Painted Blind

by Michelle Hansen

  Pixis whinnied and took two deep thrusts with his wings. We flew toward a marble palace perched on the cliff. In front the palace overhung the cliff supported by angular pillars anchored in the rock. It seemed to be a single, expansive room and covered balcony sitting in the air. This room faced the valley, and open on the balcony were double doors and windows with heavy wooden shutters but no glass shimmering in the sun.

  In back the palace followed the natural plateau of the mountain. Beyond its massive rooflines were extensive gardens and orchards. Tiny horizontal lines made a winding path from the palace to the valley below, and as we drew near, I saw that they were hundreds of marble stairs.

  In a courtyard with perfectly groomed flowerbeds, Pixis landed and folded his wings. He crossed to a fountain, dipped his head and drank. At the center of the fountain was a marble statue of a woman with flowing hair. Her left arm reached to the east, while her right arm cradled a chubby infant. The marble was carved into delicate folds on her dress, and a pendant around her neck showed the detail of cut gems and a crest.

  I slid from the horse’s back and touched one of the child’s hands, so realistic I half expected it to close around my finger. “It looks like Cupid, minus the wings,” I observed.

  Pixis snorted and made waves in the fountain’s basin. He turned abruptly and galloped a few steps before launching himself into the air.

  “Hey, where are you going?” I called after him, but he disappeared over the roof.

  I moved toward the enormous house. “Hello? Anyone here?” When no one answered, I ventured into the open-air foyer. My steps echoed on the stone floor. “You’ve got to be joking,” I said aloud. “This is Erik’s house?”

  Still hesitant, I moved through the foyer into the massive hall, where the high ceiling was held by marble pillars. I found a ballroom, a dining room with a table to seat fifty and an enormous service kitchen. Though elegant with shimmering white stone and dark-wood furniture, the palace was oddly cold in a climate so warm. My footsteps and whispers echoed off the walls. It felt like a museum, so different from the rugged comfort of my dad’s house.

  I spent the whole morning exploring and still didn’t see the entire palace. A hallway behind the stairs housed over a dozen doors. I stopped at one and turned the knob. Inside was a large bedroom with a poster bed and matching armoire, both masterfully carved.

  The walls of the bedroom were frescoed with scenes of a village in summer. The houses lining the street were small with tidy yards and low fences. The women in the fresco wore drape gowns reminiscent of the ancient Greeks. The men were similarly dressed in half-robes. Over their shoulders they wore colored sashes belted at the waist. Their skin was golden. Most had light brown or blond hair.

  Watching the scene from a tree perch was a child about five years old. His gaze held a mixture of wonder and intelligent study. The painter illustrated the child’s profile with a small nose, smooth golden-brown hair and a slight curve of the lips, not quite a smile. He was larger than the other people, closer in the perspective of the painting and clearly the focal point. This one fresco was as magnificent as any work of art I had seen in Rome or Florence, and it was innocently hidden in a bedroom off the dim back hall.

  I wandered out and found other bedrooms, all furnished the same with magnificently frescoed walls.

  The last door in the hallway was a vast storage room. Oil paintings draped in canvas lined one entire wall. I pulled back a single drape to reveal a dozen paintings, all framed. I lifted one from the row. It was an ocean scene. The one behind it was a still life of a kitchen window with herbs growing in the background. I continued down the rows. The paintings grew more accomplished with each row.

  The last row included a battle scene with a fierce figure at the center. His flowing golden hair contrasted sharply with his severe expression. At the soldier’s feet were half a dozen bodies, and his raised sword glowed red. The figures weren’t dressed like the ones in the frescoes. These wore tattered, dark pants and loose shirts. They were from my world.

  In the lower right corner of the painting was the artist’s signature. It was not a name but an ornate E. I sifted through the stacks, pulling paintings randomly: a pastoral, a winged-horse in flight, a ship on a stormy sea, more still lives, several portraits. All had the same signature—the decorative E.

