IGMS Issue 2 (15 page)

Desperate confusion swirled in Osbert's mind. He was two months late with rent? "You'll get the money. It's just that my mother's sister is ill, and the leech-- "

"I thought you said it was your father's sister."

Had he said that? "This is a difficult time. Illness sweeping through my family's village." He coughed. Why did his chest hurt so?

The butcher took a step back. "You don't look well yourself."

"I'm fine. You'll get your money. Just give me some time."

"Hmph." The butcher turned and went down the stairs.

Osbert sat down on his cot.

"You seem ill, my love." Her voice was melodious, and Osbert felt better just hearing it.

"I'm just tired, is all." He lay back and closed his eyes. Late with the rent? Lying to his landlord? What was wrong with him?

He felt Her palm on his forehead. "You're burning up. It's a fever. You need help."

A fever? The apothecary could help. Yes, he must go to the apothecary.

He staggered down the stairs and out onto the street. He was exhausted by the time he reached the apothecary shop, and once inside he allowed himself to sink to the floor.

He awoke in a strange room, surrounded by portraits of Her. One of them smiled at him as he sat up.

"Where am I?" he asked Her.

Her shoulders shrugged slightly, but She did not answer.

Osbert walked unsteadily to the door, opened it and looked out. The scents of the apothecary shop met him. "Hallo?" he called out.

"Ah, you are recovered at last," said the apothecary from below. "We were quite worried about you."

"We?"

"The young lady of your portraits and I. Gave us quite a scare, you did."

"What am I doing here? What are my paintings doing here?"

"When you fell ill, you came to me. I then discovered that you were unable to pay the rent for your prior room, so I had everything brought here."

A fog seemed to lift from his mind. He walked down the stairs to confront the apothecary. "That was your fault. I couldn't pay the rent because I spent all my money on soul-paint."

"It does no good to blame me. It was all by your choice. How was I to know you were spending too much?"

Still weak in his legs, Osbert sat down on the floor.

"But you have no worries now, my boy. You can stay here with me, as I can spare the room."

"Thank you." Did he really want to stay here? Where else could he go? Then he remembered Her. "The portraits! She didn't talk to me, She only smiled."

"Yes, it's been too long. The power of your soul-paint is fading."

"I need more."

The apothecary smiled. "You are sure? Your soul is stretched so thin I estimate we'd need to take both legs now to have enough."

"Yes, I'm sure." She'd help nurse him back to health, so he owed it to Her to bring Her back to life.

The apothecary reached up for the saltcellar.

"I think I would like to see one of your landscapes," She said one morning.

"What?"

"You used to paint landscapes, did you not? I should very much like to see one. You have such a talent for painting."

"Then see one you shall. I'll go out and paint one today."

She smiled brightly. "Just for me?"

"Just for you."

He scraped an old canvas, removing one of Her lifeless portraits. After gathering his paints, he went downstairs.

"Going somewhere?" asked the apothecary, who was putting on his coat to leave.

"I'm going to paint a landscape."

The apothecary frowned. "Are you sure that's wise? The spring weather is rather damp, and you are still weak. There is illness about - I am going to treat someone even now."

"It's for Her. She wants to see a landscape."

"Ah, well if she wants it, how can you refuse? Just don't stay out too long."

He sat on his stool on the bank of the Avon. The canvas before him held only a half-hearted charcoal sketch. It had been so long since he had done a landscape that nothing seemed right.

"Trouble painting?" A man's voice came from behind him.

Osbert turned to see an elderly monk from the abbey. "Yes, I'm afraid I'm somewhat out of practice."

The monk nodded. "I recall having seen you painting many a day last year, but not in recent months."

"I've been ill."

"Ah."

The silence stretched. Osbert raised his charcoal to the canvas, then brought it back down. He turned to look at the monk again. "Is it a sin to paint a portrait of . . . of a young lady?"

The monk raised his eyebrows. "I've never been asked that before."

"Is it?"

"The Muslim believes all images of people are prohibited. And I've read of primitive tribes that believe an image can trap the soul of the person portrayed. But portraiture in itself is not against the laws of Christ."

