He was thinking of those things, of all that could go wrong or right, when, confused by the network of passages and doorways, he entered a bare little parlor. He was over the threshold before he realized there was no cradle, no easel, no painting stool. Instead, a woman with golden hair, dressed in deep mourning, sat weeping in a violet slipper chair. Anson had an impression of damaged youth and beauty: the mother, of course. This had to be Mrs. Minton.
He colored with embarrassment. “Forgive me,” he said. “I am so sorry. And for the child, too, so very sorry.” He wanted to tell her that he would paint her a worthy memento, but cheeks wet, nose running, eyes wild, she was up and past him in a flash. She disappeared down the corridor, and Anson hesitated nervously at each doorway until he found the one with his easel and his subject. He noticed that a carved bluebird now lay at the foot of the cradle, and a beautiful little quilt covered the infant's feet.
Anson was delighted with these additions and immediately took up his sketch, but it was several minutes before he could make himself concentrate. He could not have said why he felt so shaken. Awkward, of course, to blunder in on her grief, but it was not just that. She seemed so young and pretty, and her husband! But Anson knew he must not let his thoughts slide in that direction. The best he could do for her was a fine portrait, a beautiful, consoling painting. How often had he received little notes saying that his work provided a precious memento: Such a comfort, Mr. Bigelow, I find it such a comfort, words that made up for sketches done in cold or—worse yet—hot rooms, for proximity to death and suffering.
And truly, the Minton infant was an exceptional subject. Such elegant lines, such perfect skin. So often there was evidence of disease, of wasting, of whatever vile fate had terminated life—not here. Anson wondered how the child had died, and so recently too. There was still, he fancied, the faintest flush on the cheek. Imagination, of course, yet he thought he would be able to catch the skin color if he worked quickly, if he made color notes right away. There was so much to do, so much to see, that Anson was soon absorbed in his work. The light was almost entirely gone, and he was about to fetch a lamp, when the same little servant girl came to summon him to dinner.
Usually, Anson was an honored guest at the family table. The backwoods farmers, who were the bulk of his trade, never stood on ceremony, but townsfolk and merchants welcomed him too, despite his handicap and his lack of conversation. Mothers always treated him kindly, urging more biscuits and preserves, as if his art required their special recipes and jams. So he might have taken umbrage at the directive to eat in the kitchen. Indeed, sitting between Prince and the mutilated groom would have been dreadful. But the butler, resplendent in evening dress, served in the dining room, and Anson thought that to eat with ferocious Old Minton and his grieving consort would be more dreadful yet.
Considering that prospect, Anson found the big, warm kitchen perfectly acceptable. He smiled at the little servant girl, nodded to the cook and scullery maid, and kept himself to the right side of the groom, whose undamaged profile would have tempted a Phidias. Anson was glad to see the cook treat the boy kindly and noticed that the scullery maid gave him the best of the meat. Perhaps, Anson thought, his apprehension of violence was an error. More likely an accident or some youthful carelessness was behind those fresh and appalling wounds, and he kept his eyes on his dinner. He would have no time to draw the boy in any case, though his face was haunting and his eyes amazing.
When the meal was finished, Anson asked for a light to work on his picture, but the cook let him know by gestures that the child must be coffined that night. The little servant girl was dispatched to help move his equipment and to show him the room on the top floor where he was to sleep. It had a good window, Anson noticed, and a lamp. The girl left her candle as well, and once he'd fetched his dog, the painter had the comforts of home and could begin laying in his colors. The fine flesh tints and the creams and whites of the linen must wait for daylight.
Anson Bigelow worked for three days at the Mintons, laboring to bring the portrait to perfection. When he was done, two days after the Minton infant had been buried in the fenced plot beyond the gardens, Anson surveyed his picture with pride. The faint red of the ground he used was echoed in the red tints of the quilt and in the rosy designs on the bluebird. He thought the bird was, perhaps, the color of the child's closed eyes, and he painted it clasped to the breast. The embroidery on the white gown, the cream color of the blanket—yes, he'd caught those—and above all, the face, the enchanting sweetness of its beauty. Suffer the little children to come unto me, Anson thought, a text followed immediately in his mind by, whoso offend one of these little ones ... How apt the Bible was on all occasions, how apt, and, occasionally, how troubling.
The picture must now dry well, but he promised Prince that he would return in mid summer to varnish it. There was some delay at this, as Prince knew little of painting, and Old Minton never deigned another interview, but eventually, Anson received his fee and signed the picture. He would have liked to design the frame, knowing that dark greenish blue with just a touch of gilt would be perfect, but the Mintons patronized a Boston firm and would not hear of any alternative.
Anson would also have liked to speak with the sorrowing Mrs. Minton. He longed to assure her that he'd given his very best work, that she would not have gotten better in Boston, that—and this would have been quite unprofessional and inappropriate—she was beautiful, that he would pray for her happiness. Anson flushed a little just to think of the follies he might have committed in even the briefest interview, but it seemed to him that she was desperately in need of the consolation of his beautiful painting.
