Brunhild stopped trimming the beeswax candle to examine her hands. Multicolored blotches of paint remained. She raised a hand to her nose. There was a faint smell of egg and chalk. She smiled faintly and exhaled with longing eyes. The beautiful smell was fading.
It had been a month since she had been admitted into the third floor studio. Her life was once again repetitive housework.
Dinner was ready. She had set places for two. He sat at the head.
“Uncle Hadrian, I am deeply appreciative for your kind and loving hospitality. I admire your kindness to me after the death of my husband.”
“You are very welcome, Niece.”
“Could I ask why you no longer need me upstairs? I felt like my help in the studio made things much easier for you to focus on your wonderful talent. Have I done anything to offend you, Uncle?”
“No, child. You have done no such thing.” He smoothed his pristine robes. “I just need time to myself with my new commission. It’s a unique piece. Let’s focus on our own realms of responsibility for now.”
She pursed her lips and stared at her food. “As you say, Uncle.”
Two men came to pay the old master a visit. She could hear laughter and the scuffing of leather shoes on the floorboards above. As was their custom for morning visits, she prepared and delivered a tray of Sage water. She knocked quietly. Hadrian opened the door mid-sentence, “- experimenting with new art forms is all.
The man in the oversize floppy headdress nodded. The trim caught the morning light casting delicate gold patterns onto the ceiling. “They say the older you get the more stuck in your ways one becomes. You have proven them wrong, Hadrian. I am impressed.” They regarded a piece she could not see.
Brunhild entered the room and held out the tray of earthenware cups. The two visitors took a cup and drank. Hadrian did not. He stood between her and the painting. She bowed subserviently before turning to leave.
It was the shorter man’s turn to speak. He took a deep breath and tilted his head back while looking down his nose at them. “I can’t say that I am impressed; however, I do agree with Master Edmundus. This is an inspiring piece. It speaks to the heart of mankind. Though you must have caused a bit of a stir to be camped near someone’s farm.” The two guests laughed. The shorter man playfully hit Hadrian on the arm. Brunhild shut the door behind her.
She descended to the second floor quickly with three fingers of one hand on her forehead, her thumb on her cheekbone. She hadn’t seen it, but she was almost certain the two men were discussing the painting with the small cottage farm in the jubilant sun with the couple working the land. The painting she had finished almost a month ago. The corners of her open mouth curved upward. An excited giggle escaped from deep inside.
The next week a thin, pasty official came to the door with his hat in hand. His old fingers ruffled the plume he was studying in his hat. “I’m afraid that Master Hadrian has had an accident in the streets today.” Brunhild covered her mouth. He continued, “Unfortunately, he was hit by a horse and cart. He was taken to a local physician who pronounced him deceased upon arrival.” There was a silence as the man looked from his hat to the street. “My deepest sympathies.”
She clutched the tunic at her chest and slid off the door back inside. Hadrian was a great man and had shown her remarkable kindness. She sat in the nearest chair. Tears welled up in her eyes. She breathed heavily. She tried to blink the water out of her eyes but it kept coming.
She had continued living there in the meanwhile, in an empty, quiet shell. None of her actions meant anything anymore. She finally admitted to herself that her mourning had little to do with her late uncle’s passing. Images of her uncle’s limp body in the street had haunted her, but something bigger had broken inside. A careless horse and cart had killed her hopes.
Guilt pressed in on her for missing her own hopes more than the man. She watched her feet lead her to the second floor. She watched her hands retrieve a tankard and fill it. She felt hollow and vacant. She drank until there was only foam left in the mug. She filled it again. Her mind felt fuzzy, the stool moved under her causing her to sway. Something deep inside told her to stop. She drank half of another tankard before she knew what she had to do.
She knew that on the wooden easel upstairs there was a blank tablet, ready for the master’s hand. She had to show them. The stairs shook and wavered as she climbed to the studio.
She staggered to the preparation bench where the eggs and pigment were kept. Three eggs into her attempts she finally separated a yolk from the clear. She held the delicate yolk in her hand and punctured it too hard. Crimson dripped with the yolk into the pan. A clumsy pinch of pigment dried the mix so she grabbed another egg. Most of the egg including the shell fell into the pan. She beat the wet glob. The whole mass began to take on the color of potassium and cobalt, a bluish slime.
The intoxicated artist gobbed the color onto a large brush. Viscous mud and eggshell smeared the impeccable pallet. Then came glutinous greens, ropy yellows, and viscid browns. Streaks of sludge covered the once white board. The wooden board dripped with an indiscriminate rainbow mess of sticky mucus. The artisan plunged ahead. The world had to see.
The Earth had accelerated its spin. She grabbed the easel with both hands to steady it. Her mouth watered. A pint of stomach acid and beer sprayed the wooden rectangle. The easel toppled to the side and Brunhild hunched over staring at the multicolored floor. The room rocked and swayed until it twisted to come up and hit the side of her head. She lay on the floorboards, her flushed cheek and bloody mouth rested on her masterpiece.
Burning lungs slapped her awake. Where was she? It was dark except for the orange, vibrating light cast by aggressive flames. Smoke dominated the room. She scrambled to rise. Something large stuck to her face. She batted it away and slid to the bottom of the stairs.
There were loud voices in the street. She finally stood and shuffled to the front door and exited to join the crowd of upset men and women calling for buckets.
The next morning Hadrian’s brothers and members of the guild had gathered. They’re faces spoke of disbelief, worry, and anger.
“All of his work was burned! Everything! They’re all burned or blackened!”
“What will his commissioners say of the guild?”
“Master Cassius may be able to help.”
One of the guild masters took off at a sprint.
———-
Summer changed to fall. Fall gave way to winter. The townsfolk were sharing news that the guild had saved one of Hadrian’s finest pieces. Word had traveled that this work was the climax of his creative career. It was to be hung in the duke’s great hall. The duke was gracious enough to allow the city to display in the guild building before it was to be moved to its permanent home. Brunhild had to see it.
Upon her arrival she ascended the stone steps of the guildhall in reverence. She thought of her uncle. Once inside she slowed her pace to absorb everything around her. The magnificent structure was a shrine to the arts. Beautiful paintings hung on the walls. Ornate carvings lived in the wood that rimmed the top of the walls. Stained glass brought in color and light to the cavernous room
Then Brunhild froze. There it was, the peak of talent and accomplishment of a life of work. It hung in the exact center of the farthest wall. The elaborate, golden gilt frame shone in the daylight. Looking from afar she couldn’t tell what it was. The closer she came the more she realized the master had mixed color, texture, line, and shape in novel ways. It was not a copy of human life, but more a sort of representation of its chaos and rhythm.
She was close enough to touch it. She felt inspired by the daring breach of tradition to create something so unusual. Something in the painting caught her eye. She squinted in close and her suspicion proved true. It was a piece of eggshell. Her nose was inches from the tablet. She detected the faint scent of smoke and something else. There was no doubt. It was the distinct, unmistakable smell of vomit.
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