“A fake?” Maddie said.
“No. Shameful that it is hidden away where so few people can see it. Tintoretto is a Master of perspective. I admire his work. When did the Baron acquire it from the Scuola di San Rocco, I wonder. But mark the Corregio Jupiter and Io as a copy, and the Titian Pieta.” Raphael led Maddie down the hallway and turned right, stopping at a large canvass of the Resurrection. “This Tintoretto is a copy,” he said.
“Copy or not, it’s beautiful,” Maddie said.
Raphael stiffened. “There are others that outshine it,” he said, wishing Maddie could see the Swallows' wall. Incorporation was dangerous. He'd been in the flesh less than an hour, and already pride had tempted him to reveal himself and his art to her for approval. He wanted her to praise his work as she praised the unknown artist who copied Tintoretto. ”But it is beautiful,” he admitted as pangs of jealousy rippled through him. “Add the Holbein in the foyer of the north wing, and the Beethoven portrait in the music room to your list.”
“The Beethoven? Really? It’s magnificent.”
“Yes, but not for the painting.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Raphael laughed gently. “Artists are usually a poor lot."
"We were, that's for sure."
"They often reuse their canvasses, painting over their work or the work of others. Whenever I see a copy, no matter how expertly executed, I wonder what lies behind the lacquer or the canvass itself. People often hid treasure maps and family papers…wills, deeds, poetry…behind paintings.”
“You think there is something behind the Beethoven painting?”
“The frame is not of the period, and the picture bulges. I would investigate, Madam Rector.”
Maddie dutifully recorded the information the workman gave her as they walked the corridor. By the time they were at the end of the hall, she had noted seven questionable works. “I have to leave you now,” he said,” I have work to do.”
“I haven’t asked you your name, Sir,” she said when she’d finished writing. “I should at least tell Alby who you are so he can talk with you…” When she looked up, the workman was gone. “Sir?” she said. She tried one of the doors, but it was locked, as they all were in the hallway. Perhaps the workman had a key, she told herself, but where had he gone so suddenly?
****
That night Raphael entered Maddie’s dream world on his way home, expecting sweet pictures of her children and Alby in soft pastels of domestic bliss. Hers was a simple, passive life, he often thought, more suited to Mary Cassatt than to High Renaissance. Yet, he saw no Messenger and sensed an unfamiliar energy in her dreamscape, as though a long-buried earthquake had suddenly been reactivated. She was in love.
He saw his face in her mind’s mirror and a rush of pleasure accompanied his horror; it was not only his face he saw, but his body dressed as an Italian workman. She had recognized him, if only subliminally, and now had a body to desire. He felt her arms encircle him, pressing him into her, and for a moment he savored the pleasure of warming flesh. He need only incorporate tomorrow, for she would be there looking for him in the deserted hallways, and he could have her. He could taste her lips on his and feel an absent heartbeat pounding in his ears. So unbelievably real.
The weariness of five hundred years evaporated. He was now a young man filled with enthusiasm and optimism, brimming with passion for a woman who felt the same for him. Nothing else mattered. Blind no more to emotion, he could see only his passion. He languished in her mind’s bower redolent with the fragrances of a Bianca’s garden. Here lay the truth of her love, not for Alby, but for him.
Breathless, he mounted Credo and spurred him to a gallop, racing away from the Siren’s song that called him back. If he tarried longer, he knew, she would pine again for an unfulfilled love. Yet, he could not contain his joy.
Through the sunlit heavens they raced, mounting the clouds, jumping from one thunderhead to another, with both happiness and alarm, as one drunk, his head and his heart reeling in a full-on struggle—passion wanting to suppress reason, and serenity battling with excitement. Something inside him felt free. He had thrown off sadness like an old worn coat. Morning had broken for him—an eternity of mornings would not be enough to reflect his love.
Without warning, Credo shied and tumbled into the storm cloud. Raphael recovered his balance as Credo recovered his footing, and the two of them watched with wonder as a green, yellow, red, and blue round tip of something turned into a huge round ball before their eyes. “It’s a balloon, Credo!” Raphael said as the ropes that held a straw basket became visible.
A man waved to them from inside and shouted, “Hall-o!! Sorry if I startled you.”
Credo was curious now, and trotted near the hovering contraption to taste the straw. It wasn’t good, but he traveled along side the basket as it slowly glided about, zigzagging in the cool morning air. “Who are you?” Raphael asked.
“Verne’s the name. Jules Verne,” the man said, tipping his hat. “And you must be the Guardian I’ve been hearing so much about. Raphael Redcloak, right?”
Amiable as always, Raphael gave him a nod of acknowledgment. “It seems we both like to travel with the clouds. I’ve heard much about you too. It’s odd we’ve never met before.”
