Burnt Black Suns: A Collection of Weird Tales (29 page)

Rasp was wheeled into the dark, the remaining funk that surrounded him dissipating slowly. Girder took the sandwich he’d been making and threw it away. He was no longer hungry.

Time passed. Girder spent the time sequestered, leaving the room rarely. He lived inside a world of color, dreaming it, breathing it, at times unsure what was real. The only interruption was Nadir’s begrudging apologies for Rasp. “He doesn’t feel well.” And, “It’s a side-effect of his incapacitation.” It didn’t concern Girder. Little of the material world did. As long as supplies were by his door each morning, his fever dream would not subside. Should strange wet noises have persisted beyond his door, he was too busy or too tired to notice.

Never had he worked so quickly, with so much complexity. If Rasp wanted emotion, he would get it. Every sting felt, every hurt suffered, raw materials as essential as paint. Girder’s father’s laugh, the pain from his ruined leg, the glare of Nadir, the doubt of Raymond, all formed a cultured mosaic he alone could see. His scoured soul, his scars mapped in brushstrokes. Cramped fingers became his ultimate medium—the pain bringing tears to his color-blinded eyes.

And two weeks later and twenty pounds lighter, in a spent daze he took in the finished work and smiled.

The smile remained as he sat in the kitchen. Coffee brewed inside while outside the snowstorm did the same. A reticent howl echoed through the estate. Girder felt serene yet looked worse—thickly bearded, eyes bloodshot and dark—but the smile was genuine. For the first in some time, he was at peace. His happiness was the only reason that explained Nadir’s noiseless appearance in the kitchen’s doorway.

“The painting is done?”

Girder beamed. Nodded.

“Then Mr. Rasp will be pleased.”

But once Nadir slipped away to tell Rasp, the realization finally penetrated the fog of denial. Rasp wanted it all, wanted every ounce of Girder, and the artist had been more than willing to dredge it up. But now that the time had come to hand it over—to hand
everything
over . . .

In truth, Girder was spent; there was not another opus in him. He had been burned clean of anger and resentment, welling colors drained from his soul. All of it, all his father’s monstrosity, was contained within the painting, all the suffering trapped in the strokes of the brush. The painting hummed with power, and Girder did not want to relinquish it. Not to anyone, even Rasp. Yet that was who had housed him, who had fed him. . . . He owed Rasp a great deal, but the price was too high.

An hour later, Nadir delivered Rasp to Girder’s room. The porcine man had changed somehow. Both smaller and larger at once. Girder’s yellow face alone was gaunt, though it lit when in the presence of the painting. “Absolutely marvelous,” Rasp said. “Nadir told me you were done, but I couldn’t have expected
this
.” Lips twitched, dark tongue passed over them nervously. “This is absolutely a masterpiece, Mr. Schill. A venerable masterpiece.”

Even Nadir seemed impressed; upon seeing it his face registered genuine, if fleeting, emotion. Perhaps awe? The reaction was both reassuring and disappointing.

“I don’t think I could have done it without your hospitality Mr. Rasp. You’re generosity may have literally saved me.”

“Think nothing of it. Seeing the results just proves I made the right decision.” A glance at Nadir; the servant’s eyes were elsewhere. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mr. Schill. I consider this whole endeavor money well spent.”

Girder silently cursed. Rasp clearly wanted the painting. Which meant Girder had to gather some nerve.

“Um . . . about that, Mr. Rasp—”

Rasp’s head ceased bobbing.

“Now, now. We had a deal, did we not?”

“It’s just that—”

“Did I not keep up my end of the bargain, Mr. Girder? I’ve provided for you all that you’ve asked, but I didn’t do so for your charity.”

“Perhaps I could paint you another one? Perhaps something else?”

“No, Mr. Schill. I think the time for that has passed. I must insist. I couldn’t possibly let this specific painting escape me.”

Girder stammered. Rasp’s words cut him short.

“Nadir, come.” Rasp whispered into his servant’s ear. The tall man smirked, nodded, then left the room. Rasp resumed speaking, albeit in a quieter voice.

