Highland Portrait (3 page)

Shawn was pulling his T-shirt over his head.  He did not mess his hair.  Not one strand had fallen from its place even with a T-shirt being pulled over it. Perhaps he
was
computer generated.  “Ok, tomorrow is good for me.  Do I need to bring anything special?  Props, clothes?  I have a larger sword if you’d like.”

“No, I have everything we’ll need,” she assured him.  He obviously was ready for anything.  She didn’t doubt that he had more modeling props than her and she had a lot.  She began turning off the lights and putting her pencils and charcoal back in their place.  She may have been a rather casual housekeeper, but her studio was as organized and orderly as an operating room. 

She ushered Shawn out, wanting to be alone with her thoughts and confusion about this commission.  She locked the door behind him, grabbed her sketches and went back to the dining room.

She looked out the dining room window.  There was Casper still under the tree, looking up at the squirrel.  She wondered how long he’d been there. He was a medium sized, long haired dog, somewhat like a retriever, but not.  Like a setter, but not.  A dog of mixed genealogy for sure, but sweet natured and always happy, especially when he was barking at something.

She thought about where Casper came from and what his first home might have been like before he came into her life.  Casper was a mystery, and his very existence puzzled her, but she had grown to love him and she was determined that he stay with her.  She wasn’t sure she could send him back anyway, but perhaps he would leave the same way he came.  She hoped not, but there was no way to control it, was there?

She opened the door and called for him.  He chuffed at the squirrel one more time and came trotting back into the house.  He headed straight for his food dish…which was empty.

“Sorry, Casper, let me get you some foodies.”  Casper sat by his dish and watched her go the refrigerator.  She mixed cooked rice, some chicken, some canned peas, and a small amount of dried dog food, a complex, extravagant meal for a dog, but one that she was happy to provide.  Casper deserved to eat like this because he’d come a long way to be her dog and she was going to make his stay a happy one. She watched as he ate with gusto.  He seemed like such a
normal
dog.  But her life seemed like a normal life, too.

She returned to the refrigerator and got herself a carton of yogurt, a few Oreo cookies and a diet soda, her excuse being she needed comfort food because she was very uncomfortable.  She sat at the dining room table and spread out the sketches, looking intently at each one.

Wrong.  Wrong.  Wrong
.  The voice again.  Stella felt an odd tingle and knew something was about to happen. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she knew it had to do with this painting, these sketches. 

Stella ate her yogurt slowly, staring at Shawn’s image.  He fit Kyla’s directive perfectly and she wasn’t surprised that the agent had sent him.  He was her ideal of what was wanted, the romantic figure, the handsome warrior. And why not?  It was Kyla’s job to find the artist that would best bring the book’s characters to life.  Physical beauty seemed to have so much importance over spirit and character for so many people.  Yes, it was shallow, but it paid well if you could deliver the goods and that was what Stella was doing – delivering the goods.  This was her job, after all, and she was in no position to be making moral judgments.  It meant a paycheck.  This was not a big deal, outside of the money.  It was a job, not a personal goal. 
A job
. If these people wanted a made-up beautiful man instead of the real one then that is what she would do.  They were paying her to provide their interpretation, not hers.

Stella thought about her truck and the life that was slowly leaking out of it. She thought about her painting at the gallery that was NOT going to be sold.  She thought about mortgage payments, credit cards and getting her nails done.  She thought about feeding herself and Casper and unexpected bills and surprises.  She thought about the huge expense of keeping her horse boarded.  None of that was going to happen unless she got some money in the bank pretty quick. 

So just DO IT, Stella!! 

She abruptly slammed her carton of yogurt on the table, grabbed the sketches and headed back to her studio.  Casper followed in her wake.

She turned on the bank of lights overhead.  It was already late afternoon, but she was getting ready for another all-nighter.  Casper curled up on his special overstuffed studio chair and went to sleep, his favorite place to be in spite of the smell.  Paints and turpentine were harsh scents that in no way came close to the smell of a squirrel or his mistress’ dirty clothes, but it made him happy because she was here and that was good enough.

Stella approached her canvas and stood looking at the primed, clean surface.  She felt the familiar tingle in her hands and face as she pulled out brushes and tubes of paint.  An empty canvas was a locked door and she held the key.  She knew what she wanted to be behind the door, but sometimes the canvas surprised her. 

She always approached life-size projects with some trepidation.  They were always so
untrustworthy. 
Stella knew her talent was special and that she could render an image identical to reality.  Sometimes, however, the canvas didn’t always do her bidding.  Sometimes the canvas was in control, not her.  She was always concerned the canvas would not deliver its promise and leave her disappointed. Or worse yet, that it would deliver more than she was ready for. This time she knew that no matter what she put on that canvas something extraordinary was going to happen.  She was afraid, but exhilarated.  She was ready.

Her work was the total sum of all her senses so she engaged all of them when painting. She lit a few sticks of heather and pine scented incense and placed them in a wooden holder, gently blowing on them. The incense released its richness and the smell of the Highlands floated gently through the air, creeping from wall to wall like fog.  The smoke touched her clothes, her hair, her skin, lighting up her brain with an amber light.  Tingling, embracing.  The stirring odor opened up her mind’s eye and she saw the craggy hills, the forests, the blue lochs.  She could smell the heavy underbrush of the forest, decomposing matter giving life to the ancient forests.  She heard the golden eagles and ravens calling as they swept through the air, searching for food.  Her work increased in brilliance whenever all her senses were stimulated and of all the senses, she was sure smell was the most provocative because it was the most mysterious.  Its function was all pleasure, giving delight and cloaking her in sensuality and beauty and a trance like state where her work became the stuff of magic.

