Mirrorscape (2 page)

Dirk Tot

The monster slowly rose from the chair and would have stood erect if the ceiling had been higher. Mel uttered a terrified cry, turned on his heels and fled, dropping his drawing. He collided heavily with Fa Theum, who blocked the doorway.

‘Mel, whatever is the matter?'

The boy could only whimper as the priest held him fast, preventing his flight. He looked up at the old man and was astonished to see that he showed no fear. Instead, he was actually smiling. Mel half turned and was even more astounded to see his father and mother in the shadows, sitting calmly side by side on the settle. His mother, Mabin, was smiling nervously, but his father shifted uncomfortably. He glared at Fa Theum.

Then the monster spoke. ‘Hello, Mel.' The voice was deep and resonant but surprisingly gentle, his Vlamian accent refined.

Slowly, Mel turned to confront the dreadful sight and a strange thing happened. He began to look at the
creature the same way he looked at a subject he was about to draw. Almost at once, his fear and preconceptions fluttered away like so many moths shaken out of an old blanket. What he now saw was not so much a monster as a tall and powerful man dressed in the finest clothes he had ever seen. And, what's more, they were
coloured
. Mel had never met anyone before who was not dressed in tabby. The monster wore a long, sleeveless tunic made from fine, richly embroidered purple brocade trimmed with tawny fur. Beneath this was a deep blue velvet doublet stitched with gold. The sleeves of his doublet were slit in many places, revealing the white silk of his shirt. He wore a heavy chain around his neck. He carried a plumed, flat velvet hat and he had a jewelled reticule at his side, attached to his ornate belt. His black leather breeches were tucked into soft, high boots. He made a dazzling contrast to the drabness of the cottage.

But, the wonder of the colours aside, it was his ruined face that held Mel's attention. The whole of the right side seemed to be made of wrinkled leather, leather that had melted like candle wax. Set in this was his eye, now a milky dome. There was a deformed lump
where Mel supposed his ear had been and on that side of his head there was no hair at all. The man-monster turned his head for a moment to look at Mel's mother and father, and Mel was surprised to see that when the ruined half of his face was turned away he looked perfectly normal. In fact, he was even handsome. By this time, Mel's initial dread had almost completely vanished.

‘Mel, don't stare,' admonished his mother.

Mel lowered his eyes momentarily, but raised them again as the stranger bent down to pick up his drawing. The man straightened up, forgetting the low ceiling, and bumped his head, sending a small shower of dust cascading around him. Mel stifled a laugh.

‘
Mel!
' his father hissed.

‘I'm … I'm sorry,' stammered Mel sheepishly. He looked up at the stranger to see that he too was suppressing a laugh. He rubbed his head where he had bumped it and Mel saw that his left hand was made entirely of finely engraved silver. It was beautifully crafted, even down to the articulated joints.

The stranger looked down at the drawing of the
hare he held in his good hand. ‘I can see that everything I've heard about you is true, Mel.'

The stranger had heard about him!

The man looked at the drawing again, and then turned to place it on the table, where Mel was surprised to see lay many of his other drawings. ‘You are industrious too, I can see.'

‘Mel, this is Dirk Tot. Say hello,' said Fa Theum, as he stood behind Mel with his hands resting on the boy's shoulders.

‘Hello,' and after a sharp squeeze from the priest he added, ‘sir.'

‘Come here, Mel,' said Dirk Tot. Clearly discomforted by his stooped posture, he sat down again in Willem's chair, which complained with a loud creak as he settled his great bulk. Hesitantly, Mel approached. ‘How long have you been drawing?'

‘I don't know in years,' Mel answered. ‘Ever such a long time, as long as I can remember.'

‘What do you like to draw best of all?'

‘I like to draw
imaginary
things best of all,' Mel replied instantly.

A smile flitted across the undamaged side of Dirk Tot's face and then vanished. ‘Tell me, Mel, which do you think is the best of your works?' He gestured towards the drawings scattered on the table, some in charcoal and some in ink.

Mel quickly sorted through the drawings. ‘This one,' he said, passing a picture of a set of bagpipes with dancing human arms and feet and the head of a nightingale with its beak open wide.

Dirk Tot studied it. ‘Why do you think this is good?'