“Mr. Schill. I don’t appreciate the situation you’ve placed me in, but I am a fair and reasonable man. I will give you double your normal rate—the rate which Mr. Raymond would charge me—for this painting. I do so, you understand, under duress, and only because I simply cannot wait to see if what you produce next is suitable. I suspect this painting will satiate me for some time—it’s so rich, so deep with power. But I think this may be the last time you and I can do business this way. I recommend that after we are done here you make arrangements to return immediately to your home.”

Nadir reappeared before Girder could find words to reply. He showed Rasp a checkbook but did not take his eyes from Girder.

“I want you to give him double, Nadir. Plus the stipend I promised. Then I want you to help him load his belongings into his car. He won’t be staying with us any longer.”

“But Mr. Rasp . . .” Girder couldn’t believe the sound of his own warbling voice—everything was falling to pieces. “The snowstorm . . . it’s not safe.”

Mr. Rasp considered this for a cold moment.

“Very well, Mr. Schill. You may stay an extra night. But tomorrow you must go. And, in the future, you ought to allow Mr. Raymond alone to handle your sales to any prospective buyers.”

Girder sat devastated on the bed of his borrowed room. Outside the window was the furious chaos of snow, and despite the fireplace’s radiating heat he remained both cold and empty. How had things devolved so quickly? His father’s voice echoed, reminding him that he destroyed everything good. Girder didn’t have to believe it to know it was true.

He washed face in the small
en suite
sink, then stared in the mirror at his sagging reflection. Girder was a fool. He had risked everything on a fantasy and a dream, neither of which had come true. There was so much road left ahead, and what did he do? He drove into the desert.

Without Mr. Rasp’s aid, what would become of Girder? Would he fade to nothing? Upset, the artist’s fingers twitched, craving the security of the brush, the expression of its bristles. But behind closed eyelids nothing waited. No points, no pricks, no colors shifting, swirling, dancing. Even clenched fists rubbing orbital bone made no difference. The visions did not return. He opened his eyes, watched the periphery of his vision crackle with energy as his sight settled. His father’s greatest scar had finally faded, and Girder knelt down on his working knee, terrified of what that might mean.

Consumed by listless melancholy, Girder did not immediately notice that the pungent, meaty odor had returned. He opened the door and took a step into the hallway, then stopped. There was nothing but darkness down the empty corridor.

No, not just darkness. The sound of something in the darkness. Something being dragged ever closer.

Girder’s vision grew hazy, and he shook his head before retreating. Then he pressed his full weight against his door to fortify the barrier. With his ear to the wood, he once again heard wet sounds and recalled the trail of fluid streaked across the hall. What it suggested was not something he was willing to think about, willing to face. The storm rattled windows and doors, but it was the walls that sounded as though they were being ripped apart.

He opened the door no more than a crack large enough to peer through, but all he saw was a thin slice of shadow. His breathing was turbulent, lungs aching, yet he was too panicked to do anything but stare into the dark. Everything beyond a few feet was lost in a thick unfocused fog. He had to concentrate to see through it, and when the murk parted he saw the dark shadow racing along the hall toward him. Girder withdrew from the door, terrified, almost falling over his crippled leg, and as he did so the wet noises of the house were transformed into those of Nadir’s bare footsteps.

Rasp’s servant held a large, familiar-looking canvas against his body, shielding it from Girder’s view. He rushed down the hall, oblivious to spying, toward Rasp’s door at the other end. Nadir struggled with the size of the painting, the encumbrance magnified by the presence of his ill-fitting pinstriped suit. The cuffs rode high as Nadir fussed to maintain his grip, and Girder saw that those dark blotches on Nadir’s wrists extended further along his arms. When he reached the end of the hall, Nadir lowered the painting and put his key in the door. Light spilled into the hallway, and Nadir picked up the painting, then disappeared into the room. The low humming buzz returned, lasting for almost two hours, while unsteady light slipped from the crack beneath Rasp’s door.

An idea occurred to Girder, one that didn’t fill him with pride for considering, but he knew he had been left with few options. When without warning the buzz abruptly ceased, Girder stood and slipped into his shoes. He peered once again through the crack in his door and saw Nadir emerge from the darkened room, sleeves rolled to his elbows. In his hands was the same large canvas he had carried earlier, and he lugged it back down the hallway, only now in a state of either thorough exhaustion or inebriation. He slowed only briefly as he neared Girder’s door and scowled in its direction, then continued without losing a step. Girder watched him round the corner at the end of the hall, vanishing into shadows filled with the storm’s white noise.

