Behind the Canvas (14 page)

Claudia nodded. She leaned her head against the wall behind the bench and closed her eyes. The Creators. That must be their name for Granny Custos and the Renaissance
Artisti
who organized this world. Flashes came to her of the dining room in Granny Custos's house. The warm light, the rich smells. Had it really been just last night? When she was so determined to help Pim? Her friend?

She opened her eyes. “You said I shouldn't judge Pim by his past, only by his potential. What does he have potential to do?”

“Like all of us, his true potential is unknown. But I believe he has the power to help in our war with the Sightless One.”

“Why are you going to fight Nee Gezicht?” Claudia asked. “What has she done to you?”

“The Sightless One has remained alive for ages. Unnaturally. Long ago, she discovered the power to harness another
Artisti
's will.”

“Their will?”

“Your will is where your heart connects with your mind. It is your ability to choose for yourself. Your motivation to be and become. Your will is what truly gives you life. Now, the wills of
Artisti
can connect with the stream of magic that runs through everything. That is what makes them special. The Sightless One seeks out other
Artisti
because if she can harness their wills, they add to her own. She draws from a will's power, extending her life, until that will is depleted and cast aside like the rind of a melon.”

“She sucks on other people's wills until they're dried up? Dead? And that's how she's lived so long?” This Nee Gezicht sounded more and more evil with every person Claudia spoke to.

“Indeed. Living off the wills of other
Artisti
. She has always had a presence in our lands, yet it had been distant and passing. But some time ago her interest intensified. She began gathering spies, followers, those who would do her bidding. It was once safe to travel our roads but no longer. And now rumors have surfaced that she is gathering an army to the South. She means to conquer this world, or at least as much of it as she can.”

The three Dutchmen had seemed so suspicious of Claudia. That was starting to make sense. “Why would Nee Gezicht want this world? Granny Custos and Pim said it's misery for a real person to live here for very long.”

“You are correct. It is not her goal to live here. She does not seek territory or land. Not really. What she wants are the inhabitants. We are a painted people, but we are alive. We also have wills, albeit wisps compared to yours. And since it is magic that gives us life, our wills are also closely connected to that magic. I believe the Sightless One has found a way to harness the wills of the people in this world. To feed off them as she does with those of the
Artisti
. But she would need many of our wills to give her life. And so she seeks to enslave us.”

Whoa. This was too much for Claudia. She had come to steal a—what was the word? A
raccolta
. A staff from a cruel woman who had trapped her friend. Now she was supposed to take on the leader of armies who wanted to enslave an entire world. A world of painted people. What was she doing here?

Again, images of Granny Custos's dining room leaped to her mind. She was here for one thing.

“Listen.” She pointed a finger at Rembrandt. “I don't know who you think Pim is or what he's done, but he's my friend. I'm going to help him. I don't want to strike a blow or start a war, and I sure as heck don't want to spend longer here than I have to because I've almost been killed twice and that's two times too many for me, you know?”

She paused for a breath. “But I do need your help. I need to find Pim.”

“And before you came to this world, how did you expect to find him?” Rembrandt placed his chin in his hand and raised an eyebrow.

Claudia described the plan she had made with Pim in the museum, adding just enough details to explain where things had gone wrong. She looked at Rembrandt expectantly.

“Well, I certainly do not know where he is,” the old man said. “This world is immense, child. You came in one window, and he waits at another. What hope do you possibly have?” He tilted his head slightly, and she detected the challenge in his statement.

Think, Claudia, think
. Her stomach growled, which made thinking that much harder. “If I stay put, he definitely doesn't know where to find me. He may not even know what window I came through. But we were both going to travel to the window that leads into Nee Gezicht's home. If I head in that direction, he may have the same idea.” It wasn't much, but it was a start. “Do you know where I can find a window into Nee Gezicht's house? Where she lives in the real world?”

Rembrandt leaned forward. “Most here dare not have an interest in the window-paintings. Such places are shrouded in superstition and avoided like a plague. But there are a few. And I have heard tell that an entrance to her dwelling lies to the South, in the desert. I do not know more than that.”

“Is it far?”

“By some roads, yes. By others, no. But any road watched by the servants of the Sightless One makes for a long journey. It will not be without peril.”

Claudia sighed. “And then if I do find Pim, that's when the real danger starts.” The grueling day squeezed down on her brain, making her temples hurt. “How am I supposed to do this?” she murmured.

Rembrandt shoved his stein to the side and leaned forward. “Have you already forgotten what we've discussed this evening?” he whispered. “Synergy, my dear girl. It occurs with paint and canvas but more so with people. Therein lies the wonder of friendship. Two small insignificant beings can suddenly master the world—or at least their own troubles—when they care enough for each other.”

She stared again into the granite eyes of the old man. “If Pim is a witch-son, can he really care about friendship?”

Rembrandt slowly shook his head as though she wasn't understanding. “Shades and hues and layers of brushstrokes. There is no black and white.”

As she considered that, her stomach growled again. She reached into her backpack and grabbed the box of cereal bars, but it was empty. She must have been hungrier than she thought at the museum. “Can you take me south? To the desert?”

“No. I am not a traveler, not in my old age.” He thumped the table. “But I agree, your task would be easier if you had a guide.”

He turned toward the table of gambling dogs in the adjacent room and called out, “Cash!”

The white bulldog snapped his head around with more annoyance on his face than Claudia could have imagined in an animal. But when the dog saw who had called, he hesitated for a moment, then put down his cards and said something to the other dogs at the table. He leaped from the chair and trotted on all fours to the booth where Claudia and Rembrandt sat. Several of the dogs watched him leave, mumbling to themselves, including a Saint Bernard with a bell around his neck. The Saint Bernard's eyes were a mismatched brown and forest green.

