Castle's Keep

by Linda Mooney

  "When he dies, what will happen to the company?” Johana asked.

  "He's designated that the bulk of the estate will go to St. Mark's for spinal cord research."

  "And Castle's Keep?"

  The woman shook her head again. “Bill loves that painting with a passion. He's created a special provision in his will to have the painting sealed forever so that no one and nothing can destroy it."

  Giving the woman a confused look, Johana said, “Seal it? I don't understand. Why can't he donate the painting to a museum or art gallery with a no sale proviso?"

  A brightness sparkled in the secretary's eyes as she smiled at Johana. “Come with me. When you see the original, it'll explain a lot of things."

  Johana followed the woman out of the kitchen, down a narrow hallway, and finally to a large, spacious office.

  "This is Bill's office,” Gracie explained. “It used to be his father's. My office is through there,” she pointed at a nearby closed door. “And through there is the library where the painting is located,” she added, motioning in the opposite direction at another closed door.

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  Chapter Four

  Johana silently followed her into the library, which turned out to be an unusually shaped, window-less room. The library itself was at least a dozen shelves that spanned from floor to ceiling around half the room in a semi-circular shape. The wall adjacent to the door held a small mantel-less fireplace. The fourth wall, the wall back-to-back with the hallway...

  "Oh my God!” Johana stood in stunned silence as she stared at the painting that covered the entire surface, from floor to ceiling. Behind her she could hear Gracie chuckling.

  "I told you it was big."

  "He used the entire wall as his canvas?” She leaned closer to examine the brush strokes, the technique. No wonder the painting had such luminosity if he used oils as his base, then went back over certain elements with watercolor. It was uncommon for a painter to try that approach, but considering the late Mrs. Castle was a professor of art, Johana could understand why her son would be trained in it. If the reprint she'd seen in the New York gallery was breathtaking, the original literally made her weak in the knees.

  "How big..."

  "Twenty feet by twenty-four feet. Give or take an inch or two both ways."

  "Why on earth would he paint on the wall and not on a canvas?"

  "Bill joked, on those very rare occasions when I would see him smile, he joked he wanted it large enough to where he could literally step into it if he wanted to. He told me he wanted to believe it wasn't so much a painting as it was a few steps away to a world where he could escape."

  "Then why is he selling reprints of it? For that matter, why limited editions?"

  "The limited editions was Bill's doing. This painting is who he is, the real Warren William Castle. This is what's inside of him. It's been his refuge and his sole source of sanity for the past sixteen months. An artist doesn't just create, Johana. You know that. He also has the need to share his creations with the whole world and to cry out, ‘See what I made?’ That's why Bill had me bring a photographer down here from New York to take pictures of it for the reprint. That's why he agonized over the reproductions."

  Walking over to where Johana remained glued to the floor, Gracie placed a hand on the withered arm and gently said, “If something happens to Bill, he's made sure the painting remains preserved for all eternity. But if something should happen to it ... God forbid if it should burn up in a fire or anything that drastic, it would kill him. Warren William Castle is still Bill inside, seeking the approval of his peers and those people who've seen and perhaps purchased a copy of his baby. I'm trusting you to let your readers know that the man, the artist who painted Castle's Keep, is still here and still dreaming. But neither he nor I want people to know of his inability to paint anything more. That's not our intent, to prey upon the world's sympathy. This painting is his whole life, Johana. Let the painting have center stage, not the artist. Can you do that? For me? For him?"

  Johana had to nod because she was too choked up with tears to answer aloud.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  "Let me get this straight. You're not going with the handicapped angle?” Holden reiterated. “Why not? People are suckers for a sob story! If the man wants to sell his reprints at premium prices—"

  "He's not in it for the money, Milo,” Johana interrupted. She knew her editor would balk the moment she let him know her mission had changed. That was okay by her. It wouldn't be the first time she had fought him over her hook. “Look, the man has money coming out the wazoo. But it's all his parents’ doing. This painting is the one true thing he can call his own. The only thing he's created without anyone's help."

  She heard a grunt. The famous Holden Grunt. She smiled to hear it. It meant he wasn't going to argue with her. Not anymore. At least not this time.

  "Okay, so how do you plan to approach it?"

  "Milo ... the painting is a mural,” she breathed into the phone. In the silence that followed Johana knew exactly what was happening on the other end. The man was staring at the print-out of the painting she had given him before she left for Vermont.

  "How big?"

  "Twenty by twenty-four feet."

  "Feet? On what? Plaster? Brick?"

  "I think marble. Or something similar,” she admitted. “I'm going back tomorrow to see if I can get a closer look. I'm also determined to get an interview with the artist, but he's remaining elusive."

  "How much longer do you think you'll need?"

  "Another day, maybe two. Hopefully no longer than that."

  "Okay. I'll be generous and give you two more days. Don't disappoint me. I'm expecting one helluva good story from this, Johana."

  "You'll get it,” she promised, although she knew her voice was more convincing than she really felt. Closing her cell, she stared down at the few short paragraphs she had already begun typing on her laptop. They were garbage, and she knew it. There was no way she was going to pursue the handicapped angle when it came to Castle. Nor was she about to find another route that would morph this story into the tear-jerker Holden was asking for.