He had to discover where his paintings were being kept. Part of him tried to justify his quest with the knowledge that he would never be in the presence of the pieces again, so he deserved to see them one last time. But even as he crept behind Nadir he knew it was untrue. Girder could never abandon something that was so much a part of him. He might just as well be leaving behind his soul. Based merely on Rasp’s reaction earlier, there was no way the fat man would part with the painting now that he had it, so Girder would simply be forced to take it and hope for the best. The biggest difficulty would be getting it to the car in the storm, but he would find a way. He had to.

It did not take long for Girder to discover the hiding place. He had barely rounded the corner of the hallway when Nadir stepped empty-handed from a shadowed nook. There was no time to pivot on his crippled leg before Girder was seen, so he immediately did his best to affect an expression of confusion and exhaustion. It seemed to make Nadir more suspicious. The assistant rolled down his sleeves as he spoke.

“What are you doing up?”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d spend one last night looking around. I’m going to miss being here.”

Nadir narrowed his eyes.

“It’s probably better you go.”

“Better for whom?”

Girder tried not to blink, but he was outclassed by Nadir. It was like staring into the uncaring face of a reptile.

“Are you packed?” Nadir asked, finally breaking the quiet.

“Yes. Everything but my easel and artwork.”

“Go to your room now and get some sleep. Be ready to leave at nine,” he said, and waited until Girder left first. He followed Girder the entire way, waiting until he was back behind the closed bedroom door. Girder heard breathing outside the door for half an hour, waiting for Girder to fall asleep. Despite his best efforts, Girder almost did, which left him disoriented when awakened by the quiet sounds of Nadir abandoning his post and giving Girder the freedom to explore.

The long hallway was worse when empty, and Girder’s slow walk only increased his terror of being discovered. He stayed in the shadows as much as possible and kept his ears attuned to any noises that might betray he was being watched. When he finally turned the corner he stopped and checked back where he’d come from to ensure no one was there. He heard a faint knocking sound, as though the storm were intensifying. Then he turned back to the shadowed nook and the nearly invisible door hidden within.

It was made to be unnoticeable; its color, and the shadows, perpetually shielding it from ignorant eyes. The structure itself was incongruous, as though an afterthought. Perhaps it was an illusion of the slanted ceiling, but the hidden door’s corners appeared flush, and its knob sunk deep in the dark. Girder’s hand faltered. Behind him the knocking had faded, leaving only the static of the storming snow in the distance. He pulled the door carefully, but at first it didn’t move, as though being held shut from the inside. Then the resistance gave, and it swung open so suddenly Girder nearly fell.

In the dark he saw a stack of wood-framed canvases leaned against the wall, but it wasn’t until he discovered a small light switch that he realized how many were truly there. Numerous piles of canvases, a hundred or more, covered almost every inch of the room. Some were in piles on the floor, others were stacked against the wall a dozen deep. All were face down, as though to protect them. Girder had never been in the presence of so many paintings at once outside a museum, and after the shock dissipated, he wondered how many of them were his.

In the far corner, he spied a face-down painting whose shape struck him oddly familiar. Hadn’t he stretched a canvas like that in the past? He stepped forward and flipped the piece over, only to find himself puzzled. It couldn’t be right. He flipped over the painting’s neighbor, turning the canvas face up, and then flipped over the one beside that. He flipped all the paintings around him, but the result was the same: they were blank. All of them. Not painted over, but never having been painted on to begin with, as if they were all that remained of former paintings that no longer existed. They were empty; only a foul-smelling tallow remained, covering the canvases, sticking to his hands.

Girder paced inside his room, mourned over what he’d seen; so many paintings destroyed—and who knew how many of his own. If there was any consolation it was that he could not find anything shaped like his last painting, his masterpiece, among them. It had been spared, but he didn’t know for how long. He had to rescue it. There was no money in the world that meant more to him than that artwork. The painting held so much of him; its absence left him hollow. It needed to be retrieved.