Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales (28 page)

Relieved as he was of both burdens—that of the painting and of the request for more money—Girder’s heart finally slowed enough for his blood to cool. It was only then he wondered if he had been terrified into blindness, for he realized the walls in the sitting room around him were empty of everything but hooks.

“What’s happened to the paintings?”

Rasp’s gash opened, but instead of words it emitted a violent cough. Nadir appeared instantly, brandishing a handkerchief he had produced from some hidden pocket, and covered Rasp’s mouth. Rasp’s head and throat heaved, body motionless, and filled the handkerchief with heavy sputum. Girder averted his eyes, but not before he noticed something red seep through, and in his shock mistakenly thought he saw other colors, too. Nadir made the mess vanish into his pocket. Rasp’s head hung low when he was done, panting and wheezing. Girder shifted back to his good leg. His bad ached.

“Are you okay?”

“Don’t—you needn’t worry about me. I’m fine.” Rasp’s speech was broken, the pale flesh around his mouth wet. “But this brings to mind something I thought I might propose. I wasn’t sure I would until I saw this latest work of yours . . . and saw the sorry state of its creator. You look barely able to walk.” Girder winced. “For a short time, I think it might be best if you stayed here on the estate to work.”

The surprise was not Girder’s alone. Nadir’s entire reaction crossed his face in an instant. He reacted sharply.

“No.”

For whom was the word meant? Girder or Rasp? The painter’s crooked leg throbbed. Rasp did not look pleased.

“Ignore him, Mr. Schill. This is an arrangement that can only work to our mutual benefit. You will be freed from the burdens that distract you from your work, and I will be able to watch and help guide you. Of course, you would get a stipend for this, regardless of the amount or quality of work produced.”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I feel comfortable—”

“Nonsense. I am not trying to
buy
you.” The laugh was unnatural, the sound only an approximation. “Think of it as an artistic retreat. Spend a few weeks here and see what you produce without other worldly concerns. In truth, I’m not certain I can wait another month for a new piece of work, regardless of how much I enjoy this one.”

“But a month . . . most of my work takes longer.”

“I have plenty of artwork here, enough to sate me if necessary, but nothing so pure as yours, I fear. No, you’ll have to concentrate on the job at hand, and the only way to do it is to strip you of your earthly concerns. See what you can accomplish for me.”

Nadir glared. Those eyes barraged Girder, searing into him. That alone was reason to decline. But Girder thought of the cold winter knocking, one foot already through his apartment door. He thought of the empty shelves, and his throbbing leg. Still unconvinced, he thought of his father’s jeers.

“I suppose a few weeks couldn’t hurt.”

“Splendid,” Rasp said. Nadir’s stare made it obvious winter had already arrived.

Nadir’s demeanor was unchanged the next day. He helped Girder bring his bags and supplies into the house, but did not speak. Instead, Rasp did the speaking from his chair parked in the doorway, out of the sun.

“Whatever you need, Mr. Schill, to make your stay pleasant, please let Nadir know.”

Girder’s room was large and faced south to maximize working daylight. A king-size bed, a small chaise-longue, a fireplace. The large window overlooked the winter garden; the deep greens vibrant, orange flowers like starbursts. Girder couldn’t imagine a better-suited workplace. As promised, there were no distractions in the room; no telephone or radio. The walls were as bare as the sitting room’s. Which Girder found odd, considering.

Rasp visited only once. Nadir wheeled him in as Girder was finishing the setup of his workspace.

“Should you feel hungry later, the kitchen is to your left at the end of the hall. It’s open to you at any time.”

“What time should I be down for dinner?”

Rasp’s dark lips curled, quivered. “Not today, I’m afraid. I’ve made other arrangements. Besides, watching me eat is not something most people would relish. Wouldn’t you agree, Nadir?” The tall assistant’s face twitched.

“Maybe next time?”

Girder was ashamed of the desperate tone to his voice. Rasp’s strange breathing sounded like a giggle.

“Perhaps.”