  “Erik?” I wondered.

  On the other side of the room various sculptures and busts cluttered shelves along the wall. One sculpture was of a woman’s hands. Each knuckle and vein was represented in perfect detail, as if the hands had been cast and the statue molded from the forms. When I lifted it from the shelf, I was sure it was marble. It had been carved. Under the base was the same ornate E. I carefully set the statue back on the shelf and continued through the room. I found stacks of hand-written musical compositions, discarded instruments, whittlings in wood, dozens of bows with quivers of arrows, and a sword with a handle inlaid with gems. It was enough stuff to stock a museum, and everything was marked with that single initial.

  By the time I wandered from the storage room, my stomach was grumbling. I guessed it was afternoon, but I wasn’t wearing a watch, and there was not a single clock in the house. Adjacent to the service kitchen I found a smaller kitchen which contained brick ovens, shelves of pottery and a work island. Herbs grew in the window boxes. Rolled strips of cinnamon bark were hung to dry on one wall, and a door at the back of the kitchen opened into the orchard. The trees were laden with citrus, and that sweet scent mixed with the spice in the kitchen. Erik carried the scent of this place with him when he came to my world.

  I ate bread and cheese, which I found in a pantry. I was about to venture into the orchard for oranges but I heard voices, and I hid in the doorway.

  There were seven boys ages about ten to nineteen. The older boys pulled wooden crates along at their feet, then hoisted the younger ones into the branches of the trees. The smaller boys picked the fruit and rolled it down a heavy sheet of fabric into the crates below. They were speaking a strange language and laughing as they worked their way up the row toward me. They all had golden skin and flawless features.

  The most handsome among them was about fifteen with sandy hair and bright blue eyes. As I leaned on the window sill to get a better look at him, he glanced up and saw me. Caught, I jerked out of sight. When I ventured another peek at the window, he was no longer in the orchard, but standing right outside, setting oranges on the window sill.

  My cheeks felt hot. I kept my back to the wall so he couldn’t see me and waited until he was gone before I grabbed one of the oranges from the ledge. Now I moved more carefully through the palace in case there were maids lurking in the vast rooms.

  Upstairs I found where Erik actually lived. There were six large rooms on the upper level. One was a grand living area with the coolest piece of furniture I’d ever seen. It was as long as a couch, but stretched forward like a chaise lounge. Pillowed on the back and sides, it became a combination between a huge comfortable chair and a bed. I couldn’t help throwing myself down on its inviting cushions. Next to the couch were high-backed chairs and a table stacked with books. I pulled a stack of books onto my lap and inspected the titles. One was a modern suspense novel—a New York Times bestseller. Another was a college mythology textbook. The other three were printed in a script I couldn’t read. I assumed it was the written language of Erik’s world. If I thought the library down the hall was just for decoration, I now knew otherwise. In addition to being an accomplished artist, Erik was well read in both our worlds.

  Not knowing what else to do, I opened the novel, the obvious choice over textbook mythology, but somewhere in the third chapter I fell asleep.

  “Psyche?”

  At the sound of his voice, I sat up with a start. It was dark, and he was silhouetted in the doorway. I had slept for hours.

  He joined me on the couch, stretched out his long legs beside mine and shed his leather jacket. Even in the dark, I could tell he was wearing jeans and
a T-shirt, which was oddly comforting after a day in a strange world.

  “This is some house,” I said.

  “Cozy, isn’t it?” he replied.

  “You forgot to mention that you were a prince.”

  “I’m not. Why are you sitting here with the windows closed?”

  “They’re open,” I said and pointed to the two small windows at the end of the room.

  He chuckled. “You’ve missed the best thing about this room, and the entire reason for this couch sitting here.” He stood and walked the length of the room, drawing all the floor-to-ceiling curtains to one side. It was too dark to see what lay behind them until he opened the latches and they swung outward, revealing that the far wall was not a wall at all, but three sets of massive double doors. “The view.”

