Behind the Canvas (11 page)

Hendrik rode into the clearing and dismounted as Cornelis tossed him another coil of rope. “Since you are bringing up the rear, as usual, why don't you bring up the rear?” Cornelis said, breathless.

“What?” Hendrik asked.

“The tail, man! Get the tail!”

Hendrik made a quick lasso in one end of the rope and took a few steps toward the dragon. It dangled dangerously in the noose and yet it seemed only annoyed, like a cat being held by the scruff of the neck. Its round yellow eyes watched Hendrik approach.

“That little chase reminded me of a fat boar I once—”

Without warning, the beast writhed and spun and caught Hendrik across the chest with its thick tail. Hendrik flew through the air and thudded into the undergrowth.

Claudia ran to him. She wasn't quite sure what to do, so she picked up his hat from the ground and handed it to him.

Cornelis stifled a laugh. “Well, Balthasar, what do we do with this black worm? It will wiggle itself free before long.”

“Why don't we kill it?” Hendrik said, dusting off his trousers. “I've heard roasted dragon flesh is a delicacy in some parts.”

“Saint George would get himself into a terrible fit if he found out,” Balthasar said. “He would claim the creature was just being territorial. And hungry. No, no. The beast that holds mutton between its teeth will churn the butter when beauty beckons.”

Balthasar's statement made no sense, but he said it with such dramatic flair that Claudia couldn't help but smile. The three men seemed familiar, though she had no idea why.

Cornelis turned and glared at Balthasar. “What the bloomin' tulips is that supposed to mean?”

Balthasar sighed patiently and stroked his goatee. “It means, dear fellow, that to tie up the dragon we must first tame him. And there is only one in our midst with the power to do so.” The three men turned to look at Claudia with obvious expectation.

She suddenly had a hard time swallowing, as if she were the one dangling by the rope. “But I don't have a corset … or girdle … or whatever it is I'm supposed to tame it with.”

“Now, my dear,” Cornelis said, “surely you must have something on your person you can cast around the dragon's neck.”

Claudia looked down at her sweater and jeans, and was about to let her rescuers know that girdles and sashes weren't exactly in fashion, when Balthasar exclaimed, “Her shoe latchets! They would serve, would they not?”

Claudia followed his gaze to her feet and her comfortable white-and-red sneakers, tied and double-knotted with long white shoelaces. She looked up at Cornelis. “You're kidding me, right?”

Cornelis looked confused for a moment. “Kidding? I do not believe so. But I can assure you there is no other way to tame a dragon.”

Even as they spoke, Claudia felt a tingling sense of urgency return to her body. She was lost in a strange world that very likely had more frightening creatures to offer than a single dragon. She had to get back to the paintings. Pim couldn't wait there forever. She needed their help—quickly.

She bent over and undid her shoelaces. They were just for looks, anyway—her shoes fit fine without them.

“Okay, what do I do?” Claudia looked at the cloaked men, a shoelace in each hand.

“Well, I don't entirely know,” Cornelis replied. “I've never seen this done before. I suppose you just toss it around the beast's neck.”

“Isn't there an incantation she needs to say?” Balthasar added.

“I thought she needed a vial blessed by a priest…” Hendrik chimed in.

“No, that is for collecting crocodile tears. It does matter which direction she throws it in, however…”

“I'm certain she needs something blessed by a priest.…”

“‘Left to right it will give the dragon strength and fury…'”

“Perhaps she needs the latchets blessed by a priest.…”

“Oh, come now, Saint George doesn't travel with a priest every time he battles a dragon.…”

“‘… but right to left will make him gentle as … something furry.' Or something like that…”

“Come to think of it, Saint George doesn't really battle dragons, does he? He gets the lady to do all the work.…”

“I'd think twice, man, before I start criticizing the methods of a saint.”

