture, and the master taught his pupil the art of stone-cutting as they went along. Talejui was a quick study and enjoyed the physical nature of the work. He felt himself growing stronger from the constant weight of the hammer and chisel, and he challenged himself to cut finer and finer slivers of marble until it was as if he was shaving the stone. The day that Codilan commended him on his technique, Talejui caught a chill. It came to him that his enthusiasm and love of learning to work with stone was like a pigeon on the rusted railing of a balcony. He pictured the devil lifting it and biting off the head. “If true to his legend, he will now tell me I must kill the master,” thought the painter. But the days passed, and the devil was silent as the snow.
On the shortest day of the year, the sun descending through barren trees, the Prelate appeared at the door of Codilan’s shop. One of the workers, hat in hand, ushered him in. The master stopped work and went to speak to him. Eventually, he called to Talejui, who was trying to hide behind the diminished block of marble. He put down his tools and approached.
“Business of the church,” the Prelate said to Codilan.
“I’m dismissed?” asked the master.
The holy man nodded.
“Thanks be to god,” he said and as he walked away they heard him laughing. Soon after, the striking of hammer upon chisel echoed through the workshop. “I suppose the devil has been struck dumb?” said the Prelate.
“You know how busy they say he is,” said Talejui.
“You’ve heard nothing?”
The young man shook his head.
“This must be clear—if the devil tells you to kill, you must without hesitation. And, might I add, without any consideration for your own safety. It’s for the greater good and glory. Do you understand?” The old man reached out and grabbed Talejui’s wrist. The power of his grip startled them both.
“Yes,” said Talejui, “yes.” He nodded nervously.
“The devil never waits to take a sinner. I expect to see his portrait upon my wall within the coming days.”
Talejui told Codilan the story of his journey to the abandoned palace and how the Prelate had ordered him to kill for the devil. The master said, “He’s lost his mind. I know some powerful people in the church outside our village who will hear of this. It will all be taken care of quietly.”
The young man thanked the master, and went back to work. In the following weeks, the smooth sphere revealed itself from marble, and the wonder of that process forced Talejui’s holy mission from his mind. He cared only about the perfection of the sculpture. To set his apprentice at ease, Codilan left the workshop one day and travelled to the city of the Holy See to speak with his acquaintances. The fathers of the church desperately wanted to commission him to build a domed basilica, and this was the weight of his influence. When he returned, he told Talejui, “The case has been made to friendly ears. But you know, it is the Holy See, where the worm turns slowly. If you can dodge the Prelate till the spring, when the Holy Ghost is finished, I’m sure the matter will be resolved.” After that, Codilan posted one of his men near the door to the workshop to watch for the Prelate’s carriage, and when it was sighted the young man would slip out the back, across the meadow, and into the forest. On the Prelate’s third impromptu visit, he told Codilan, “You are not above four bundles of kindling and a flame.”
“Interesting,” said the master, “that’s not what I was told at the Holy See.”
The Prelate took a step back, trying to mask his shock, for only in that moment did he realize that Talejui had told his master everything. Instantly he made an amiable face and said, “Please, tell the boy he must come and see me as soon as possible.”
“Of course, your holiness.”
That night, the master and Talejui, by candlelight, drinking adder wine, stood before the mirrors for the sculpture that had arrived from the Floating City, and imitated the Prelate in all his jabbering buffoonery. Codalin laughed so hard he wet his pants when his apprentice told him he’d asked the holy man “What if the devil tells me to kill you?” When he learned the Prelate’s response, he doubled over and fell to his knees. “No more,” said the master gasping for air. Some weeks later, though, when the first buds appeared through the snow and the marble globe floated in mid-air, complete, the echo of that laughter haunted Talejui.
The night on which the Holy Ghost was to be delivered to the Walsneers’, an event accompanied by a great feast, Talejui hid in the master’s workshop alone. There was no doubt the Prelate would be present at the event, a
nd as of that moment there had come no word from either the devil or the Holy See. Without the work of the chisel, all the twisted ramifications of his holy mission came back to him like a hammer blow. He tried to pass the night drawing, but every line seemed wrong, and eventually he left the workshop and headed through the ice-melted streets to the Inn of Night and Day. There, dashing off drams of aqua vitae that slurred his words, he confessed to all present a murder he would eventually commit at the behest of both the Prelate and the devil.
At the unveiling of the Holy Ghost in a torch-lit garden outside the west wing of the Walsneer’s castellated palace, the devil arrived among the guests in the guise of Pervan the hunter. No one noticed him at first, although all but he wore finery. The serving of lilac liqueur followed directly the dedication of the master’s new wonder. The sculpture was roundly applauded and all were enchanted by its magical illusion. It was then that the hunter broke from a crowd beside the woodwind quartet and rushed at the Holy Ghost. Codilan, taking in full draughts of praise from the extended Walsneer family, noticed Pervan run and leap, and in an instant calculated the trajectory. It was too late, though. The hunter fell upon the marble globe, tipping it off its single point and riding it down into an explosion of glass that cut him everywhere. His face flopped like bloody strips of bacon as he groaned at the bottom of the glittering mess. Before he died, the devil leaped out of him and like the ghost of a praying mantis scaled the wall of the palace to look down upon the chaos. The guests fled screaming, and the master was again on his knees, this time in tears. The evil one smiled briefly, and then a scent caught his attention.