There was a short silence before Fa Theum prompted, ‘Come on, Mel. Don't be shy.'

‘I like it because it's more than just an ordinary picture.' He looked at his interrogator. ‘It's a picture that means two things at once.' He shot a quick glance at Fa Theum, who nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘It's a symbol.'

The old priest smiled the faintest of smiles.

‘You see, it's a picture of a bagpipe, which makes a certain kind of noise, joined up to a picture of a nightingale, which makes another kind of noise – a noise much sweeter than the pipes. And the arms and legs are
dancing – as if to the music. So, even though there's no sound, you can make believe there is. But you're not sure what kind of sound it is, bagpipes or bird, or both. And you wonder why he's dancing. Is it because of the music or because of something else?'

‘Where did the idea come from?'

‘I don't know, it was just there when I sat down to draw.'

‘Are your ideas always there?'

‘Usually. Inside in my head. But if I ever can't think of one, I look at the shapes and get a new idea from them.'

‘Shapes? What shapes?' asked Dirk Tot.

‘Just shapes. Sometimes I look in the hearth, at the ashes, and I see pictures there. Or in the flames in the fire. Sometimes I see them in the clouds or in the stains on the wall. I see people and animals and monsters with ….' he nearly said horrible faces ‘… strange landscapes.' Mel could feel everybody's eyes on him. He hated being the centre of attention.

Dirk Tot seemed to sense his awkwardness and quickly asked, ‘Tell me, how often do you make mistakes?'

Mel thought about lying, but he realised this man knew too much about drawing. ‘Not very often. Well, sometimes … Quite a bit actually.'

‘Every artist makes mistakes; it's nothing to be ashamed of. Only people who never try anything new never make mistakes.'

The man sat forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. ‘Now tell me, which is your
worst
picture?' he asked.

Surprised at this question, Mel shuffled through the drawings a couple of times and then handed the man an ink portrait. ‘This one, I think.'

The stranger studied it. ‘Tell me why.'

Mel thought. Should he point out the mistakes or tell him how the pen kept clogging up or how lumpy the ink was or how dark it was when he made the drawing? As Mel rehearsed these themes in his head they began to sound like excuses. Eventually he said, ‘Well, you see, it's a picture of Fa Theum – but it's not like him.'

‘You're wrong, Mel, it is the very image of him,' interrupted Dirk Tot.

‘It
looks
like him – at least I hope it does – but it's not him. Fa Theum talks and laughs and does lots of things
that my drawing can't show. He can read and write and say sermons and he tells funny stories and – '

‘Well, I'm glad
someone
thinks they're funny,' interjected the Fa.

Everyone laughed – everyone except Willem.

Dirk Tot continued. ‘You know, Mel, there is more to being an artist than being able to carry a likeness. A true artist knows the difference between what is good and what is bad and, more importantly, between what is merely good and what is great. Sometimes great masters make paintings that are bad – not as often as bad artists, but occasionally – and do you know what they do to these bad paintings?'

Mel shook his head.

‘They destroy them.'

Mel slowly nodded. ‘So that the bad apple doesn't spoil the others in the barrel.'

Dirk Tot fixed his one good eye on Mel and stared so hard that the boy began to feel uncomfortable. Mel lowered his head and shifted his weight. After what seemed an age, Dirk Tot grunted, turned to Fa Theum and nodded.

‘Mel, gather up all these drawings now and come over to the fane with me,' said Fa Theum. ‘We need to put them back up on display so that the rest of the village can continue to admire them.' This drew an alarmed look from Dirk Tot that the priest pretended not to notice. ‘Besides, Dirk Tot has things he needs to discuss with your parents.'

After a glance at his father, Mel did as he was told.

As soon as he was out of the door, the questions about the richly dressed stranger gushed from Mel's mouth. But he soon realised that he was not going to get any answers until Fa Theum was good and ready. He could not contain his excitement however, as he virtually pulled the old priest past Dirk Tot's fine carriage and coachmen in their matching liveries of deep blue.

They entered the cool, whitewashed interior of the fane and genuflected to the large diaglyph on the altar before sitting down on one of the scrubbed, wooden pews. Sunlight slanted in through the small windows, creating patches of amber light and shade on the bare stone floor.

The old man held up a pre-emptive finger. ‘Sit still. Listen carefully to what I have to say.'