He had his equipment packed, the cart loaded, and Meg hitched with Daisy standing guard. Anson took a last look around his room, picked up his coat, unneeded on this day of sunshine, and walked downstairs. He was meaning to thank the cook and the little servant girl, who had kept his lamp topped up and had washed one of his shirts, when he passed the parlor. Old Minton and his wife were there, and though Anson could not hear their voices, he spotted the portrait. There was something about the dark harmony of reds and greens against the child's pale and flawless skin that was very satisfying. The features were good too; the baby might have been asleep in its cradle, dreaming of puppies and kittens and his mother's smile. Yes, it looked fine, propped up in the place of honor on the mantel. This compliment to his skill gave Anson the confidence to step into the parlor and make his bow.
Old Minton gestured toward the painting and inclined his head to Anson. “A fine job, Mr. Bigelow. A useful item.” He turned to his wife, who, white faced, clutched a handkerchief to her mouth. “Don't you agree, my dear?"
"I can't bear to look at it,” she cried, turning as if to flee. In that gesture, Anson understood that flight was her natural mode, that she was a bird of passage unluckily made captive.
Her husband grabbed her arm. “You'll look at it every day of your life,” he shouted. “You'll see it until the day you die.” His face was terrible; his wrath, like a lion in the room. “Get out, Mr. Bigelow."
Anson understood only trouble and anger. With a sense of helplessness, he looked at her wild face and, greatly daring, said, “I will remember your grief."
Their eyes met for an instant, then he bowed again. Into the corridor with its fine tiles and its painted trim, through the kitchen, where he made awkward, distracted farewells, out to the gaiety of the almost spring sunshine that mocked human sorrows. Anson Bigelow had given the Mintons his masterpiece, but he feared it would not bring them consolation.
Copyright (c) 2006 Janice Law
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EMERALDS? OH, THOSE EMERALDS by DAN CRAWFORD
The open plain tricked the eyes, with hope and a setting sun to help it. Polijn stepped to the right, snow crunching underfoot, expecting the shadows to show themselves no more than distant mountains or thicker clumps of cloud. Horizon and shadows did not shift together, though. They had to be houses�
�not many, perhaps, but the largest indication since morning that humanity still existed. She marched toward them, her shuffle and crunch cheerier than they had been for hours.
Since the last outbuilding of the count's stone home had disappeared behind her, there had been no landmarks at all to show whether she'd come miles or inches. The spread of midwinter white had been utterly uninterrupted. Not a tree to lean against nor a rock to offer shelter. Yet the journey had not been unpleasant in its silence. The air had stayed clear, nothing dripped from it. No wind had tried to force a way in among her scarves. Polijn had had the whole day to herself and had enjoyed it, except for her conviction that if it went on much longer, her toes would start to freeze. She believed in rationing one's indulgences. An excess of solitude had drawbacks, particularly when provisions were down to a lump of cheese and a heel of bread and only enough kindling to keep a small fire going in the open air for one night.
The promising dark lumps grew little by little. She slid the black scarf higher on her cheeks, feeling no difference. Her clothes had been warm enough for the first five or six hours, but she had gotten colder and colder as frigid air mixed with fatigue and frustration.
Her parting from the count had been friendly, if not optimistic. His home was snug and dry, with plenty of fireplaces and loud, friendly people. Provisions began to run low even before Midwinter. Polijn and a couple of other minstrels who had come for the Midwinter festivities had found out for him who was secretly selling off the food stores, but arresting the miscreant wouldn't bring the provisions back. So the count thanked everyone and announced he could no longer risk feeding so many travelers when his own household needed to be provided for.
Polijn and twelve others elected to leave the place, drawing straws for the direction they would take. The harvest had been bad for miles around, and a group that large would be stoned away from any village. They'd have better chances moving singly through the winter wastes.
The count had been generous where he could: He had kindling, blankets, shawls, and scarves for the departing guests. In addition, Polijn had received a thick vest from the young lady whose fiance Polijn had fingered for the crime, and some very good gloves from the young guard the lady would probably marry instead. These prepared her in more ways than one: If the folk in the cottages ahead had no need for Midwinter songs, they might take the gloves or a blanket in exchange for a meal, or a spot by the fire.
Fire? Her steps slowed. There was no smoke rising from the shadows ahead of her. She peered at the darkening sky and picked up her pace again. There was smoke. No, there wasn't. She moved faster and faster and then, drawing air again through the sodden fabric of the scarf, ordered herself to a reasonable pace. Falling facedown into the white blanket at her feet wouldn't warm her.
She stood among them at last, her nose wrinkling against the scarf. An old and neglected circle of stones rose above her, more stones at their feet, just humps in the snow at this point. Too cold for disappointment, she appraised their usefulness. There was some shelter here, of course, but she'd never found standing stones good to linger near after dark. For one thing, they had always seemed colder than other stones.
She set a gloved hand against the nearest one, wondering if any sort of curse lingering on them might explain the lack of houses in this part of the world. She felt nothing at all, though whether that was because of a lack of any spiritual presence or the lack of feeling in her hands, she couldn't have said. Turning slowly, she thought of previous other stone circles and what they might tell her about what to do and where to go from here. The circle was small and not as high as others. One stone was separated from the group, yards off in a direction Polijn believed to be north.
