A lone oak stood on the steep hill, providing the only shade for seemingly miles around. From this point, an entire horizon of countryside could be seen. Rolling green meadows and grazing fields, rising hills, sparse woods and rows of orchards made this vista. Beneath the tree, Paris sat back dozing on a chair, his hat lowered over his face. Nearby sat an easel and on it, a canvas. Below was a toolbox of paints in tubes, brushes, palette knives and rags.
Above Paris a couple of birds chirped sweetly before fluttering out of the foliage and into the sky. Behind him a voice spoke out.
- You’ll never finish it if you keep sleeping.
Paris, not moving from his spot, spoke in return.
- Just resting the eyes. Need to pick out the detail, you know.
- So you keep saying.
The voice was closer. Like the birds it was sweet and song. Paris felt as if a shadow had crossed over him. Slowly lifting the brim of his hat, Paris already knew who it was. Heather. His love had long golden hair that came alive in the wind and faded freckles on her skin from a childhood in the sun. She wore a dress the colour of leaves in autumn, that kind of sweet dry brown. She held a covered basket, her arm looped through the handle.
- I brought something in case you were hungry.
Paris smiled.
- And this is why I love you.
Heather rested the basket near the chair and moved over to the painting resting on the easel.
- So I want to see this painting that you seem so satisfied with that you sleep away the day.
Paris lifted himself from his seat, adjusting his hat so that it staying atop of his head.
- It’s not quite finished yet.
Heather smiled at his modesty.
- Oh you always say that. With nothing finished, it’s no surprise that you never sell any of your paintings.
- Well I’ll be sure that I finish this one.
Heather always marvelled at the intricate detail of each of her lover’s works. Every one was so well painted, it seemed like he took the scenery itself and stretched into a canvas. Most of the time she had to peer around the canvas just to see if there wasn’t a hole that Paris had cut from the world.
Heather looked around the painting and easel to see the landscape still there. But there was something else. A dark figure strode across the emerald meadows. Its pace was fast, like the speed someone gets when it’s near the end of a long journey. The figure didn’t follow the road that curled its way around the mountain. It climbed over the fences that separated the pastures. The person was making a direct line for Paris and Heather.
Heather turned to look at Paris. He seemed more focused on his painting, as if there was something missing. In the back of her head she knew that something terrible was going to happen. But Paris didn’t seem concerned.
- You know what I think? I think I need some Parisian Blue. But I left it in the workshop. Would you mind getting me some?
Heather understood the meaning of this. She understood that her love had made many enemies. And that one day one of those enemies might come around. She nodded nervously and then began to move up over the back of the hill, back to the home they shared.
Paris had seen the shadow making its way across the landscape for sometime. On a clear day like this and at this elevation, he could see all the way to the horizon. He always thought a day like this might come and ran through it countless times over. When the figure reached the bottom of the hill, Paris lent over and reached into the box at the bottom of the easel. He felt the cool steel, the warm wooden grip. He pulled his SAA from the box, feeling from its weight that it was loaded. He let his arm relax, letting the heavy sidearm take his hand down to his hip.
The figure began to take form. It was a young man dressed in long black coat and underneath, sour white clothes. He was staring directly at Paris. He moved up the steep hill with ease, as if the terrain were merely an illusion.
Paris was ready, but the man had not drawn any weapon. It seemed unreasonable to Paris to fire. As the man in black reached the top of the hill, Paris stepped back to give him some room. The man had stopped. Paris observed this man. He seemed barely out of boyhood. Hair was as black as coal and skin as white as driven snow. His eyes were grey with dark rings, as if he had never slept. He seemed slightly hunched over, as though he had been driven like a beast across this landscape. His coat was overly long, his hands disappeared into the sleeves. A moment of silence passed until Paris realised that nothing had been said. He expected this man to say something, his name, Paris’ name, to call out every grievance and misery that Paris somehow caused since those days. But there was nothing. The man was silent.
- Why are you here?
The man seemed to have difficultly speaking. He bared his teeth and shifted his lips trying to shape the words. Finally, he spoke:
- You.
The word seemed to smoke its way out of his mouth.