Osbert nodded gratefully, though the talk of souls trapped in images came uncomfortably close to his secret.

"But this young lady whose portrait you paint - is there perhaps more to it than that? Is that what troubles you?"

Suddenly Osbert no longer wanted to talk to this monk. He stood up. "I've been outside too long. I must get back. My health, you understand."

The monk nodded. "May God speed your recovery."

In the middle of the night Osbert awoke to pounding on the door of the shop. He heard the apothecary call out that he was coming.

"I wonder who is ill tonight." Her voice was concerned.

"I'll find out," he said. Rising from his bed, he opened the door and crept out to sit on the stairs and eavesdrop.

A man was speaking, an edge of desperation in his voice. "- grows ever weaker. It's as if the very life were being drained from her body."

The apothecary's voice was sympathetic. "I don't know what else is to be done but help her sleep better. This illness is beyond my power to aid."

"I don't understand it. My daughter was always a picture of health, until last autumn."

"It is most mysterious."

"Is there nothing in your books? Please, you must help my Amelia. I'll pay whatever you ask."

"I am sorry," said the apothecary. "Take this powder to ease her rest. That is all I can do."

Osbert barely heard the door of the shop shut. His mind was awhirl. Amelia. Was this coincidence? No. His portraits of Her were somehow harming the real young woman, drawing the life out of her. He tried to reject the thought, but he remembered the primitive belief the monk had mentioned about images trapping the soul of the person portrayed. The apothecary had mentioned it, too, Osbert recalled now. It had to be true - he was the cause of Amelia's suffering.

He rose to his feet and descended the stairs. The apothecary was sitting in his chair behind the counter. On seeing Osbert, he rose to his feet.

Clenching his fists, Osbert said, "What have you done to Amelia?"

"I've done nothing to the young lady."

"It's me, isn't it? My portraits are stealing pieces of her soul."

"You imagine things, dear boy. Go back to bed and get some rest." The apothecary didn't look him in the eye.

"How do I set things right?"

The apothecary sighed. "You can't. By painting her image with the soul-paint, you have robbed that girl of most of her soul, binding it permanently away from her. She will die shortly, and it is your obsession that has killed her."

What could Osbert do? "I'll destroy the paintings. Burn them all."

"Ignorant child. You are dealing with magics of the soul. Mere flames cannot break such bindings."

Osbert lunged forward and grabbed at the apothecary, who broke the grip with ease and pushed him to the floor.

Tears of hopelessness welled in his eyes, then began to flow down his cheeks. "Dear God, what have I done?"

The apothecary laughed. "Yes, now you call out to Him. Far too late, of course."

Wiping at the tears on his face, Osbert realized he was damned. Step by step, he had brought ruin upon himself and Amelia.

And then as he licked at his lips, he tasted his tears. Salt. The Salt of Judas.

He rose to his feet. The apothecary had moved to the doorway and was bolting it shut. Osbert climbed up on the counter and grabbed the saltcellar from the top shelf behind it. The apothecary spotted him as he climbed down from the counter.

"What are you doing? Give that back!" The apothecary's voice was angry.

Osbert ran up the stairs to his room, locked the door and pulled off his nightshirt.

"Stop!" yelled the apothecary from below.

Ordinary flames might not burn the paintings and release the pieces of Amelia's soul, but perhaps the magical fire of his burning soul could. He hurriedly piled the portraits of Amelia in the middle of the room as the apothecary banged on the door. He could hear the voice of the portraits asking what he was doing.

Lying back on the portraits, he unscrewed the top of the saltcellar and spilled the salt upon his chest.

His body spasmed as gouts of pale fire spread from his chest. The pain twisted his mind and all reason fled. All that remained was the desire to destroy the portraits. Flames surrounded him and then all went dark.

As he returned to consciousness, he felt a burning sensation over most of his body. The scent of smoke filled his nostrils. This must be hell, his eternal destiny. As he opened his eyes, though, he saw the old monk leaning over him, not a devil.