She started for the loner. It might well be a memorial stone to tell her why this circle stood here, or better, a milestone, showing the way to a town or religious community.
Her head tipped back. Dusk and disappointment had fooled her this time. There had been smoke, and this was no stone, but a rugged hut like the ones shepherds used in the summer. In summer, this was probably a pleasant enough meadow. A shepherd's hut argued a town somewhere, but somewhere not too close. And who would be using it at this time of year? And cooking stew in it, if the air was to be believed.
Her feet were moving faster even as she considered her options. This might be a gang of bandits, or a group of travelers also caught out at Midwinter, with no other place to celebrate. There could easily be danger behind the door. Definite danger waited, though, if she spent the night out here. Her gloved fist thudded against the wood.
There was a scuffle inside. “Eat the map! Eat the map!” came a hoarse whisper.
"You just drew it in the dust on the table!"
"Well, lick the table then!"
Polijn thumped the door again and was raising a second fist to reinforce the first, when the door swung open. She had not realized just how cold she was until the warmth of the little fire hit her like a blast of summer.
A tall man with shaggy gray hair stood in the doorway. Beyond him were two shorter men, red cheeked, red beaked. More important, beyond these two was a fire with a pot over it and a jug near it.
"Good evening,” the tall man said, his voice forced into casualness. “How may I help you?"
"How may I help you?” Polijn replied, easing to his left and taking a sideways step toward the fire. “Is there a song you'd like to hear to add cheer to your Midwinter celebrations?"
"Ah!” said the shortest of the men. “Do you know the one with the..."
"We're rather busy tonight,” the man at the door interjected, pushing one leg in Polijn's path.
The leg was by no means big enough to fill the available space, and Polijn was around it in a moment. “An evening of song would cost no more than a bit of stew and a corner of the floor."
The two men inside were already moving to make room by the fire, the shorter of the two patting the top of a broad wooden chest near the jug. The tall man's face was one of impatience. “We have hardly enough for...” He took his eyes from Polijn and looked out at the cold night. “I say, are you alone?"
This was one of the questions Polijn didn't like to hear when she was alone. She shrugged. “I'm meeting some people at the crossroads tomorrow.” There had to be a crossroads under the snow someplace.
The tall man blinked and then pushed the door shut. His face was suddenly broad, open, honest, sympathetic, and hiding something.
"Do come in, come in! We're a bit busy right now, just a little job to do before we serve out the stew, but there's always room, always room.” His hand thumped down on Polijn's shoulder. “Here's someone we were waiting for, chaps!"
The other two men looked at him “Were we? Who is it, then?” demanded the cleaner one.
"A volunteer!” The hand thumped on her shoulder in congratulation.
This was another of those things Polijn didn't like to hear, but she was checking the pain in her fingers and toes. She hurt in every one. Good. That meant they were all still attached.
"A volunteer?” demanded the shortest man.
"And just in time too!” The tall man, who was evidently the leader of the little group, rubbed his hands together. “You lads bring the ... blankets."
"Blankets?” demanded both.
He scowled. “Blankets! And bring the map."
"I just licked up the map!” cried the shortest man.
"He can bring his tongue,” the middle man suggested, taking a scarf off the top of a big box.
"That I wish he'd leave behind,” muttered the leader, taking a coil of rope. The other men, not overly enthusiastic about it, each took an end of the big wooden box. “Are we ready, then?” the tall man asked.
"Not for a minute,” said the middle man. “Only an idiot would go out in the cold on a night like this."
"It's right nasty out there!” agreed the shortest, letting his end of the box drop to the floor.
The tall man shrugged the coil of rope up to his shoulder.
“Nonsense! It's perfect weather—” A loop of rope slid down his arm. He snatched at it, and three more loops followed it. “—for pitting our wits—” The rest of the rope fell, and he picked it up as a bundle instead of a coil. “—against the riddles of the ages."
"It's perfect weather for curling up with a good drink,” the short man told him.
"We could all stand a nice warm drink...” The middle man began.
"Now, don't you start!” The leader turned to Polijn, who stood with her back to the fire and had hoped they'd argue for a while longer. “What about you? Are you, at least, ready for an adventure men will sing about for years to come?"
"I'm ready for a nap,” the middle man put in. “Naps are more my line."
"Oh, ignore them,” the leader snapped. “They're just here to carry the ... blankets.” He wound the rope around itself and tied a knot. “Now you're here, we have everything we need. I told you my plan would work."
"You were expecting a volunteer?” inquired the middle man.
His nose and eyebrows rose in imperial affront. “And why not?"
"In the snow?” snapped the shortest man, arms folded. “On the longest night of the year? And the coldest?"
The leader shook a finger at them. “It's just that kind of negative thinking that spells failure.” The tall man flung the door open; winter had never seemed less inviting. “Come, lads!” A long arm reached out to catch Polijn by the shoulder again as the bundle of rope came untied and flopped to the floor. “Don't be afraid of the snow; it's going to make us rich. On Midwinter night it is possible to summon the spirit of Tewayn the Red and ask where he hid his treasure. Bring the torch as well."
AHMM, March 2007 Page 11