What Fa Theum then said began a chain of events that changed Mel's life, and, ultimately, the lives of everyone in the land of Nem, forever.

Hopes and Dreams

Some time later Mel left the fane almost in a state of shock. He ran back through the village and burst into his tiny home. The stranger had left and his parents sat side by side on the settle, deep in conversation.

‘Is it true?' Mel shouted, as he struggled for breath.

His father said nothing. He did not even look at his son as he rose, walked over to his loom and began weaving again, his face set like stone. He wove at a frantic pace, violently stamping on the treadles and dashing the shuttle from side to side with a speed Mel had never witnessed before. He turned to his mother and noticed that her eyes were red.

‘Mum, is it true? What Fa Theum told me?'

‘Come outside with me, sweetheart, and help me pick the vegetables for supper,' said his mother softly.

When they were alone in the vegetable patch, Mel asked, ‘What's the matter with Dad?'

‘Leave him be. This whole business has come as a bit of a shock. He needs to adjust to the idea. We both do.'

‘It's true then.'

‘Yes, Mel, it's true.'

‘Fa Theum told me that I'm to go and – '

‘Nothing's certain yet. Please don't get your hopes up.' She gently caressed his cheek. ‘The gentleman had to continue his journey but he will return this way in a few weeks. There's a great deal to be discussed before then. It's best if you don't dwell on this too much.'

An impossible request; from that moment on Mel thought of nothing else.

That night, as he lay in bed, Mel turned over the momentous events of the day. Fa Theum had explained to him that he had written to Fa Marten, an old friend in the Maven's household, to ask if he knew anyone in the capital who might be interested in commenting on Mel's artistic gift. He had received a reply that exceeded his wildest expectations. He had produced a thick sheet of paper from inside his cassock and unfolded it with a soft, crackling sound.

‘The first part does not concern you, Mel, but this bit surely does.' Fa Theum turned the page.

‘“I found the story of your young protégé fascinating
and the boy's precocious talent is amply demonstrated by the drawing you enclosed. I took it at once to show to Dirk Tot, steward to Ambrosius Blenk, the greatest artist in the Seven Kingdoms. Dirk Tot was as impressed as I was and took it to the great man.

“Now, you may know that Ambrosius Blenk's studio employs many apprentices and is almost like a factory for producing paintings. These apprenticeships are usually purchased for large sums of money by wealthy families. Occasionally the master will offer a free apprenticeship to someone who is too poor to pay but who shows truly exceptional talent. I am pleased to report that your boy is so considered. However, artistic ability alone will never be enough to make an artist. Quite apart from a skill in draughtsmanship, the boy would also need a discerning and inquiring mind, the right attitude and, above all, a great passion for art if he is ever to succeed.”'

Mel did not hear the rest of the letter or Fa Theum's caveat that any apprenticeship depended on the agreement of his parents. He had been in an almost delirious state of excitement ever since, despite his
father's odd behaviour. Willem had not spoken another word to his family all day and went to bed without a glance at his wife and son.

Now, unable to sleep, Mel tossed and turned on his straw pallet. His entire universe had spun on a great, invisible pivot and faced in a totally different direction from before. At breakfast he had been a happy enough boy who was good at drawing and who would grow up to become a tabby weaver like his father. By supper, another magnificent vista had opened up that held the promise of becoming an apprentice and, eventually, an artist who would spend all day, every day, doing what he loved most – making the most wonderful pictures. Mel's deepest wish, a wish he had scarcely dared to admit even to himself, had actually come true.

Obviously his parents could not sleep either, and their muffled voices rose and fell in the bedroom. Mel lay there in the darkness until his curiosity got the better of him. He just had to know what they were saying. He rose from his bed and crept towards their room.

‘… not so loud, you'll wake Mel,' he heard his mother say as he placed his ear to the door.

‘But how can you bear to be parted from him? If he went away we might not see him for years on end.'

‘It's just as hard for me as it is for you, but think of his future. He would get away from here, make something of his life.'

‘And what do you mean by that?' shot back Mel's father. ‘Suddenly being a weaver isn't good enough for him? Let me remind you that weaving puts food on the table. Weaving keeps a roof over our heads. He might go off to Vlam, spend years playing about with paints and never make it as an artist.'