“Not so odd. I’ve been traveling the universe, my good man. Something I could only do with pen and paper when I was earthbound. How liberating death was for me! Always hankered to know what was on the far side of the moon. Now I know. The universe is full of fascinating things. Why, I’ve actually seen the dinosaurs I wrote about, evolving on a planet as blue as the earth.”
“Can we visit?” Raphael said. Verne might have the solution to his problem.
“Certainly! Come to tea at three at the Writer’s Hostel.” There was a blast of hot air, and the great ball ascended quickly and disappeared in the mist.
He would ask Verne to take him along on his next journey into space, and leave all his troubles behind. He would paint other worlds like he painted other times on earth. It seemed the perfect solution when he explained it.
“Running away..hmmm. You could change your name to Raphael Gale, but what of the people you leave behind?” Verne said. The two of them were on a wide veranda, sitting at a white wicker table, resplendent with gardenias, china teacups, and stacks of chocolate and nut muffins.
“I’d leave them alone, and let Time make them forget.”
Verne gave him a skeptical look. “There are things people can’t forget. Like love, or a dear child called to heaven. Unless…there are chemists' concoctions one can administer that assists in these matters, but, dare I remind you, Sir, that it is not only they who must forget? What about you? How long before you regret your choice, and return to plague them?”
Raphael put his teacup down gently. “I see what you mean. I'm the problem.” He looked at the tea leaves and thought of Charles. He must go to him, unpleasant as it might be, if he would know the future.
“We artists cannot to be capricious with the lives of the living," Verne continued, "we do enough damage when we’re alive. All the people we hurt, the lives we influence even when we’re dead. People see and read, and hear what we create…I saw Mary Shelly earlier this afternoon. She told me that she and Stoker…”
The mention of the name caught Raphael by surprise. “Bram Stoker? You know him?”
“Yes, quite well. He’s a member of my club. Oh, but you’re Italian. You’re not familiar with English customs. The English take literature and government as seriously as the Italians take art and opera, so naturally we who wrote of the fantastic have to have a place to discuss it. It’s the only civilized form of entertainment for the well-born even here, unless you count lawn games I suppose.
“Are Guardians welcome at your club? I’ve been meaning to talk to Stoker for a while now.”
Verne straightened his shoulders, and put his chin on his fist. “I'd have to run it by the membership. Stoker would probably say yes to you—that
business with Simms and all that. He saw the Cache of the Damned at the Tate. Albion Rector’s the most famous protégé the art world has known since Michelangelo taught you what you know. What a welcome he’ll get when it’s his time.”
Raphael chuckled to himself at the mention of the old rumor Michelangelo spread about his tutelage of the young Raphael when he was in Rome. “Yes, there are some things people did not forget easily," he admitted. “What did Shelly tell you?”
“That the modern world is appalling. She writes a profound story about a man who plays God and abandons his creature, warning the world of the dangers of scientific hubris, and a hundred and some years later the creature turns up as Herman Munster and a children’s costume for Halloween. If that isn’t proof we do harm when we seek to do good, I ask you, what is?”
“It isn’t her fault.” Raphael said.
“Never said it was. It’s just that we never know what's going to be made of our creations. Characters, painting, poems…they’re our monsters the same as Dr. Frankenstein’s.”
“Stoker’s alright now? Really happy, I mean,” Raphael said.
“Of course. So's Shelly. As two of Death’s Messengers who wouldn’t be happy given their genre, they're damn good Messengers too. Me? I haven’t the time. Shelly contemplates writing again. Stoker says his mission is truth. Can't fathom where he got that idea.” Verne passed his teacup to Raphael and pointed inside to the tea leaves in the bottom. "He'd be better off reading these," he said.
“If he seeks truth, then why does Stoker serve Death?
“A fool could guess that. Sorry. Any writer could guess that. All romantic, fantastic, and Gothic writers owe a debt to Death.” Verne filled the kettle with water again and pondered his selections. It was time for mint, he decided.
Odd that Death had not mentioned he'd taken on Stoker as a full-time Messenger. Did his Dark Friend have problems of his own, perhaps? He sometimes seemed as weary of his task as mortal men were of their labors.
Two cups of tea and two muffins later, Raphael took his leave. The information Verne had given him, like puzzle pieces, had given him an idea for a picture of the future. He need only complete the outline before applying the paint.
The Sacrifice
“Is it too late?” Raphael demanded to know. “Have I betrayed Albion Rector?”
Charles smiled to himself as the tall and virile man in the flame colored cape sat pensively in a Roman chair before him. His plan had worked brilliantly. The ambitious Guardian had overreached. Unprepared for the temptations of the flesh, he'd come crawling back, begging for the comfort of certitude. “Not you, my friend. The woman has betrayed him. Not wholly unprecedented.”
“But not completely,” Raphael protested.
“She dreams of a man not her husband. That’s the way it starts. It’s the first step.”
“I’m just a harmless fantasy.” Even he heard the bitterness in his voice.