  From the couch I could see the waves crashing on the reef. The white caps glowed in the moonlight. Most surprising was how forcefully the sound traveled into the room without the thick doors. If I closed my eyes, it sounded like I was standing on the beach with the waves rushing at my feet.

  Erik settled beside me with a sigh. “There’s something hypnotic about watching the waves roll in.” He picked up the book I left open beside me. “Did you go to the beach today?”

  “No.”

  “Tour the kingdom?”

  I didn’t answer.

  His voice grew irritated. “You didn’t go to the village or explore the valley?”

  His anger stole my voice, and I whispered, “No.”

  “You just stayed in the house alone all day?”

  “I didn’t know if you wanted anyone to see me,” I answered, recovering myself.

  “Don’t expect me to believe that,” he said sharply. “The truth is you were afraid to be seen.” He tossed the book onto the table and leaned back on his elbows. “What could possibly have held your interest all day?”

  “There was one peculiar storage room downstairs full of paintings…”

  He groaned. “Of all the places to snoop, you chose that room.”

  “You’re an amazing artist.”

  “I am not!” he scoffed. “Those are stored behind closed doors for a reason.”

  “I’ve been through the Louvre and the cathedrals of Italy. Don’t tell me I don’t know a masterpiece when I see one.”

  “A masterpiece in your world maybe. Consider this. The greatest painters of your world lived sixty or seventy years? If they began painting in their childhood, they would paint fifty or sixty years at the most, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “And you attend school for twelve years?”

  “Thirteen,” I corrected, “if you count kindergarten.”

  “Thirteen years, plus four or five years for a bachelor’s degree. Add another two to eight for advanced degrees and you would attend school for twenty-six years. You’d be highly educated as far as your society was concerned.”

  “Yeah,” I answered, thinking that twenty-six years sounded like an unbearably long time, and that maybe I’d just stick to high school and a bachelor’s.

  “Here we are educated from age five to age fifteen. Fifteen is the legal age to buy property, marry and choose a profession.”

  “A thousand years?” That was a lot of homework. “But why? If you grow up in a single age and then live forever…”

  “No, I thought I explained this to you. It takes a child five hundred annum to grow to the stature of your five-year-olds. To us, your world lives at the speed of light.”

  I thought of the baby in the fountain. “You were in diapers for a very long time.”

  He held up his wrist and pressed a button to light his watch. “Speaking of time, I should take you to the portal. It’s getting late, in your world, that is.”

  “And here?”

  “Here time doesn’t matter.”

  He led me through the hallway to the large door at the end. “What’s in here?”

  “This is my room.”

  The dark recesses of the room spread before us on all sides. “It looks big.” I balked at the doorway.

  “We’re just passing through.” He tugged on my hand with a chuckle. Across the room stood another open set of wooden doors, which revealed the balcony I’d seen overhanging the cliff.

  “Way out of my comfort zone now,” I said.

  “That fear of heights is inconvenient. Stand here against the wall. There’s no railing and we’re hundreds of feet above the valley floor.”

  “That’s kind of stupid.” I clutched the wall, but there was no good hand-hold on the slick stone. “Why would you have a balcony with no railing hundreds of feet over a cliff?”

  In reply Erik blew his wooden whistle, and a shimmer of white flew through the night. Pixis landed with a rush of wind and clatter of hooves on the balcony. “You first.” Erik offered me his hand, but I grabbed a fistful of Pixis’s mane and swung my leg over without help. “The advantages of being tall,” he mused as he pulled himself up behind me. Erik gripped Pixis’s mane with both hands and squeezed me between his arms. “This is the fun part. Hold on.”

  I was already holding onto Pixis’s mane, but I was completely unprepared when he dove off the balcony. I screamed, my entire body tightening in terror, until the horse unfurled the fan of his wings and caught us with a mighty whip of air.

