Wolf Moon Rising (38 page)

on tight. He thrashed about, heaving his body, trying to jerk

himself loose.

Jackie felt her heart speed up. Th

e scene was bizarre, like a

variety show that was a mockery of the party. Th

e band was play-

ing something jarring, discordant.

Baby face. You’ve got the cutest little baby face
.

Where was David? She had been sure she would fi nd him

when she came back outside. Surely he was anxious about her by

now. She looked back at the magician still twisting his body in

the cage. She felt she must do something to save him. But she

was helpless to break the glass. Something stood between her

and the world, something that fi lled her with dread.

She approached the stage and looked into the man’s terri-

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fi ed eyes. All around her the crowd shouted derisive insults and

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laughed contemptuously. She turned to see faces contorted by

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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

scorn, mouths open in ugly ridicule. “It’s all a fake!” they

screamed.

Th

en coming from far down the road the sound of police

sirens caught the crowd by surprise, and one by one they turned

their heads away from the magic show to search for the cause

of the alarms. A wave of trepidation seemed to wash over the

entire audience, tearing their collective attention away from

the magician and his plight. Murmuring and glancing at one

another in concern, they moved off in pairs and groups of three

and four to circle the house, until only a few remained to witness the end of the trick.

Liz broke out of her trance and said, “Oh, no. Don’t tell me.

Th

e fools!” under her breath, then turned to Jackie and whis-

pered, “I’ve got to fi nd Daddy.” She grabbed Jackie by the hand

and cried out, “Come on. Hurry.”

Jackie saw a line of black Model A police wagons lining the

driveway, at least six or seven, with the cops spilling out of

them, all carry ing pistols or tommy guns, and several policemen

with megaphones shouting, “All right, everybody. Th

is is a raid.

Stay where you are and nobody will get hurt. Nobody leave. You

are all under arrest.”

David heard the commotion and ran to the terrace. He saw

the police surrounding the lawn, guns raised and voices

blaring. “Halt! Th

is is a raid! Everyone back inside the house!”

Horns were blasting and people screaming, and all David

could think was that he had to fi nd Jackie. He wondered where

she could be in the streams of people and cars moving past the

front of the house. Th

en he remembered the view from his room

in the tower, how it aff orded a panorama of the driveway, the

great lawn, and even the sea. He raced for the stair, climbed

them two treads at a time, and in seconds he was standing at the

door outside his own room.

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But it would not be his room. And there was a strange

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Lara Parker

humming coming from inside. He tried the door only to fi nd it

locked. Exasperated, he jiggled the handle before he noticed a

key hanging from a hook on the wall. Whoever was in there

had been locked inside.

After using the key, he opened the door a crack and took a

look. At fi rst he was startled by the odor of linseed oil and tur-

pentine. Th

en in the dim lamplight coming through the win-

dows he was able to make out rectangular objects stacked in

twos and threes against the walls; they were paintings, most of

them in dark colors.

Close to the windows, his back to the door, sat an old man

at work before an easel. He was humming a tuneless melody in

a dry, ragged voice. He wore a soiled gray shirt, and his long

tangled white hair fell below his shoulders. Now David remem-

bered what the gypsy had said.
He lives in the tower.

“Excuse me,” said David. Th

e man did not turn but stopped

humming and held his brush poised over the canvas, listening.

“Charles Delaware Tate?” said David. “Are you the artist

Charles Delaware Tate?”

“You bring food?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t. Sorry.” David could see the portrait on

the easel of a young man with long black hair seated in front of

a bowl of apples. Th

e drawing was skillful, especially the eyes,

the most fi nished part of the sketch; the eyes and the apples

both gleamed with an internal source of light, and both seemed

surprisingly realistic until he realized he had seen it wrong. Th

e

man’s face was a skull, and the eyes were hollow. David felt the

hair rise on the back of his scalp.

“What do you want, boy?”

“Mr. Tate? Please excuse me for interrupting your work,

but . . . but I need to ask you something.” David looked around

at the paintings, still lifes of commonplace objects such as books, coins, rocks or shells, or fruit and fl owers, all so real they might

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have still held their fragrance. Th

ere were other paintings as

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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

well, images where the black oil paint was still damp, paintings

of skulls with the Dev il’s eyes.

Far below, the din of horns, sirens, and shouting through

megaphones provided a surreal accompaniment to the scene in

the shadowed room.

“Listen,” said the paint er. “Th

ey are at the gates!”

Th

en Tate returned to his work as if David were not there,

dipped his brush to his palette, and lifted the tip to the canvas.

He began to hum again, or to breathe out loud, a mournful

raspy sound. David gathered his courage to speak.

“Mr. Tate, I wonder whether you still have the portrait,

well actually, the second portrait you made— oh, I guess it was

a long time ago— of Quentin Collins? You see the fi rst one has

been destroyed by time and the weather, and I think—”

“It has lost its magic!”

Th

e artist dropped his brush and made a long gurgling sigh,

like an animal choking. “Ah, I knew he would be careless.”

Th

en he slowly turned to look at David. Th

e boy gasped and

stepped back. Th

e paint er’s eyes were opaque and silver blue,

covered with a dense membrane. He was blind!