“A fantasy she will not forget, unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you really do abandon Rector. She will look for you in every picture he paints, and will see your handiwork eventually, for eventually she will know you as the image in the mirror. There is nothing more relentless than a woman in love.” Gleefully, Charles put a hand on Raphael’s shoulder, feigning friendship. He now held Raphael’s future in his hands, as the Guardian had surrendered to humanity's desperation.
Raphael stood up, and let his cape fall, exposing his invigorated body, now in the full flower of manhood, no longer stooped with uselessness, no longer content with spiritual existence. He wanted life, life with a woman who desired him, and he was agony. Raphael paced the carpet leaving blood red paths through the blue field, gored by the horns of his dilemma.
“I promised him I would never abandon him,” Raphael said.
Charles returned to his work table and his latest project, restoring gold leaf on a illumination. “What is Rector to you anyway? Just another artist, but so is everyman today. People think of their lives as blank canvasses on which to create images of themselves rather than as actors in a play already written. Instead of learning their lines, they engage in improvisations. It’s no wonder their communications are incomprehensible. They chatter, text, and twitter incessantly and say nothing of importance, yet believe they are superior to the playwright.” He glanced up from his work. Raphael had stopped his pacing and was looking at a manuscript Charles had finished and left unrolled, and anchored at the corners.
“Albion rector is not just an ordinary man seeking fame and fortune by painting pretty pictures to decorate the walls of rich matrons. He is painter of Truth. A mission I inspired to vindicate the victims of destruction. If I abandon him, he will go mad for he has seen the degradation of innocents, and there is nothing more evil than that. A mortal sees hell, and is never the same. Francesca Grasinski taught me that.” Raphael’s voice trailed off as he perused the parchment that lay before him. “Who’s life is this,” he asked, skimming the paragraphs for a name.
Charles hastily left his desk. He rolled up the scroll, placed it in a canister and shelved it. “One yet unborn, Guardian. Pay it no mind.”
“I came to you for advice, Charles.”
“You came to know the future of the woman you love. Don’t deny it. You’re searching for a way to have what you want, and for Rector to have what he wants now that he has fame. Does he want her as ardently as he wanted fame, you ask? More to the point, does he need her?”
“Well?”
“It’s the wrong question. The right one is, who needs him? I can think of two young people off the top of my head. There’s no need to gaze into a crystal ball to know children need both their parents.”
“If not Bianca, is there another whom I can love?”
Charles understood. Maddie was a woman, not the woman. Raphael was on fire with a long-forgotten lust, and Charles mentally congratulated himself. Raphael’s excursion into the flesh had hooked him like a trout. “Why of course, dear friend. There are several who would worship at the feet of a handsome young painter. Not all idols in modern times are singers and dancers.”
Raphael smiled to himself, part of him already succumbed to reverie. “But, the Rector’s marriage could survive an affair, a brief encounter with a workman that no one need discover?”
“Most definitely. Most assuredly,” Charles said.
****
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Fra Angelico said, giving his guest a courteous bow. Death seated himself in of Angelico’s few comfortable chairs and crooked a skeletal finger to motion the cleric to join him near the table. Angelico, put down his brush and drew near.
“It’s our mutual friend, Father. Raphael’s incorporated. Maddie spoke with him, not knowing it was her mirror mirage.”
“Oh, I see. We've taken to calling her by her short name.” Angelico said. “How long were they together?”
“Long enough for him to enjoy being close to her and to hear the sweetness of her voice.”
“I see the hand of Fate in this.” Angelico said.
“Time is not blameless either," Death said. "It’s said she’s visited Charles regularly these past three years. And for what purpose would she be in his company other than to hatch plots?”
Angelico had dismissed the gossip. “They were married. It isn't unusual for those once in love to fan the flames of memory every millennium.” He was more interested in Raphael’s possible fall from grace than in the possible reconciliation between the arrogant Fate and feckless Time. “Where is Raphael now?”
“I saw him ride into the Spirit World under a blood moon two nights ago and have not seen him since. I thought maybe he was here. He courts your counsel.”
Angelico eyed Death suspiciously. “How do you know of his visit with Maddie if he did not tell you?”
“I follow births and deaths of mortal bodies for a living, when there is no birth or death but a body nonetheless, I know a spirit has incor
porated. I went to investigate and saw Raphael in Manstein’s dismal palace dressed as a common laborer.”
“He didn’t see you? I find that hard to believe…” Angelico said.
“His eyes were occupied with Maddie Rector.”
“What ruse did he concoct?”
“A valid one,” Death said.
“Beethoven’s symphony, of course. Raphael’s been waiting for an opportunity to have it discovered.”
“His is an artful scheme. Madison will have Alby alert the Baron of his forged paintings, and the Baron will find the score. He’ll make sure it is played exactly as Ludwig wrote it to authenticate it. He won’t be duped again."
“And Rector will gather more laurels. Raphael has acquired deep insight into character making him more powerful than he knows.”
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