Paris’ forearm tensed, ready for the first sign of trouble. So Paris asked again:
- Then what have I done to you?
The young man paused at this, as if trying to understand the question.
- Nothing.
Paris could feel his heart beat in his chest. He couldn’t read this man. Here he was travelling miles on foot, dressed clothes that didn’t fit, to walk in a straight line directly for him. Why? If not for revenge, then what?
- Then what the hell do you want?
When Paris spoke the fear cracked in his voice. Fear he hadn’t felt since when he stared down the eye piece of his rifle and saw a man covered in blood and tattoos in that burning valley. Staring back at Paris with possessed eyes. Paris pulled the hammer back on his gun with his thumb.
Again, the young man in black had trouble finding the words, as if the entire concept was foreign.
- You.
Then his hand began to snake out of the sleeve and into his coat. Paris felt he should react, but could not shake himself from the stranger’s dark eyes. The hand pulled the coat open slowly, to reveal a pistol that was silver with a black handle.
Paris blinked, snapping out of his trance. His arm raised, his finger squeezed the trigger. The SAA spoke loudly. At the same time, the young man darted to the side, his other hand darting out of the sleeve into the coat like a sidewinder on the attack. In a fluid motion, the young man drew and fired.
Paris let out a hot smoky breath, stumbled back and fell to the ground. It was noon, the sun beamed down him from high above. Then a shadow eclipsed everything. The young man drank deep of Paris’ final breath. Standing up, the young man stretched out, exhaling slowly. He lent over again to pick up Paris’ gun. He held it like a curiosity, between thumb and forefinger, staring at it like a child might with a spider or frog, studying its form. Standing up again, the dark man tucked the gun into his belt and turned to leave. The painting seemed to catch his eye. Something felt unfinished about it, though the man never touched pigment to canvas before. He titled his head to one side, and thought it might be a blue. Though he couldn’t be sure which. Then without further thought, the young man went down the hill. In a new direction.
Later Heather returned, with a rifle in one hand and a tube of paint in another. As she reached the top of the hill, she couldn’t see either Paris or the stranger. Fearing the worst she ran to the tree, only to find the easel and her love lying on the ground. In her grief, Heather couldn’t feel the tears run down her face, nor the Parisian Blue running over her clenched fingers.
Preceded by: Part 2
Continued in Part 4
Read more...
Above Paris a couple of birds chirped sweetly before fluttering out of the foliage and into the sky. Behind him a voice spoke out.
- You’ll never finish it if you keep sleeping.
Paris, not moving from his spot, spoke in return.
- Just resting the eyes. Need to pick out the detail, you know.
- So you keep saying.
The voice was closer. Like the birds it was sweet and song. Paris felt as if a shadow had crossed over him. Slowly lifting the brim of his hat, Paris already knew who it was. Heather. His love had long golden hair that came alive in the wind and faded freckles on her skin from a childhood in the sun. She wore a dress the colour of leaves in autumn, that kind of sweet dry brown. She held a covered basket, her arm looped through the handle.
- I brought something in case you were hungry.
Paris smiled.
- And this is why I love you.
Heather rested the basket near the chair and moved over to the painting resting on the easel.
- So I want to see this painting that you seem so satisfied with that you sleep away the day.
Paris lifted himself from his seat, adjusting his hat so that it staying atop of his head.
- It’s not quite finished yet.
Heather smiled at his modesty.
- Oh you always say that. With nothing finished, it’s no surprise that you never sell any of your paintings.
- Well I’ll be sure that I finish this one.
Heather always marvelled at the intricate detail of each of her lover’s works. Every one was so well painted, it seemed like he took the scenery itself and stretched into a canvas. Most of the time she had to peer around the canvas just to see if there wasn’t a hole that Paris had cut from the world.
Heather looked around the painting and easel to see the landscape still there. But there was something else. A dark figure strode across the emerald meadows. Its pace was fast, like the speed someone gets when it’s near the end of a long journey. The figure didn’t follow the road that curled its way around the mountain. It climbed over the fences that separated the pastures. The person was making a direct line for Paris and Heather.
Heather turned to look at Paris. He seemed more focused on his painting, as if there was something missing. In the back of her head she knew that something terrible was going to happen. But Paris didn’t seem concerned.
