by Linda Jordan
“Thank you,” said Heather.
“Take your time getting dressed.”
Skye left the room and went into the kitchen. She washed her hands, feeling her own energy flowing.
The time moved quickly. One client after another. Each unique in their own problems. She did her best to help them. To reconnect them to their own energy and to the Earth. To their sustenance.
Finally, it was ten at night. The last patient gone. Everything cleaned up and ready to go for the next day. Heat turned off everywhere. Laundry all done and put away. Dishes washed.
She locked her front door. Removed her clothes and showered, a last cleansing of other people’s energy.
Dried off, she opened every window in the apartment and stood in a warm robe and slippers in front of the kitchen window. A large maple stood in front of the window, making her less visible from down below.
She breathed in the fresh air, then closed all the windows except the kitchen one and took herself to the blue room. She laid down on the massage table, turning on the heater just slightly and pulling a blanket over herself. Then she slid out of her human body, leaving it behind on the table. Warm and cozy, she tucked it in to keep it warm.
And became Skye again. Her real self. The sylph. She unfolded her glorious, iridescent wings, fluttering them to dry and stretch them out. They felt stiff from idleness. Her bluish-skinned body felt light again.
Her Fae body was thinner and longer than humans’. The senses sharper. Her eyes larger, she could see colors humans couldn’t. Smell things they’d never sense. Her thick knee length white hair was plaited into several braids.
She ran to the kitchen, perched on the window sill and launched herself into the maple tree, startling a pair of squirrels who lived there.
Skye jumped from branch to branch until she was higher up in the bare branched canopy. Then she soared off over the rooftops, feeling the power of her wings as they moved the air. She slid through the sky, leaving the city behind in just minutes.
The cool air felt perfect on her skin.
She flew high enough that from the ground she’d be seen as a large bird. If she was seen at all. Most people were in bed or in front of a screen at this time of night.
Skye flew west over Puget Sound, over the Olympic Mountains, towards the sea. Once past the mountains she dove down. She could feel her body pierce the air, like a falcon must experience when diving for prey. The pressure made her long hair stream out behind her. The feathers on her tucked in wings rippled. Hell, even her skin rippled.
Then Skye pulled up, stretched out her wings and beat them. Up. Down. Up. Down, surging forward. She basked in the power of her own body.
She wanted to feel the ocean wind on her body. Feel the wildness.
There was still snow on the Olympics. A lot of snow. Winter hadn’t finished with this part of the world. At least not the highest peaks.
The coldness filled her with life.
Skye remembered flying with her sisters in the cold air over what would become Iceland. It had been remarkable, the ice and the colors in the sky. Her sisters now grown stupid with luxury. Retreated from the world with most of the rest of Faerie.
She left that sadness behind. Dropped it on the mountains below. This was no time for feeling despair about her world.
She was alive and living in the air.
Skye slowed, rolled and spun as she flew, luxuriating in the freedom of her wings.
There was nothing like it. An updraft of wind caught her and she canted her right wing slightly and dove. Just for fun.
It was then she felt the trap enclose her.
She hit the edge of the box hard, and it tightened around her, making her crouch into the small space. Her head throbbed with pain. It was so thick, she couldn’t tell if the pain was from hitting the cold iron box or if it was just because of the cold iron.
Skye could see nothing outside the blackness. Could feel it, hard and hot, closed around her. Tightening, until she touched all sides of it while crouched.
She screamed in pain and anger.
Deep laughter answered her screams.
“Who are you? Let me go.”
There was no answer.
Only more laughter.
Chapter 2 ~ Dylan
Dylan stood on the cliff above the Pacific. He gazed out at the unusually calm ocean, squinted his eyes and applied more Payne’s gray to his brush, mixing it in with the blue paint on the palette in his left hand.
He brushed paint across the top page of the watercolor block clamped to his easel, capturing the cloud perfectly. The wind picked up a bit, blowing fine strands of hair across his face. It caught in the stubble on his cheek. He really should shave. His agent was coming this afternoon. To get the new batch of paintings.
He stopped working this one, just in time. Before he’d added too much detail.
Humans didn’t like too much detail. They didn’t want to see the six-pack ring wrapped around the piece of driftwood. Or the vodka bottle on the beach. The dead pieces of crab breaking down in the sun.
They just wanted beauty. And they had a very narrow definition of it.