Amply supplied with paint, Girder faced the empty stare of the blank canvas. He sighed. The first brush stroke was the hardest. He did not plot nor plan. Instead, he dredged—pain and frustration . . . He moved his mind into his rotted leg, visualized the nerve endings sparking in the darkness, waited for it all to coalesce. He almost touched the brush to the canvas, but knew the simplest stroke locked out an infinite number of others. He preferred the vast nothingness where it was safe, warm. Protective. A single mark could not be undone. Potential hemorrhaged. He willed the images to come from beneath and feed him. He closed his eyes and waited. Waited. They would come. They always came. He simply had to have faith.

A deep familiar voice echoed in the hall outside the room, and Girder’s blood chilled. It couldn’t be. Not him. Every inch of skin constricted, trying to shrink Girder from existence. How had he been discovered? All the resolve Girder had built up wavered.

When the inevitable knock arrived, Girder’s hesitated. He did not want to face what was beyond. The knock returned, insistent, and he realized there was no escape. Never from him. Girder opened the door and found the two men he least wanted to see: the tall hawkish Nadir, triumphant, a stack of paintings under his thin arm; and the viper-faced Mr. Raymond, whose eyes were spitting above his plaster smile.

“Hello, Girder.” The voice tight, his anger barely suppressed. Or was it pleading? Mocking? Was there some plan Raymond had colluded with Nadir to implement? Girder was tired, unable to think straight. Perhaps he was wrong about everything. And yet there Mr. Raymond was, weeks after Girder had last been to the Overground. A haunting of his past betrayal made flesh. One of his many hauntings.

Nadir looked derisive. “I can see you two have a lot to discuss. Thank you for the delivery, Mr. Raymond. Mr. Schill, if you could show him out when you’re done?”

Nadir stepped back, absorbed into shadows. Girder fumbled for words as Raymond stared.

“Um . . . I suppose you’re wondering . . .”

Raymond’s hand struck out and snatched Girder’s wrist before he could escape. The gallerist squeezed tight and spoke, his voice a seething whisper.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’d better get out of here.”

“I’m just doing—”

“I don’t care what Rasp has you doing. I don’t normally care to be involved in this sort of thing at all—life’s too short to mourn a loss—but this isn’t right. Selling to him is one thing, but this . . . this place
smells
like a nest of something, though I can’t say what. You should leave.”

Girder wrested his arm free.

“I
have
to stay,” he said, rubbing his wrist. “But it’s not for long. All I’m doing is painting a few pieces and then I’m going home. I’ll probably have more for you to hang at the Overground in a month or two.”

“You know that . . . person? That Nadir fellow? He doesn’t look at all familiar to you, does he? No, he probably wouldn’t. But I know him well, even if he doesn’t remember me. I tried to help him too once. Now look at him.”

“What are you—”

“Look at him, Girder. He’s used up. A junkie. You’ll be too. If you’re lucky.”

“I appreciate the concern, Mr. Raymond, but—but I think I can decide on my own what’s best for me. You—you aren’t my . . .”

Girder trailed off. Raymond’s eyes had fallen back into half-slits, as though he had crawled back into shed skin. His old carefree face then returned, like a well-worn accessory.

“Sure. That’s fine. If you manage to paint something else, dear, be sure to look me up. It was a pleasure working with you.” He extended his hand and they shook, then Mr. Raymond wrapped his scarf around his long throat.

“Don’t worry. I can show myself out.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I have something,” Girder said as Mr. Raymond walked down the hall, but the gallerist only offered back a cursory wave, not bothering to turn.

Nadir appeared a moment later, stepping into Girder’s room without invitation. Frowning dark cuffs creeping away from his wringing hands.

“Why didn’t you leave with him?”

“I know you don’t want me here, but I need the money Mr. Rasp is offering.”

Nadir’s expression was full of disgust. He shook his head.

“Everybody always needs something.” Nadir casually looked over at Girder’s easel and the blank canvas that sat on it, and his face changed.

“What is it?” Girder asked, but Nadir wouldn’t stay. He simply looked wide-eyed at Girder, then left, fleeing out the room on spindle legs. Girder closed the door behind him, then to be safe he double-checked the locks.

He could not return to work. His leg throbbed incessantly. Everything was in tatters. But why? For money? Was nearly starving a good enough excuse? He hobbled to the window and peered down at the winter garden. Night had steadily crept in, turning small bushes into shadows, the trees into silhouettes with lifeless branches bent downward in defeat. Girder sighed, finally turned away and saw the blank canvas in the dim room. He had nothing with which to fill it. He had come to the estate hoping his problems would vanish; instead, the isolation amplified them.