David struggled to speak. “Mr. Tate, if you do still have the

painting, it would be great if I could have it. You see, a girl I

know needs to fi nd it. I know it sounds strange, but the one we

found is so torn and eaten by rats—”

Th

e paint er uttered a gasp, “My . . . masterpiece.”

“Yes. Th

at’s right. I know.” David felt helpless. “I— I don’t

have money to pay for it, but just believe that it is . . . that it would make someone very happy— ecstatic, even.”

“Did you lock the door? Because they are coming!”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Who?”

“Th

ey want my paintings for the walls of their tombs!”

David didn’t know how to answer. “Yes, I . . . I know artists

from the early days, like Egypt, painted still lifes to bury in

graves.” He was babbling. Trying to hold the paint er’s attention.

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“I guess they painted objects the dead might carry with them

into eternity.”

“Aaaah, you have it!” Th

e paint er became animated. “A still

life for the afterlife. For that I sold my soul.”

Th

e paint er rose and walked slowly toward a heap of can-

vases in the far corner of the room. His body was hunched with

age, and his white hair was like dry hay, fl aring out from his

head; he resembled a mythological creature more than a human

being. His long ragged robe dragged on the fl oor and his feet

made no sound. When he reached the stack of paintings, he

mumbled to himself and traced each frame with shaking fi ngers

as he folded them back. Th

en he stopped and said, “Aaaah,”

staring into space. Slowly he tugged one of the canvases loose,

and lifted it out. David’s heart bolted.

It was Quentin, not as a young man— not as young as the

man in the library— but still strikingly handsome, in a dark blue

morning coat with a ruffl

ed white jabot.

“Is this the one you want?”

“Yes,” David said, “Th

at’s Quentin. Oh my God, that’s it!”

Th

e artist carried the painting to the window and placed it

on the sill. His voice when he spoke was like singing, moving

up and down the scales. David wondered whether he was nearly

deaf as well. “Once I painted portraits,” he said, “until I lost my sight. Th

is one was the last.”

“Will you part with it?”

“Why? It is worthless. It is not fi nished.”

“Still . . . I would like to have it.”

Th

e paint er sighed. “Sometimes something in the world is

so beautiful it brings sadness instead of joy. Like a fl ower, its

beauty breathes but for a moment and then is gone. Loss of

beauty can break a heart.” Th

en the paint er dropped his head

and said so softly David could barely hear, “I loved him.”

David waited, not knowing how to answer.

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After a moment the paint er cried out, “Tell me. Is it there?

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All the life of the gutter? All the depravity?”

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“No. He is quite handsome, actually.” And then David

saw something disturbing. “Except for the eyes,” he said.

“Th

e eyes are dark. No, I can see the lashes. Quentin’s eyes are

closed.”

Th

e paint

er gazed inwardly, deep in thought, before he

reached again for his brush. Th

en he said, almost as an after-

thought, “Ah yes, I remember now. Th

e eyes are closed. Perhaps

he sleeps. What do you think?”

“I . . . I think he sleeps, yes.”

“You do know an artist cannot create the same painting

twice. And he was not worthy of my gift. So, this time I made a

little improvement. I did not want him to see the squalor he

wandered through. But then I am blind myself, you see. So, I

was not able to . . . fi nish the painting. It does not matter. See how beautiful is the paint!”

“Yes, it is quite fi ne.”

“Here is Quentin in a moment of fl eeting perfection, pre-

served for all eternity. Still, it will not break the spell.”

“Th

e spell?”

“Yes, the curse of the full moon. Isn’t that what you want,

boy?”

David stood for a moment bewildered, not knowing what

to do. He watched the old man settle onto his stool and hunch

over his canvas. Over the paint er’s head he could see the great

lawn that stretched to the sea, the vista he had looked out upon

so often when he was a boy.

He walked to the window and looked down, hoping for a

glimpse of Jackie. Many cars were driving hurriedly, their head-

lights fl ashing and horns blaring. Th

en, to his surprise, in the dark

part of the road, he saw the gypsy’s wagon moving slowly away

from the house. It was painted with moons and stars and patterns

of many colors beneath an arched roof with a delicately carved

border. Magda was in the wagon seat holding the reins of a brown

draft horse, a steed with a heavy mane and shaggy fetlocks. Th

e

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gypsy’s gold bangles glinted in the light of the many lamps, and

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then she turned and looked up at the window. She seemed to

catch his eye for an instant, because she nodded and smiled.

David turned back into the room. Th

e paint er was absorbed

with his work, and he did not seem to remember that David was

there. Stealthily, David crept toward Quentin’s portrait, then,

holding his breath, he quietly lifted it from the easel and, carry-

ing it close to his hip, tiptoed to the door. Just as he was making an exit the paint er said softly, “Take it, if you must. But the

portrait is worthless. It is not signed.” Still, David clung to his trea sure, unable to believe his good fortune, and slowly closed

the door behind him.

Jackie heard the harsh shouts of police demanding coopera-

tion, but they seemed to have only unleashed general hyste-

ria with frantic couples clinging to one another as they ran for

safety, and partygoers racing for their cars and starting their

engines. A yellow Rolls pulled out fi rst, braked, then turned in

a circle only to sideswipe a beautiful blue Cadillac before crash-

ing head on into a black Ford. Th

e roar of engines starting up

was mixed with the commotion of horns blaring, brakes squeal-

ing, and fenders being smashed.