“Charles. Who else bears responsibility for Kha'zar’s intrusion?”
“Will he be in any danger?”
“He's an Eternal. The worst for him will be the lingering smell of rotting souls. He deserves every bit of discomfort he experiences.”
Death's scorn for Charles soothed his wrath the way oil soothes a burn. Raphael took a velvet cloth from his pocket and drew it down his sword. “It was you who inspired Albion to record the meeting between Charles and Kha'zar.”
“Nay, not I. I’m no artist. It was Stoker who saw the demon in Salvatore, and guided Albion Rector’s talent. He is in your debt.”
“And shall be a Muse one day, by right.” He knew Charles to be a false friend, but not that Stoker would prove to be a loyal one and Death an honorable one. Sweet discovery. The Spirit World was, at last, a new place for him. Raphael sheathed his sword and put on his cloak. “I take leave of you, Sir.”
“Wait, this is not concluded, Raphael. I have something for you to deliver to the fair Bianca.”
“She is Madison now. Only Madison.”
“Alright. Give this to Madison.”
“I pray it's not a visit from you.”
“Quite the contrary.” Death handed the orb, now blue and opalescent, to the newly appointed Guardian of the Arts.
The Red Parasols
Charles was humbled and disgruntled. But saying yes to Death was better than having everyone in the Spirit World know he’d been duped into working with a demon even if it had suited his purpose. “I’ll help get your message to his Royal Evilness,” he told his gruesome friend. “But I’ll not wear sack cloth and ashes, and I’ll not cross the Styx. Charon can deliver the note.”
“You’re in no position to impose conditions—afraid Satan will detain you?” Death said, handing Charles one of his own blue envelopes.
“When he finds out you’ve detained Kha’zar, he may be tempted, and I wouldn’t blame him if he'd try. Charles said, and then added," You act as though a human soul's involved.”
“Play tricks on a Messenger or a Muse, and you indirectly threaten a human soul. Whether inspiration be for evil or for naught, the outcome is the same: the temptation to despair. Already Albion Rector suffers greatly for his art, traumatized by his night visions.”
Charles folded the envelope, placed it into a small wooden box, and placed the box in a purple velvet case. He envisioned the Great Lord Satan opening the box, and his impotent rage at reading Death’s message. He'd be unable to do anything but unleash more mischief on the human race, something Death had obviously not considered. “What the Guardian showed Rector is not my concern, but you’d think he'd be kinder to one he wishes to promote. Earthly success won’t compensate Rector for the loss of his mind—as every artist here knows full well.”
Death sang out the first stanzas of Figaro, and Charles covered his ears. “Oh, alright, Rossini was a notable exception. But please, not so early in the morning.”
Death laughed, and disappeared into the wind leaving Charles alone and smarting. He dressed in his finest satin breeches and waistcoat, pulled on his newly-polished black boots, and transported to the edge of Reality, reappearing at the River Styx where the somber ferryman waited.
“Do you wish to cross, Fate?” a sad and tired voice asked.
“No. I have a message for your Master.”
“Death serves the living God. I serve a demented demi-god. But he is not my Master, only my employer 'til the End Days.”
“Well, take this gift to your employer and tell him Death bids him take warning.”
“How fares my black-clothed cousin? Has his heart softened towards me yet?”
“He never speaks of you. The temptation of Eve was a catastrophe unlike any other.” The fetid smell of rotting flesh invaded his senses, and Charles turned to see two damned souls walking towards the flaming river.
“I've been waiting for you,” Charon told the miserable pair who looked upon him with frantic eyes.
“Help us!” they cried to Charles, and reached for his arm. Charles drew back in horror, and transported to his residence in the Spirit World. There was no help for those who’d chosen damnation.
****
Victoria Griffin kept Elise close to her as they walked along the shore of Jatte, the small island in the Seine River. She had already lost one child to water. David drowned when he was two and a half, having toddled off the edge of the pier before his nanny noticed he has escaped the confines of the wooden playpen Master Griffin built to contain the insatiably curious child. Elise, dressed in white with a matching white skimmer, resigned to a life of inactivity, walked next to her mother’s rose-colored skirt with the same steady gait without objection.
Ten feet ahead of them, standing in the shade of a gigantic oak tree, was Monsieur and Madame Fruif with their strange pets, a monkey and a nervous terrier. Yet, Elise gave no indication the animals of one of the richest couples in Paris interested her. She stayed by her mother, sharing the shade of her red parasol as they strolled under the suffocating sun
“Madame Griffin,” Robere said as he tipped his hat to them. Victoria closed her parasol as they stepped into the cool canopy of the oak tree.
“Good afternoon, Sir—and Madame Fruif.” Victoria gave them a nod of deference.
“Victoria, it’s nice to see you. And here is Elsie. Good afternoon, young lady.” Elise curtsied and smiled, grateful for the attention and the kind eyes of the primly dressed woman.
“Good day, Madame. It’s nice to see you,” Elise responded, but her eyes were on the monkey playing with his leash.