It was just after midnight when Girder managed to put brush to canvas. He slipped into an autonomous state, the brush becoming a conduit for his catharsis. He dug deep into the places he’d been twisted by what had been done to him, by what he in turn had done to others. Colors swirled in a tempest of pain behind his eyes. He simply tapped and bled them onto canvas. Each painting was in the end the same: a formless portrait of his father. Girder pressed until exhaustion crept into his senses. It was only then he lay, aching, on the bed. Eyes strained, dry, and swollen, he closed his lids and saw those swirling colors start to fade. But the sound did not. The quiet sound of something wet being dragged.

It was louder in the hallway. Echoes bounced around corridors barely lit by the rising sun. At the other end of the hall was a shut door, and as the bare-footed Girder approached it the noise intensified. He noticed the air was tinged with a sour metallic odor, and he stared at the door to reassure himself it wasn’t vibrating. As he reached out to touch it, the sound, all sound, sputtered then stopped. And the world inverted. There was a quiet noise, then the squeak of rubber. Girder saw the beam of light at his feet broken by shadow, and when he looked up Nadir had emerged from the room and stood before him. Sound rushed back with a gasp.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, I just . . .” Girder glanced around the shoulder of the tall man and saw Rasp’s back as he sat in his chair, a dark wide canvas of indigo. Paintings surrounding him, paintings piled on the floor and against the wall. He appeared to be sweating, his pale skin greasy and rippling like gelatin in disturbance. Nadir’s dark shadow obscured the sight.

“Get out of here,” the assistant warned. Large hands pounded Girder’s chest like two hammers. Girder’s mind grappled with what it saw, but it was only after the door had closed that the sight fully developed. Nadir’s hands were slick and stained like a bruise, purplish-yellow and red. Girder wondered what had they done.

Mid-afternoon appeared before Rasp did. Girder had hidden all morning—his confusion adding streaks through the colors swirling in his mind’s eye—but eventually gnawing hunger overtook him, and he turned to the stocked kitchen. He made a turkey and swiss sandwich as quickly as he could, anxious to return to his hiding. But the warning squeal of rubber came too late. He looked over his shoulder to see the overweight sweating Rasp and the hovering Nadir in the doorway, both watching him intently. The eyes of the latter narrowed. Rasp’s voice was unusually clear.

“I apologize for Nadir’s behavior this morning. It was . . .
harsh
.”

“It was my fault. I shouldn’t have intruded like that.”

“No harm done,” Rasp dismissed, and shook his head. Did his pale skin vibrate too long? “How is the work coming? I trust everything is to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, of course. I mean, the work is going well. I think.”

“Good, good. I can’t wait to see what you have for me.” Rasp flashed his blackened gums. Girder shifted uneasily on his weak leg. He rubbed the damaged muscles, the dull sensation giving him comfort.

“I think you’ll be pleased when it’s done.”

“I’m sure I will be. I’m a man of tremendous appetites, as you can tell, and there’s little I love more than a fine piece of art. Wouldn’t you say so, Nadir?”

Nadir ignored the question.

“Did you know we had a visit yesterday from Mr. Raymond, the dealer from the Overground? Girder and he had a good talk.”

“Oh, did they? What did Mr. Raymond have to say to you, my boy? Did he try and steal your talent back from me?”

Discomfited, Girder stumbled.

“No, not really. He seemed fine.”

“You can never tell with a
snake
like that one,” Rasp chortled, round head bobbing into folds of deep indigo. “He’s always trying to slide in where he isn’t wanted, isn’t he, Nadir?”

Rasp’s smile did not make it to the eyes. He wore a pair of gloves that obscured stained flesh.

Rasp continued. “Ah, well. It looks as though we’re disturbing you. I merely wanted to let you know that as I feel a smidgen under the weather I may not be able to visit you as often as I’d wished to track your progress. Rest assured, though, Nadir will be here to help you with whatever you may require. I expect only the best from you, Mr. Schill. You are certainly capable of it.” He swallowed, small lumps travelling down his throat like swallowed eggs. “Nadir, please take me away so our guest might continue working.”