‘Will, you know as well as I do how talented he is. And Fa Theum, he wouldn't have gone to all that trouble if there was no talent there.'

‘Don't talk to me about that interfering old priest, after he's gone behind our backs like that. Why didn't he discuss it with me first? I could have put an end to this nonsense then and there.'

‘Mel's shooting up,' continued his father. ‘Soon his legs will be long enough to reach the treadles. I'll build him his own loom and he can weave alongside me. Think what a difference that will make. Double the
cloth, double the income. Why, we would be able to move out of this place into somewhere larger, with better light. I could buy the Pleasure to make finer cloth, and we could have the things we've dreamed of.'

‘You think I would want that rather than Mel's happiness?'

His father blew out loudly in exasperation. ‘And then there's Vlam. Do you know what goes on there? There's drinking dens and worse. Do you know that?'

‘No, Will, and neither do you. Neither of us has ever been more than ten miles from Kop.'

‘But I've heard stories. I've got ears.'

‘All I'm asking is that you think about it.'

‘There's nothing to think about. My mind's made up.'

Then the argument seemed to start again from the beginning. Mel stole back to bed. His mother would get her way. She always did. Well, nearly always.

Eventually he dropped off to sleep and his dreams were full of fabulous hybrids romping about in the most glorious colour. In the morning he awoke with a wonderful feeling of elation and anticipation. Mel also
felt more than a little guilty at being the cause of his father's anger and the disharmony between his parents. Was he selfish to want to be an artist, to be so delighted about going away to distant Vlam?

His father's black mood lasted all the next day and into the one after but it did not dent Mel's joy.

By the fourth day following Dirk Tot's visit, Mel sensed things were beginning to return to normal and he and his father managed to exchange a few words. He took this as a sure sign that his mother had won the argument.

One week later, with normality more or less restored, as they sat around the table after supper, there came a knock at the door. Mel rushed up and opened it.

‘Fa!' he exclaimed to the visitor.

‘Good evening, Fa,' said Mabin, as she gestured for the old man to enter. ‘Please join us. Will you have something to eat? To drink, maybe?'

‘Thank you, but no.' The old priest sat down. ‘It's been over a week now and Dirk Tot will be returning this way soon. I realise that there has been much for you to think about. We really must have an answer for him.'

Willem looked at his wife and then back at their visitor. ‘Fa, this apprenticeship is wonderful, there's no denying it. I know opportunities like this rarely come along – and never to the likes of us. This has made our decision so very difficult. At first, I was confused and angry that you had done this thing. That you had approached someone else about Mel's future. A future that would mean us living apart. You should have discussed this with us first.'

‘I know, Willem, I apologise. But there was no certainty in this matter. I took it upon myself just to find out if Mel's work was as good as we all think it is. That Mel should be asked to join Ambrosius Blenk's studio was as much a surprise to me as it must have been to you both. And what a delightful surprise!' The old priest smiled.

Willem paused and lowered his eyes. Then, turning to Mel, he said, ‘I'm sorry, son. We're simple folk; artisans. This thing isn't for the likes of us. Surely you can see that? You can continue to draw in your spare time but this apprenticeship is out of the question.'

Mabin sighed and leant over to hug her son.
There was a tear in her eye. ‘Your father's right, Mel. I know it seems hard now but it's for the best. This apprenticeship was a dream – for both of us – but now we must wake up. You'll stay here with us, just like it's always been.'

‘But, Mum, Dad ….' The words died on Mel's lips. He wanted to argue but the tone of his father's voice told him it would be futile. Willem's mind was made up. Mel fought an overwhelming desire to break into tears as the disappointment settled on him with an almost physical presence.

‘Is there nothing I can say to make you change your mind, Willem?' said Fa Theum. His face betrayed a regret almost as bitter as Mel's.

‘Nothing. This is how it must be.' Willem turned again to his son. ‘Mel, I know how hard this must be for you but you'll get over it. Weaving is a fine trade. Why, it's almost an art in its own right. In a few months none of this will matter. It will all be forgotten. What do you say?'

Mel could say nothing.

That night, the tears did come. Rivers and silent sobs racked his small body as he cried himself to sleep. That night he did not dream in colour. He did not dream at all.