- You know what I think? I think I need some Parisian Blue. But I left it in the workshop. Would you mind getting me some?
Heather understood the meaning of this. She understood that her love had made many enemies. And that one day one of those enemies might come around. She nodded nervously and then began to move up over the back of the hill, back to the home they shared.
Paris had seen the shadow making its way across the landscape for sometime. On a clear day like this and at this elevation, he could see all the way to the horizon. He always thought a day like this might come and ran through it countless times over. When the figure reached the bottom of the hill, Paris lent over and reached into the box at the bottom of the easel. He felt the cool steel, the warm wooden grip. He pulled his SAA from the box, feeling from its weight that it was loaded. He let his arm relax, letting the heavy sidearm take his hand down to his hip.
The figure began to take form. It was a young man dressed in long black coat and underneath, sour white clothes. He was staring directly at Paris. He moved up the steep hill with ease, as if the terrain were merely an illusion.
Paris was ready, but the man had not drawn any weapon. It seemed unreasonable to Paris to fire. As the man in black reached the top of the hill, Paris stepped back to give him some room. The man had stopped. Paris observed this man. He seemed barely out of boyhood. Hair was as black as coal and skin as white as driven snow. His eyes were grey with dark rings, as if he had never slept. He seemed slightly hunched over, as though he had been driven like a beast across this landscape. His coat was overly long, his hands disappeared into the sleeves. A moment of silence passed until Paris realised that nothing had been said. He expected this man to say something, his name, Paris’ name, to call out every grievance and misery that Paris somehow caused since those days. But there was nothing. The man was silent.
- Why are you here?
The man seemed to have difficultly speaking. He bared his teeth and shifted his lips trying to shape the words. Finally, he spoke:
- You.
The word seemed to smoke its way out of his mouth.
Paris’ forearm tensed, ready for the first sign of trouble. So Paris asked again:
- Then what have I done to you?
The young man paused at this, as if trying to understand the question.
- Nothing.
Paris could feel his heart beat in his chest. He couldn’t read this man. Here he was travelling miles on foot, dressed clothes that didn’t fit, to walk in a straight line directly for him. Why? If not for revenge, then what?
- Then what the hell do you want?
When Paris spoke the fear cracked in his voice. Fear he hadn’t felt since when he stared down the eye piece of his rifle and saw a man covered in blood and tattoos in that burning valley. Staring back at Paris with possessed eyes. Paris pulled the hammer back on his gun with his thumb.
Again, the young man in black had trouble finding the words, as if the entire concept was foreign.
- You.
Then his hand began to snake out of the sleeve and into his coat. Paris felt he should react, but could not shake himself from the stranger’s dark eyes. The hand pulled the coat open slowly, to reveal a pistol that was silver with a black handle.
Paris blinked, snapping out of his trance. His arm raised, his finger squeezed the trigger. The SAA spoke loudly. At the same time, the young man darted to the side, his other hand darting out of the sleeve into the coat like a sidewinder on the attack. In a fluid motion, the young man drew and fired.
Paris let out a hot smoky breath, stumbled back and fell to the ground. It was noon, the sun beamed down him from high above. Then a shadow eclipsed everything. The young man drank deep of Paris’ final breath. Standing up, the young man stretched out, exhaling slowly. He lent over again to pick up Paris’ gun. He held it like a curiosity, between thumb and forefinger, staring at it like a child might with a spider or frog, studying its form. Standing up again, the dark man tucked the gun into his belt and turned to leave. The painting seemed to catch his eye. Something felt unfinished about it, though the man never touched pigment to canvas before. He titled his head to one side, and thought it might be a blue. Though he couldn’t be sure which. Then without further thought, the young man went down the hill. In a new direction.
Later Heather returned, with a rifle in one hand and a tube of paint in another. As she reached the top of the hill, she couldn’t see either Paris or the stranger. Fearing the worst she ran to the tree, only to find the easel and her love lying on the ground. In her grief, Heather couldn’t feel the tears run down her face, nor the Parisian Blue running over her clenched fingers.
Preceded by: Part 2
Continued in Part 4