“His name is Marcel,” Madame Fruif said, following Elise’s gaze towards the chattering animal. “He loves raspberries. The dog is Napoleon. A braver watchdog you’ll never meet.” Madame Fruif nudged her husband’s arm. “You must convince Victoria to let Elise come to stay with us for the rest of the summer. I asked her three days ago, and she said she would answer today. It must be yes. We’ll take Elise to the country where she can ride the ponies, and I myself will tutor her in French to rid her of her dreadful accent.”
“An excellent idea,” Robere chimed in. “With Stephan abroad, it’s too much for you to take care of everything. I insist.”
“She has a nanny,” Victoria offered.
“Everyone does, but why not let her have companions and fresh air, and diversions as well? Look how the children run and play—see, there are the Colbert children, Pierre and Janette.” Madame Fruif gestured towards two children playing tag as their disinterested parents played cards.
Marcel had taken to the ribbon on Elise’s skimmer and was jumping behind her, as though to climb on her back, while Victoria batted him away with her parasol. “Elise is going to help me with her Grandmama, Madame. She has not been well, but your offer is much appreciated.”
Robere’s smile turned to concern, then unmistakable sadness. “We always enjoy having children at the chateau. No amusing dinner party story can substitute for a child’s recitation of what she has discovered. A dragonfly. A hummingbird. A peacock feather for her hat.” He noticed Elise’s eyes grow wide at the mention of country critters. “A hedge hog named Gorky,” he concluded, and Elise looked up at her mother with pleading eyes. “I’ll wager Grandmama hasn’t a hedgehog hiding in her flowerpots,” Robere whispered to Elise.
“Oh, no Sir,” Elise said, unable to stifle a breathless sigh.
“Is there water on the chateau?” Victoria asked.
“Yes, but I guarantee Elise will not come within ten yards of it without me by her side,” Robere promised.
For the first time in an hour, Elise let go of her mother’s hand as Marcel leapt to her shoulder and sniffed at the tempting ribbon. “I’ll be as good as an angel, Mama, and helpful too. I’ll take care of Marcel.”
He seems to like you, Cherie,” Madame Fruif said, handing Elise the leash.
“It he safe?” Victoria asked.
“Perfectly safe. He only eats little boys,�
�� Madame Fruif replied.
“I don’t know. My mother is scheduled to see her physicians…”
“There, you see? Elise can be with us and you can attend your mother. Now it’s settled. What are the names of your mother’s doctors, Madame Griffin?” Robere said, feigning an afterthought.
“Armor and Bayer.”
“Excellent. I will speak to them.”
It meant Monsieur Fruif was going to cover her mother’s expenses. He seemed to know everyone, especially everyone in need, and was well known for acting on their behalf. She looked at the tips of her worn-out shoes peeking from underneath her skirt. It was useless to pretend they weren’t having a tough time. The syndicate Stephan Griffin worked for was under investigation for fraud, and Stephan had been recalled to London to give testimony about the Paris bank accounts. He hadn’t been paid in almost a year, and though Victoria had fifteen hundred pounds a year, it was hardly enough to support the family. Their savings had shrunk to a mere five hundred pounds, and with her mother ill, Victoria’s inheritance was quickly eroding.
“You are most kind, Sir,” Victoria said. So far the scandal hadn’t tarnished their reputation and their expenses had not turned into debts, but it was no secret Stephan had not returned to France in over a fortnight. It looked very much like she and her daughter had been abandoned. “It might be better for Elise to be in the country under the circumstances, especially if she wants to go.”
“Oh, I do Mama, I do,” Elise said.
Robere looked at his watch, snapped in shut and returned it to his pocket. “Come, Marcel,” he said, taking the leash, “We have to get these ladies to a tea shop. It’s almost four o’clock and I know they must be starving.”
****
“That’s why I painted them,” Seurat explained to Raphael. He had summoned the Spirit World’s now well-known Guardian to his large, sunny studio in the hamlet below Mt. Olympus. Inside were dozens of new paintings, each displaying his characteristic approaches to light and shadow. Prominently displayed around his dining room table, however, was his old work, Sunday on the Island of Le Grand Jatte.
“I was here,” he said, pointing to a man seated on the lawn in the foreground. Beside him was a man in red shirt, and a woman doing embroidery. ”I recognized Madame Griffin as she and Elise walked towards me. The newspapers had a picture of her and Monsieur Griffin at the pier. I couldn’t help but overhear her conversation with the Fruif’s. I assume the couple sitting next to me heard it also.”
“Do you know either of them?” Raphael said.
“No. He called her Sally. Perhaps his wife, or girlfriend—or one of his prostitutes. I think they were quarrelling because she threw her fan on the ground when he asked for his tobacco and she dove into her purse to get it. I ignored them.”
“Did Elise go to the country?”
“Yes. The newspapers said that’s where she was kidnapped. And killed.”
“You think this man and Sally killed precious Elise?”