“Perhaps she does need an incantation.…”

Claudia shook her head and tied the two shoelaces together. Time was slipping away. She scanned the ground for a stone and spotted one the length of her finger. She tied it to the other end of the laces. Then she looked at the dragon. Its fangs were bared and its fierce eyes followed her every motion. Its tongue flicked threateningly, and Claudia was afraid that at any moment it would twist and send its snakelike tail flying toward her. She took another step. Then another. The dragon's hind claws scraped the dirt anxiously. Soon she was close enough to smell its putrid breath. She took one more step just to be sure and then flung the shoelaces out, stone first, with the other end still in her hands, like a tetherball on the playground. They sailed up in a smooth arc and landed around the dragon's neck.

A change came over the dragon almost immediately, like flipping a switch. The yellow eyes turned cotton white. Its lips drooped down to cover its fangs, and its tongue lolled to the side as it began to pant. Even the tail wagged happily back and forth. Suddenly it was more mutt than monster.

The shoelaces draped limply around the beast's neck, threatening to fall off at any moment.
This is crazy
. She edged forward and reached for the shoelaces. She formed the laces into a neat bow, double-knotted. The dragon lunged forward and planted a wet lick on her face.

Ugh
. Claudia jumped back and wiped her face on her shirt, wishing she had packed hand sanitizer.

The gentlemen with the wide-brim hats applauded. “Well done, my dear,” Cornelis said. “Wonderful form for such a little lady.”

From there it was quick work tying up the dragon. The men bound both pairs of feet together, like a calf at a rodeo, and left it lying in a thick bed of leaves. Throughout, the dragon looked admiringly at everyone, breath panting and tongue lolling.

When the job was complete, the three men hovered together over the dragon, critiquing their handiwork.

“That should do until Saint George can come take care of it,” Balthasar said. “Assuming he gets around to it.”

“This beast wasn't nearly the trouble that boar gave us last week,” Cornelis remarked.

“No, but at least we got to roast the boar afterward,” Hendrik said.

Balthasar breathed in deeply and gestured to Claudia. “Ah, but to remedy the peril of beauty is to enclose the image of beauty in your heart forever.”

The other two men looked flatly at Balthasar.

The image of beauty.
Suddenly Claudia knew who these men reminded her of. Themselves. These were the three Dutchmen from the painting hanging in the Florence art museum. The same painting where she had first seen Pim. Their beards, their cloaks, their hats, their swords, everything was identical. But now so incredibly … alive.

Every person, every creature, every place ever painted … like a patchwork quilt,
Pim had said. Then something clicked in Claudia's brain.
If Pim appeared in their painting, maybe they know who he is
.

Before she had time to think about it, she blurted out, “I come from the other side of the canvas.”

The gentlemen stared at her blankly. Cornelis raised an eyebrow.

Claudia tried a different approach. “I came from out of a painting.”

Realization appeared on Balthasar's face. “I see. That's the name of your village. Is it far from here?”

She shook her head. “No. I came from a cave under the mountains.”

Now all three men raised their eyebrows. “We don't go near those caves,” Hendrik said in a cautious voice. “Only evil resides there. Dark magic.”

She tucked her hair behind both ears and took a deep breath. “I'm looking for a friend of mine,” she said slowly. “A Dutch boy named Pim. Do you know him?”

The faces of the three horsemen hardened like clay in a kiln. Eyes fixed on her, they took wary steps away until they surrounded her as they had the dragon. With the ringing of steel they whipped their swords from their scabbards and leveled them at Claudia.

She froze as the relief she had felt a moment ago was crushed by confusion and fear.

“If you are a friend of Pim the witch-son, then you yourself must be a witch.” Cornelis's voice was icy. “And in our land, witches must die.”

 

C
HAPTER
11

“N
O—NO
, I'm not a witch,” Claudia stammered, shifting her gaze from one sword tip to another. “And Pim's not, either. He's just a kid. A very old kid. He was trapped behind the—here in this land by a witch. But he's not a witch, really.”

“Hendrik, bind her tongue,” Cornelis snapped. “Before she occasions a spell on us all.”

Hendrik sheathed his sword and fumbled with something before stepping up to her. A strip of cloth stretched between his hands.

“No!” she cried out, trying to break past Hendrik.

Cornelis twisted his sword and thrust it forward in warning. She froze. There was a look in the Dutchman's eye that promised to run her through if she tried to escape.

