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Authors: Kevin E Meredith
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you’re blocking my
light.’”
Journeyman looked up. “You’re blocking it too.”
“Like a nature person?”
“What?”
“Herk, you said she was like a nature person, like a girl of the
earth?”
“No,” Journeyman said. “Oh no. You go on to the inn, maybe she’ll
be there.”
“Then I’ll be on my way,” Arrowroot said. “Thank you, you’ve been
most helpful.”
Journeyman pointed a brush at Arrowroot, his wavering hand
tracing small circles in the late afternoon air. “You tell her to come
back and claim her picture. When I’m done.”
“I’ll tell her that.”
By any objective measure, today’s painting by Hercules Journeyman
was dreadful, Arrowroot knew. No matter how well the ex-mayor rendered
her face, it would be a face in the midst of disaster, a Mona Lisa
cast into a green blob of mountain, hovering over a set of white
geometric shapes vaguely comparable to a wedding gown. Or a lampshade.
And yet, as a statement of one human being’s insistence on
happiness against the overwhelming odds of diabetes and old age and a
gusting April wind, it was a masterpiece in the museum of everyone’s
blind, desperate pursuit of a little more joy.
Arrowroot, thinking that a meeting might finally be at hand,
consulted his phone. She’d texted again:
So you accept everything I said?
Do you?
Specifically: Do you accept that you ruined everything?
Just tell me that. Just admit that
Hello?
Arrowroot took a deep breath. The Promenade was emptying, the sun
just touching the top of Steeple Mountain, and the first gust of cold
evening air washed over his lanky frame. Winter would be back in less
than an hour. He tapped out:
I can talk with you in person someday about it, maybe
Still on the Promenade, still looking for information
There would be another reckoning. He was ready to confess. But
not now.
The Eden Hotel loomed before Arrowroot, 100 yards away and almost
blindingly bright in the slanted sun. He detoured briefly to the
railing beside the Mittelkopp, leaning over and watching the water
roil beneath him. Then he looked back, at where he had come from.
Journeyman was still there, alone, dabbing away under the vanishing
light. Surely a family member would turn up soon to take him back
home. He couldn’t roll himself and carry his canvas and palette and
brushes and tubes alone.
Oblivious to such concerns, Journeyman kept painting, making
careful marks toward the top of the canvas, where he’d put the wedding
girl’s face. Should I go back and take a look? he asked himself.
Journeyman’s depiction would be at best a random approximation of a
human face, of course, but what if she had giant eyebrows, or a
prominent nose? Those details might make it into Journeyman’s
portrait, and they could be important.
Arrowroot was about to return to the old man’s impromptu studio
when family showed up, a couple in their 30’s, and their child,
probably the ex-mayor’s great granddaughter. Journeyman handed over
his supplies abruptly, clearly frustrated that the day had ended, and
the woman took them gently while the man picked up the canvas and
easel, and then they moved like glaciers as Journeyman slowly
propelled himself away from the river. He refused to be pushed, so the
child, a 10-year-old girl with nothing else to do, danced just ahead
of him, her hips swiveling in a way that was neither ladylike nor
particularly respectful. Journeyman, his voice weak and his hands busy
with the wheels of his conveyance, could only bark and shake his head
disapprovingly, which just made the girl dance more buoyantly.
“You’re a lucky man, Hercules Journeyman,” Arrowroot said under
his breath. “Enjoy it to the last, you fool.”
The approaching night and the cold were driving everyone off the
Promenade now, the shop keepers and restauranteurs pulling in their
displays, cranking down their umbrellas.
Arrowroot, blaming the cooling, dry air for the tears in his
eyes, turned and
light.’”
Journeyman looked up. “You’re blocking it too.”
“Like a nature person?”
“What?”
“Herk, you said she was like a nature person, like a girl of the
earth?”
“No,” Journeyman said. “Oh no. You go on to the inn, maybe she’ll
be there.”
“Then I’ll be on my way,” Arrowroot said. “Thank you, you’ve been
most helpful.”
Journeyman pointed a brush at Arrowroot, his wavering hand
tracing small circles in the late afternoon air. “You tell her to come
back and claim her picture. When I’m done.”
“I’ll tell her that.”
By any objective measure, today’s painting by Hercules Journeyman
was dreadful, Arrowroot knew. No matter how well the ex-mayor rendered
her face, it would be a face in the midst of disaster, a Mona Lisa
cast into a green blob of mountain, hovering over a set of white
geometric shapes vaguely comparable to a wedding gown. Or a lampshade.
And yet, as a statement of one human being’s insistence on
happiness against the overwhelming odds of diabetes and old age and a
gusting April wind, it was a masterpiece in the museum of everyone’s
blind, desperate pursuit of a little more joy.
Arrowroot, thinking that a meeting might finally be at hand,
consulted his phone. She’d texted again:
So you accept everything I said?
Do you?
Specifically: Do you accept that you ruined everything?
Just tell me that. Just admit that
Hello?
Arrowroot took a deep breath. The Promenade was emptying, the sun
just touching the top of Steeple Mountain, and the first gust of cold
evening air washed over his lanky frame. Winter would be back in less
than an hour. He tapped out:
I can talk with you in person someday about it, maybe
Still on the Promenade, still looking for information
There would be another reckoning. He was ready to confess. But
not now.
The Eden Hotel loomed before Arrowroot, 100 yards away and almost
blindingly bright in the slanted sun. He detoured briefly to the
railing beside the Mittelkopp, leaning over and watching the water
roil beneath him. Then he looked back, at where he had come from.
Journeyman was still there, alone, dabbing away under the vanishing
light. Surely a family member would turn up soon to take him back
home. He couldn’t roll himself and carry his canvas and palette and
brushes and tubes alone.
Oblivious to such concerns, Journeyman kept painting, making
careful marks toward the top of the canvas, where he’d put the wedding
girl’s face. Should I go back and take a look? he asked himself.
Journeyman’s depiction would be at best a random approximation of a
human face, of course, but what if she had giant eyebrows, or a
prominent nose? Those details might make it into Journeyman’s
portrait, and they could be important.
Arrowroot was about to return to the old man’s impromptu studio
when family showed up, a couple in their 30’s, and their child,
probably the ex-mayor’s great granddaughter. Journeyman handed over
his supplies abruptly, clearly frustrated that the day had ended, and
the woman took them gently while the man picked up the canvas and
easel, and then they moved like glaciers as Journeyman slowly
propelled himself away from the river. He refused to be pushed, so the
child, a 10-year-old girl with nothing else to do, danced just ahead
of him, her hips swiveling in a way that was neither ladylike nor
particularly respectful. Journeyman, his voice weak and his hands busy
with the wheels of his conveyance, could only bark and shake his head
disapprovingly, which just made the girl dance more buoyantly.
“You’re a lucky man, Hercules Journeyman,” Arrowroot said under
his breath. “Enjoy it to the last, you fool.”
The approaching night and the cold were driving everyone off the
Promenade now, the shop keepers and restauranteurs pulling in their
displays, cranking down their umbrellas.
Arrowroot, blaming the cooling, dry air for the tears in his
eyes, turned and
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