Georges sat down at the table, as though the weight of his suspicions exhausted him. "I’m sure of it. The pipe that the man is smoking? I detected a pungent odor—but sweet too. I think it was opium.” He unfolded a newspaper, spread it on the table, and smoothed the creases. “I thought you might want to see this.” The headline read:
BODY OF MISSING GRIFFIN CHILD FOUND
Kidnappers Demanded One Million Francs
“It must have devastated Madame Griffin and her husband,” Raphael said as he skimmed through the article. Georges wiped the tears from his eyes.
“She went insane. Rumor had it she spent her time talking to her dead children. Poor little David and Elise.”
“Who was your Muse on this painting?” Raphael was staring at the painting now, marveling at the precision with which each dot of paint was applied to the canvass.
“I don’t know as if I ever had one.” There was a trace of pique in Georges’ voice.
“It’s possible for artists to create independently, of course,” Raphael said quickly. “But most have what we call influences. You were friends with the Impressionists.”
“Yes. But I thought my way of presenting light was more in keeping with what the science of the time knew about optics. The Impressionists and I remained friends, just not colleagues. You might say, we didn’t have time to become enemies.”
“You’ve proved you were a man of the future, Georges. Television. Computer screens. Pixar. Digital cameras. You called it Pointillism. They call it pixels.” Raphael was staring at the painting, just inches from it now. “The newspaper article said she was found in the water.”
“Yes. And no one else heard Madame Griffin express her concern about the water, or where the child would be, or that Monsieur Fruif was willing to help the Griffin’s financially except this couple.”
“You told all of this to the police?”
“Yes, of course, but they could never find the man or his Sally.”
Raphael walked six steps back and refocused his eyes. Georges had amazingly painted both the trees and the forest, but one could only see the forest from afar. “Have you spoken with Death?”
“Yes," Seurat said. "He saw nothing and no one when he came to reap the life of Elise. He suggested I speak with you. As a Messenger, you could enter dreamscapes of human beings. As a Guardian, he believes you can enter the dreamscapes of the dead. Is it true?”
Raphael nodded a hesitant yes. “But it isn’t your dream I have to enter, Georges, it’s the dreams of the people in the painting. We don’t know all of them, and they’re all dead now.”
Georges buried his head in his hands. “If only I could remember one small detail—as small as a drop of paint—and then spread it out like the Impressionists spread their paint across their canvasses, to transform the detail into a fact that would lead us to another and then another. I could heal the schism between my happiness and my frustration with an unanswered question.” He rapped his fist knuckles against his forehead. “What am I not seeing here?”
“I’ll think about it, Georges,” Raphael promised and within an instant he was knocking at the door of the Fortress.
****
“To what do I owe this visit from the Sherlock Holmes of the Spirit World?” Death was checking a scroll against a ledger as he sipped a glass of red liquid.
“Wine from sour grapes?” Raphael chided, nodding to the decanter.
“Cranberry juice, if you must know, mixed with blood.” He poured a second glass and offered it to the Guardian.
“I’ve come to talk to you about Madame Griffin,” Raphael said, declining the hospitality with a grimace and a wave of his hand.
“You’ve been to see Seurat. Surely he told you I couldn’t help him much. The downside of heroic deeds, Guardian, is that they interfere with the operation of mundane things like solving the mysteries of history. By springing everyone from the Corridor of Suicides you cut off all access to those who might have shed light on why they ended up there in the first place—Madame Griffin included.”
“You mean, she ….”
“Jumped into the Seine like so many other French hysterics? Yes. What else? Someone so afraid of drowning was bound to conquer her fear eventually. Yet, she was not among those whom you sprung, oddly enough. According to my roster, which is not wholly complete mind you.” Death reached for his glass and his bony hand became flesh-laden as he brought the glass to his lips. His black hood fell back, revealing the blonde headed youth Raphael had seen before. “I’ve always believed the Spirit World exists so souls, and ghosts, and people can work things out, resolve issues, in the current vernacular. I like to think of it as a pre-purgatory. Sort of like a pre-sentencing hearing where everyone in the court gets to hear all the details of the crime, the probation report, the extenuating circumstances before Divine Justice takes over. But you’ve burst that theory. I’m working on another, by the way.”
Raphael laughed to himself. “Sherlock Holmes? Is that what a Guardian is,
a spiritual detective?”
“You can’t reveal the truth until you know it. What else do detectives do if not dig for the truth?”
“I am a Guardian of the Arts, not of mankind.”
“Man is God's art, Raphael.” Death brought his black hood forward, and instantly he and Raphael were standing along the banks of the Seine amid tourists and natives enjoying the afternoon sun. Swirling around them were humans of all ages and appearance, along with their pets. And along the banks of the river were artists sketching and painting the sights and scenes of life and artifact. As they walked behind them, and peered over the shoulders of one those in the act of creating art, Death asked of Raphael, “Does he have talent?”
“This one is good,” Raphael said, as they looked at a canvass full of pencil lines that were shaped like a steepled church.
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