  Stella went to the book shelf and rummaged rather quickly through her CDs.  She found the Celtic music she loved so much and popped it into the CD player and let the music fill the studio. The music of pipes, fiddles, and drums filled the room releasing magic into the air and lazily weaving a landscape with the incense.  Spiraling flutes enticed her to new heights of awareness and welcomed her with melodies that had emboldened lairds and lassies in centuries past.  She had a fleeting glimpse somewhere in her brain of a warrior, clad in a red and blue plaid, his strong body defined by this music.  He stood just out of reach, but he was there, beckoning her.

She grabbed her sketch book and began to closely study Shawn’s image.  She tore out the best sketches and laid them on the floor in front of her easel where she could easily see them.  She chose the sketches she thought were the closest to what Kyla would want, grabbed a piece of charcoal and began sketching out Shawn’s image on the canvas.  The sketch was Shawn wielding his sword with both hands, ready to swing it forward to plunge into the heart of an enemy. 

The charcoal was warm in her fingers, pouring its soul into the image of a hero.  She loved the feel of the charcoal’s grainy drag across the canvas leaving in its wake the shape of a warrior, while the smell of damp forests and heather fleshed out his spirit, his image rising from the depths of some mystical place. Stella wanted to see him, to feel him, and her hands became the conduit for magic.  She picked up a graphite pencil in her other hand and, using both hands, unleashed Shawn’s image, letting him explode onto her canvas in all his spectacular beauty.

The music spurred her hands, a waltz of skill and magic, coalescing in the birth of a warrior, each line a masterpiece of precision and detail.

She prepared a shallow bowl of raw umber acrylic glaze and began putting in the underpainting, laying down the details in the diluted brown. Once the details and light values were done she let it dry while she prepared her oils.  She filled her palette with her prism of colors and then began the real art of painting – the mixing of colors.  She layered in washes of color, building a skin tone that blew the breath of life into her image.

As the evening stretched into night she didn’t stop until she had exactly what she wanted – Shawn in all his glorious perfection.  Shawn, the Apollo, the beautiful Highlander warrior.  Stella stepped back from the canvas, folded her arms and smiled.  It was an amazing rendering.

The hour was late and Stella began to feel fatigue move across her shoulders.  She was exhausted with her efforts, but happy. She would need to let the oils dry for a week before she began layering in the secondary color and values, but in the meantime she needed some sleep.

“Hey, Casper, come look at this and tell me what you think.  Give me your highly experienced opinion, my friend.”  Casper lifted his head at the sound of his name and looked at Stella anticipating some small snack.  When none was forthcoming he yawned and curled back up on the chair, playing tag with sleep.

“You don’t think this is significant?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “Well, maybe not, but I think it might be worth a hefty check at least, old boy.” She glanced at the clock.  It was three in the morning.

She was tired but satisfied as she gathered her brushes and took them to the sink to clean them. She was rubbing paint off her hands when she felt an odd coolness to the air as if the temperature had suddenly dropped. Casper, at once alert, jumped from his chair and started circling the studio.  His nose close to the ground he was sensing something, whining softly.  Stella turned and watched him. 

Casper continued his circling of the studio, his whining growing louder now.  Stella watched him and had an uneasy feeling that whatever was going to happen had started.  Casper circled to the canvas, sniffed all around it and became highly excited.  He sat in front of the canvas, threw back his head and howled.  Stella’s sketches, all over the floor, began to flutter as if in a breeze, rattling slightly as if being blown by some invisible fan.  The studio doors and windows were locked and Stella knew that no wind from outside was doing this.  She felt something now, an energy surrounding her.  She felt, more than heard, a whirling noise, like a small tornado, a buzzing in her head and she began to panic.

It was happening again.  She had drawn the magic and it had heeded her call.

As suddenly as it began, the panic left.  She watched as the papers quieted and lay still.  She felt comforted somehow, like a strong hand lay on her shoulder to give her strength.                There was a presence in the room.  Casper knew it, she knew it.  It was strong, but it was not frightening.  It was familiar, but at the same time totally unfamiliar.  She could not deny that she knew something, or someone, was here, but she could not discern who or what.  She was on the verge of remembering something but she couldn’t determine whether it was a memory or a dream.  It was on the very edge of her brain, but she was so tired she couldn’t make out what it was she was supposed to know or remember.  She needed to be away from here.  Magic always disconcerted her. 

She looked up at the image of the Highlander and knew that this image was causing the turmoil.  Casper continued to chuff and whine by the canvas.                             

“Don’t Casper, we’re fine, it’ll be all right, boy.  Quiet.”  She looked around the studio with some misgiving, patting Casper on the head, but it was of no use, he continued to look nervously around and whine, his tail wagging, eyes gleaming. 

Stella headed for the door and turned out the lights.  Casper stood his ground and continued to look at the canvas, whining. 

“Come on, boy, let’s go to bed.  It’s late and we need to get out of here.  Maybe it’ll be gone by morning.  Whatever it is.”   When he continued to ignore her Stella grabbed him by the collar and dragged him from the canvas.  She left the studio, shut the door solidly behind her, and headed to her bedroom.  Instead of following her Casper sat whining and scratching at the door of the studio.

Stella stood at her bedroom doorway and yelled.  “Casper!  Now!  Get over here!” Casper continued to ignore her.  It was three in the morning, she had no energy to fight with the dog nor was she in the mood for it.

“Fine, then stay there all night, dog. See if I care.” 

She shut her bedroom door against his whining and fell onto her bed wrung out and trembling. She expected to lay in bed for the rest of the night worrying about this turn of events but when she closed her eyes she was immediately asleep drifting into dreams, or memories, she knew not which. 

As soon as she slept the door of the studio opened and Casper went inside, tail wagging.  The studio door clicked shut quietly behind him.

Chapter Two

Scotland, 1604