  Erik squeezed me tighter. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.” He was holding on as much with his legs as with his hands. His knees pressed against mine to keep me balanced on the animal’s back. “Please take us to the portal, Pixis.”

  We soared over the valley, but all that showed below was the river sparkling in the moonlight and an occasional lit window. The stars shimmered so close I imagined I could catch one in my hand. At the edge of the woods we landed, and Erik took my hand.

  He went with me through the portal and showed me where he’d stashed my Subaru. He veiled himself until we were inside the car and he’d put out the dome light, then he appeared like a shadow beside me. Halfway down the mountain my cell phone regained service, and I pulled over to call home.

  Dad picked up on the first ring. “Psyche, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Dad. Is it safe to come home?” I asked.

  His voice grew angry. “No! There are hundreds of people on the street. They’ve been chanting, ‘We want Venus.’ Don’t come anywhere near this house.”

  “Okay, I…”

  He interrupted, “You should stay with Savannah tonight.”

  Erik caught my arm and shook his head.

  “Savannah would probably march me into the street so she could be on camera,” I replied. “No one will find me here in the mountains. There are extra bedrooms at Erik’s house.”

  Dad let out his breath slowly. In my mind I saw the worried lines across his forehead deepen.

  “Dad,” I said softly. “You can trust me.”

  “Are you sure his parents won’t mind?”

  Erik snorted.

  “His parents won’t mind at all.”

  After telling me he would call the school and pick up my homework, my dad lingered over good-bye and finally let me go. I turned to Erik. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for awhile.”

  “Sheer torture, but I think I’ll survive.

  Chapter 7

  “There’s so much I want to know about you.”

  “Besides what I look like?” He stretched himself over the couch. His legs reached to the end while his arms spanned the breadth of it. Of all the things I liked about Erik, this was the oddest: he made me feel small. For a girl who is five foot ten, that was no small feat. Erik was taller with thick arms. His hands could span my waist, although he said his housekeeper would make it her mission to put some meat on me.

  “Have you always lived here alone? Why didn’t your mother raise you? And what’s that crazy dust you go spreading all over?”

  He nudged me lightly. “Take a breath. We have all night.”

  “You’re being evasive.” I folded my arms. “Why
bring me here if you don’t want me to know anything about you?”

  “I want you to know everything about me.” He leaned closer and whispered, “I just don’t want you to hyperventilate.”

  “Then stop touching me.”

  With a chuckle he leaned back. Since I hung up the phone with my dad, the atmosphere between Erik and I changed. We were no longer on a deadline stealing quiet moments to get to know each other. The whole night stretched before us. No parents, no curfew. It was liberating and showed mostly in Erik’s tone. His voice was light and casual, obviously more at ease.

  “We’ll start with the dust,” he suggested. “My mother discovered it.” His voice floated softly through the darkness. I leaned closer to hear, and he drew me under his arm. His touch still jolted me and, caught in the crossroads between elation and terror, I shivered, but Erik didn’t let go. “You’re safe with me,” he whispered.

  My mind believed him, but my body was slow to forfeit its deep-seated defenses. I let my head rest on his shoulder, and Erik breathed into my hair. “The dust,” I prodded.

  He lifted his head. “Near the caves on the other side of the mountain, my mother collected a small flower, which she intended to transplant at home. When she unwrapped the plant and shook out her skirt, her maid swooned at the sight of the gardener. The maid was all of seventeen, and he was nearly three times her senior. My mother believed the flower had done it, so she potted it, delighted by the prospect of inducing love with this simple potion.”

  “To make mischief, like you?”

  “No, she wanted it for herself. Her marriage was arranged by my grandfather, and while her husband is devoted and kind, he is not at all handsome. She was fond of him but completely indifferent to him physically. She was willing to resort to any sort of witchcraft if she could make that missing attraction bloom in herself. But the flower did not make her love him. She tasted the pedals, inhaled the fragrance, rubbed the plant on her skin to no avail.