  Screw him. The painting could stand on its own merits, and that's what she wanted to impart to the readers. Check out the art, not the artist. Fall in love with what the picture represents; never mind the personal problems of the man who created it.

  The rest of the day dragged into nighttime. Gracie had invited her back in the morning at nine sharp. Between then and now the secretary hoped to convince Castle to let Johana interview him. Fifteen minutes, tops, but Johana wondered if she would get even that much time with him.

  One thing was certain, though. If after tomorrow morning she still wasn't able to meet with the man, she may not have any other choice but to get back on a plane and return to New York. If she wasn't able to get her interview when Gracie promised, she doubted she would get another chance.

  Despite her reservations and fears, Johana managed to get a somewhat decent night's sleep. She had breakfast at the little café, during which Martha joined her in a cup of coffee.

  "I didn't expect to see you today,” the woman admitted, parking herself in the booth across from Johana. “But to be honest, I'm not surprised. Have you seen the painting yet?"

  "Yesterday, yeah. Gracie is hoping to convince Mr. Castle to see me this morning.” She flashed a small smile. “Thank you for trusting me enough to give me her phone numbers."

  Martha waved a hand in dismissal. “It's a code we came up with back after Bill had his accident. People were coming in daily. Curious onlookers. Nut jobs. Insurance investigators. We weeded out the ones we felt we could trust and the ones we believed had a legitimate reason for being here. How much longer do you think you'll be here?"

  Johana shrugged. “I have no idea. My boss isn't happy that I'm not pursuing the handicapped angle. I know I want people to appreciate the painting on its own, and not because of the ar
tist's misfortune.” Grimacing, she added, “I'm hoping to get at least some time alone with Mr. Castle, and figure out the details from that."

  "Well, good luck,” the woman offered, rising from the booth.

  A quick glance at her watch told Johana it was creeping closer to nine o'clock. She gulped the rest of her orange juice before getting up, as well. By the time she paid her bill and got into the car, her stomach was in knots.

  She didn't want to jinx this interview, but neither did she want to appear over-confident. If she could convince Castle she planned to focus on the painting itself and not drag him directly into the limelight, maybe he would open up and give her enough background on the painting's subject. Afterwards, with a bit of luck and a good night's sleep, she might be able to come up with a suitable hook before she arrived back at the office.

  It wouldn't be the first time she'd been stifled by a story. She'd managed to work her way out of brain fog before. She would do it again, and in time for the next issue's deadline.

  A light rain was already falling when she pulled in underneath the overhang. Dark, ugly clouds were rolling in, bringing the distant sound of thunder and the threat of heavier rain. Hurrying to the big doors, Johana banged on the thick wood.

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  Chapter Five

  A full minute went by without anyone coming to answer. Curious, she used the huge brass knocker to strike again. Again, another minute passed without a reply.

  Something was wrong. Gracie had definitely told her to come at nine in the morning, and to be punctual. If there was anything Castle hated worse than his incapacitation, it was having to wait on his doctors or nurses, or anyone scheduled to meet with him, and they be late. His personal schedule was dictated to the minute, and if someone had the audacity to force him to re-align his timetable, it would be the last time Bill Castle used their services.

  A glance at her watch told her it was nearly five minutes after nine. Third time's charm, girl, she told herself and gave the door one more hearty hit. This time when no one showed to let her in, she tried the door latch for herself. It was unlocked.

  The inner foyer was empty. Worse, there wasn't an echo coming from any direction to give her a clue that someone was approaching the front doors. Johana went left, entering the parlor, and continued to follow the carpeted hallway to Castle's office.

  The door was partly open. It moved silently when she touched it and walked into the gloomy room. Gracie was leaning against the big desk, her back to the door. At first the woman appeared asleep until she heard Johana's footsteps on the tiles. The secretary whirled around in surprise.

  At first the woman seemed puzzled to see Johana standing in the doorway. A moment later, it all came back to her. “Johana! Oh, I'm sorry! I ... I seem to have lost track of time.” She glanced at her watch, and her face went another shade paler.

  "What's wrong?” Johana asked. She had already noticed Castle's empty wheelchair sitting nearby. Curiosity suddenly shifted into the realization that the man was gone. How could he be gone? Did the man have another wheelchair besides this one? She didn't think he would, but she didn't dare ask, although she knew she had to. “Where's Mr. Castle? Is he ... did he..."

  Gracie came around the desk and shook her head. “No, no, he's not dead. He didn't ... he just hasn't come back. Yet."

  "Come back? From where? What do you mean?” Furrowing her brow, Johana didn't try to hide her confusion.

  Gracie ran a shaky hand through her hair as she let out a loud sigh. “He ... shit. Okay. Please have a seat, Johana. This is going to take some getting used to."

  Johana was brimming with questions but knew it would be better for her to remain quiet at this point and let the woman have her say first. Then, if she had any questions left, Johana would not hesitate to pummel her for the answers. Quickly, she took the only seat in the room—the empty wheelchair.