“With permission, little lady,” Hendrik said. He placed the cloth in her mouth and tied the ends behind her head. It was tight and tasted like oil paint.

She tried frantically to speak though the gag, to tell them she wasn't a witch, and neither was Pim, and they were making a terrible mistake. But every word came out muffled and unintelligible.

Hendrik pulled the backpack from her shoulders and tied her hands together in front of her with stiff rope.

Claudia's eyes stung. A tear escaped and traversed her cheek. Didn't they burn witches back in the olden days? How could this be happening?

“She is just a girl,” Balthasar murmured.

Claudia nodded, eyes wide.

“And Pim the witch-son is just a boy,” Cornelis replied. “But look at the mark he has made on this land.”

“I have never heard of a witch-daughter,” Hendrik said.

“But neither is it reason for surprise,” Cornelis argued. “She claims the witch-son as a friend, she comes from the caves under the mountains—for all we know she speaks with monsters and commands the Fireside Angel itself. No. Perish she must.”

Balthasar lowered his sword a fraction. “But not by our hand, Cornelis. Remember what the Master commanded us.”

“Yes, of course!” Hendrik said, his voice tinged with hope. “The Master from Rijn bid us bring all witches and witch-servants to him for judgment.”

Balthasar dipped his sword even lower, his gaze fixed on Cornelis. “Our place is not as executioner, my friend, notwithstanding the pain the Sightless One has caused.”

Cornelis seemed to weigh something in his mind, scales that teetered this way and that.

Yes, yes, yes! Take me to the Master from Rijn,
Claudia pleaded silently. She had no idea what they were talking about, but it seemed like a better option than being executed here in the forest.

Reluctantly Cornelis sheathed his sword. “Very well. We take her to the Master from Rijn.”

Claudia felt Balthasar sigh and glimpsed his expression of relief as he turned away to gather the horses. She breathed her own sigh of relief, but the hopeless feeling in her stomach remained. She had narrowly escaped death twice in the same hour, but she was still a prisoner, and they still thought she was a witch.

They escorted Claudia between them as they led their horses to a stream to drink. Then they placed her on Balthasar's horse and Balthasar mounted behind her. And without further delay they set off at a trot.

Claudia's head whirled, trying to take in everything at once. Why did they call Pim the witch-son? Why were they afraid of him? Not just afraid—Cornelis seemed to hold a serious hatred for him. She couldn't imagine Pim having enemies, let alone doing something to actually deserve it. And where were they taking her? Who was this Master from Rijn?

Would he want to execute her, too?

She clutched at the horse's mane with her tied hands. She'd never ridden a horse before, and it surprised her how far up off the ground they were. She tried to take deep breaths—which wasn't easy with a gag in her mouth—and clear her head. She was every bit as terrified now as when the dragon was clawing at her heels, but at least now she had time to think. Hopefully the Master from Rijn would listen to reason.

After leaving the forest, they rode through a variety of terrain. Meadows came first, with grasses and blossoms and butterflies as thick as a flurry of snow. Next they encountered a rain forest, brief but humid and glistening. The trees formed a thick canopy above their heads as roots entangled one another across the path. Flower-growing vines punctuated the scene with brilliant colors, while the nooks and recesses off the path were dark and profound. It was like something from a dream.

No, not a dream. From a painting.

Rivers, wheat fields, a patch of desert. As Pim had suggested, it was as though the quilted landscape had been sewn together from different swatches of cloth.

And everything had an unusual sheen that reminded her of dried paint on canvas. She brought her hands up to her face and studied them. They had the same painted appearance as everything else. She could even make out tiny brushstrokes on her skin.

She was paint and canvas now, too.

Several hours passed. They began a gradual ascent through steep foothills peppered with crags and boulders. The shadows were long and ominous—late afternoon, perhaps.

They saw no one else as they traveled, only the occasional animal or bird. At one point, Claudia noticed a hawk perched low in a tree along their path, with reddish feathers and strong talons.
14
It stared at her with mismatched eyes, unabashed and unafraid. One eye was orange and looked like the kind you would expect on a bird. But the other was blue and bulged slightly from the bird's head, as if it didn't fit somehow. The eyes followed her as they passed.