“What can I do for you, old-timer?” The bulldog spoke gruffly, like the elderly crossing guard near Claudia's school who practically pushed the kids across the road.

“Our friend here needs to go south,” Rembrandt said. “I need you to show her the way.”

Cash bent a forepaw up and removed the cigar from his mouth. “South? What the heck does a sweet little kid like this need to go south for? And how far south are we talkin'? 'Cause I ain't going
all
the way south, if you know what I mean. Them places down there give me the quivers.” His body convulsed as if shaking off water.

“She's heading to the desert, past the Southern Forest.”

The dog studied the cigar stub in his paw for a moment. “I'll take her as far as the forest, but not a step more. Do I gotta bring her back, too?”

“No, she will be meeting a friend there.”

Cash scratched behind his ear with a hind foot. “Yeah, I suppose I could do that. But I sure as heck ain't going into that forest. You heard what I said about the quivers.” His body convulsed again. He looked at Claudia. “You carry greenbacks on you, sweetheart? 'Cause I don't accept personal checks.”

Rembrandt raised a hand before she could reply. “Consider it the last installment of the debt you owe me,” he said to the dog.

Cash grunted and looked at the floor but then nodded his head.

“Very well,” replied Rembrandt. “When will you be ready to go?”

Cash gestured back toward the poker table. “Lenny and I are on fire tonight. You're gonna have to wait 'til tomorrow morning.” Without another word the dog returned to his seat.

Rembrandt stood slowly, stretching his limbs. “I must go. You can stay here tonight—the café does not close.”

Claudia gestured over to the little dog at the table. “Is that really the best we can do?”

“He knows the lay of the land. He is trustworthy.”

Questions spun through Claudia's mind. There was still so much she didn't understand but felt like she should.

“Travel with caution,” Rembrandt said, buttoning his brown overcoat. “You have not chosen an easy foe, my dear. And that is something we share.”

He extended his hand. “Yet, in the end, I do not doubt you will succeed.”

She shook his hand, feeling weary as she saw her journey grow longer and more difficult. “How do you know?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he bowed slightly. “You forget—I am the Master from Rijn.” With that he turned and scuffed through the door to the outer patio and then into the night.

Claudia crossed to the door and let her eyes follow the shuffling old master until his dark form meshed with the dark of the night. She sighed deeply, thinking over all that had happened since she and Pim arrived at the museum. Other than actually entering the world behind the canvas, none of it had brought her any closer to freeing Pim. And now doubts lingered in the back of her mind about whether she should.

On the other side of the square, the wide building burst with celebration. She was tempted to cross the snowy square and peek in through the door, but the air was cold and she was tired. She needed rest.

Inside the café, the crowd was starting to thin, although the dogs were still at it. Claudia passed by an abandoned table that had yet to be cleared and swiped a leftover hunk of brown bread. She seated herself at the corner booth and, not receiving even a glance from the waiter, made herself comfortable. She pushed her backpack to one end of the bench and laid her head on it as a pillow.

She looked at the hunk of bread in her hand, brown and coarse but still soft. Thinking hard on her conversation with Rembrandt, she bit into it and began chewing.

The bread
felt
like bread; it was coarse and became moist as she chewed it. But as she did so the wheaty-yeasty taste she expected never came. Instead the bread flooded her mouth with a strong and bitter mineral flavor.

She had once eaten an entire serving of liver and onions because her grandmother told her she couldn't have ice cream until she cleared her plate. She'd also heard about a boy at school who, on a bet, licked a wall that had just been painted.

This was worse than both of those experiences. Combined.

She sat up and spat it out, expecting to see that it had turned into something nasty in her mouth. But it simply looked like a sticky brown wad of chewed bread.

She looked at the loaf in her hand, turning it over. She gave the hard crust a tentative lick and wrinkled her nose. “It's paint.” Mulling over the aftertaste in her mouth, she knew there was no way she could force it down. Not to think about what it might do to her stomach. But what if all food in this world tasted like paint?

Claudia tossed the bread onto a plate and collapsed onto her backpack. “I'm going to starve to death,” she whispered. “If dragons and witches don't get me first.”

 

C
HAPTER
14

C
LAUDIA SLEPT
in Van Gogh's Night Café. Or rather, she lay on a bench hoping to fall asleep, but sleep never came.

At first, her mind was simply too caught up in the events of the day. She forced herself to relax and tried not to think of anything. Time passed and she was still awake. She tried making herself more comfortable, which wasn't easy to do on the hard wooden bench. She tried counting sheep, but that had never worked for her back home, either. The night dragged on, and Claudia marveled at how quickly time passes when you're asleep, and how quickly it doesn't when you're not.

At one point late in the night—or early in the morning—she pulled the art book and the nail polish and the extra underwear from her backpack and stuck her head inside as she lay down on the bench. It kept things dark, if a little stuffy, which at least helped her pretend to sleep.

When she finally emerged, she was surprised to find Cash lying on his back on the floor nearby, the brightness of day streaming in through the café windows. The bulldog's legs were spread in all directions, the cigar stub still held tightly between his jaws. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow.

“He obviously doesn't have a problem with it,” she mumbled. She felt the tiredness in her eyes, the weariness in her body. She thought back to the questions Granny Custos had asked Pim when they met in her dining room.

Do your eyes yearn for sleep?

Always.

And your stomach—teased by bread that doesn't fill?

Yes.

She and Pim didn't belong in this world.

She packed up her things and hesitantly nudged Cash with her foot. He stirred but didn't wake. She nudged him again and called his name.

“King, queen, and jack,” he mumbled, opening half an eye. “Don't tell me you're a morning person.”

“Well, we have a long way to go today and I can't do it by myself.”