  The secretary paced across the room and back, then she resumed leaning against the edge of the carved desk. “Maybe it would be better if I started from the beginning,” she said.

  Folding her hands in her lap, Johana nodded. “I'm listening."

  "I found out about it a week after Bill was released from the hospital. Marisol, his nurse at the time, came running to find me and tell me he had disappeared from his wheelchair. I followed her back here to find the chair sitting empty next to the painting. We went on a massive search for him without any luck. We even got the police involved, thinking it might have been a kidnapping. It was around ten that night. I remember being on the phone in my office when I heard a scream. It was Marisol, and it was coming from Bill's office. I ran in to see...” Gracie took a deep breath as she crossed her arms over her chest. “There was an arm sticking out of the wall. Out of the painting."

  "What?” Johana said, unable to stop herself.

  The secretary nodded. “It was Bill, reaching out from inside the painting. I grabbed his hand and pulled. Between Marisol and myself, we managed to get him back into his wheelchair. That's when Bill told us his story. I swear, it sounded like some fantasy he'd dreamed up. Except we had seen him returning. We knew what he told us was the truth."

  "Which is...?"

  Gracie pointed to the wall. “Don't ask me how or why it is what it is, or does what it does. But somehow that painting has become a kind of gateway for Bill to pass through. He claims that on the ‘other side’ the world that he created actually exists, and on that side he's not the quadriplegic he is on this side. Bill says that his painting is alive for him, and thus allows him to be the kind of person he wishes to be, not the man he's forced to be in the real world."

  Whipping her head around to stare at the wall, Johana tried to imagine the sight of the man melting into the artwork. “That's crazy!"

  "But it's the truth,” Gracie reiterated.

  "And you're telling me he's stuck in there? Right now?"

  She watched the woman shrug. “I don't know if he's stuck, or if he's been delayed. All I know is that he went in yesterday afternoon after his nap and he hasn't come back. He's never done that before. He's never stayed overnight. That's why I'm worried, Johana. What if something's happened to him? What if he's hurt?"

  "Why doesn't someone go in after him?"

  The simple question got a bark of laughter in response. “Don't think we haven't tried,” Gracie told her. “But the painting doesn't work for us. For none of us. It only works for Bill."

  "But if he's confined to a wheelchair, how does he get inside?"

  Gracie gave another humorless laugh. “I've never seen him personally go into the painting. I've only been here to pull him out. Same for his nurse. But we suspect he backs up and runs full tilt into the wall. When the chair hits the painting, it throws Bill from the seat head-first into it. After we discovered his secret, he lets us know when he plans on going inside and orders his restraining straps to be undone. When we come back later to wait for him, the chair is always found facing the painting."

  "But he's never stayed this long before, right?"

  "No. A few hours at the most. The longest was most of the day one Sunday, but never this long. Never overnight.” Pulling a tissue from her pants pocket, Gracie blew her nose. “I knew you were coming over but I lost track of time. I'm sorry, Johana."

  "Don't be.” She rose from the wheelchair and walked over to the wall. Even up close the spell of the artwork enchanted her, drawing her into it as surely as if she could walk into the painting as well. “Why does it work for him and no one else?” she murmured softly.

  "What?"

  "That's why he didn't want it sealed until after his death.” Her thoughts were coming randomly, jumbled but clear. “He wanted to be able to visit it whenever he wanted. I wonder if he knew of the painting's power when he created it."

  Behind her she could hear the secretary sniffle. “Bill always said the painting was more real to him than the life he had here. Maybe that's why it works for him."

  More real than
life here? A tiny smile creased the corners of her lips. Johana knew exactly what he meant by that remark. She'd felt the same thing when she'd first seen the piece of art, and it had only been a small reproduction at that time. Now, standing in front of the real thing, she could easily get lost in believing the whole thing was no more than a giant window overlooking a fairy tale land she so desperately wished she could also become a part of.

  Lucky bastard. Warren William Castle, you're one amazingly lucky bastard.

  Wistfully, Johana reached out to tentatively touch part of the forest. Although the painting had been done in oils and watercolors, it would be safe enough to barely graze her fingertips over the surface...

  ...except her fingertips vanished inside the treetops.

  "Hell!"

  Shocked, she jerked her hand back to stare at it.

  "What? Did you...?” Gracie hurried forward to stand beside her. “What happened?"

  "I just...” Slowly, Johana reached out again to touch the lake waters. Although she could see it happening with her own eyes, she couldn't fully grasp the fact that her fingers vanished into the painting as easily as through fog. She wriggled her fingers to see if she could feel anything beyond what her eyes were telling her, but they brushed against nothing.

  "Oh my God!"

  "Quick, Gracie! See if you can..."

  The secretary reached out to touch the painting next to where Johana's hand was still submerged. Her fingers stopped when they hit the wall.

  "How?” The woman stared at Johana with a mixture of surprise and envy. “How are you able to do that?"

  Belief. Believe the other world actually exists and it will, a tiny voice whispered inside her head.

  Smiling, Johana turned to the woman. “When you look at Castle's Keep, what do you see?"