Dylan put down his brush and breathed in deep, the smell of the sea. Fish, kelp and water. And much more than that. Seal fur. A pod of orca were feeding just out past where the ocean floor dropped off into the depths. Oil from several fishing boats that had gone out early in the morning floated in the current.
He could taste the oil, even from here. It had a chemical, solvent flavor.
Dylan stretched and packed up his paints in the light wooden case. He dumped his paint-filled water on a clump of dry looking beach grass. The paint wouldn’t harm them. Put his brushes away, wrapped in plastic to keep them moist. He’d clean them thoroughly back at the studio. He folded the easel legs up, put the easel beneath his arm, being careful of the wet painting still attached to it, picked up the wooden case of paints and brushes with his free hand and trudged back through the sandy grass to the parking lot.
Dylan unlocked his bicycle from the sign post he’d chained it to earlier. He detached the watercolor block from the easel, and covered the painting, now dry from the breeze, by flipping the cover over the top of it. Then he slid the pad into one of the panniers, along with the case of paints. He folded the easel down further and slipped it into the basket on the other side.
Wiping his hands on his jeans, he brushed the long hair out of his face, regathering it in an elastic tie. He wasn’t going to cut his hair. Water sprites had long hair. And even though he wore a human body these days, in order to do his work, he wasn’t about to have short hair.
He got on his bike and pedaled back to the studio and his cabin. Dylan passed up the traffic sitting on the main street. The car exhaust smelled awful, making it hard to breathe.
Traffic was stuck as usual. Winter was still here, but anytime the weather was beautiful, the population of the town swelled. The streets weren’t made for this many cars.
Humans and their cars.
He’d never understand.
Of course humans hadn’t had the opportunities to swim the world’s oceans, lakes and rivers like he had. To see the incredible beauty that existed all around them.
It was as if they were blind.
Which was why he painted. To try and help them see how glorious the world around them was.
Why did they have to go anywhere their own power couldn’t take them?
The sun poked through the clouds and blazed down on him. Heating up his pale skin. He began to sweat, beneath the fleece jacket.
It took him ten minutes to get back to the studio.
He parked the bike inside the living room of the cottage and unloaded it, laying the painting out on a large table. He tossed the jacket over the back of his kitchen chair.
The cottage had been built for vacationing tourists, the landlady had told him. It was all one room, except for a bathroom only large enough to hold a toilet and a claw foot tub. The place was furnis
hed in hand-me-downs so old they were now antiques. Nothing matched, giving the place a casual feel. The walls were pale brown wood paneling and the floor hardwood, except for the bathroom, which had old linoleum.
There were four rather large windows, one in the kitchen area, two in what would be a living room, but he’d moved things around so it functioned as his studio. Another window was in the bedroom, which he’d curtained off with thin cotton bedspreads he’d found at a second hand store, but they’d obviously been made in India.
The furniture consisted of a kitchen table and two chairs, an easy chair and his bed. Dylan had brought in a short set of drawers, the sawhorses and door which gave him a large table to work on. And his easel of course. And because power outages happened now and again, there was a wood stove, which Dylan had never used. Water Fae rarely got that cold, although his human body did, on occasion.
In the kitchen he drank a large glass of water. Refilling himself, from all the sweat he’d lost. Dylan glanced at the clock.
Amelia would be here in about fifteen minutes.
He shaved with a straight razor, washed and dried his face. Then changed into clean pants and a new T-shirt. He tossed his dirty clothes in the tiny laundry room and shut the door.
Her rental car drove up and parked in his empty driveway.
He went to the door.
“Good afternoon,” she said. Her gray eyes gleamed, matching her long silver hair. She wore her sleek big city clothes. White pants and blazer, with a black shirt beneath. And high heels. Always high heels. And a large silver pendant with a sizable black pearl gleaming from the center of it.
“Welcome,” he said.
“How’s my favorite artist?” she asked, hugging him.
“I’m well. Do you have time for some tea?”
“I’d love some. Green if you have it.”
He nodded and started the tea kettle. Put green tea in a teapot and pulled out two clean cups from the wooden cupboards.
“I do love this cozy little place,” she said. “It suits you.”
“Thanks. I love it too. How was your flight?”
“I slept through it, so that was good. I had a lot of sleep to catch up on. Too many gallery openings lately.”
“I’ve laid out the most recent paintings. And there are stacks of others for you to look at,” he said, pointing to the studio area of the cottage.
She walked over to the long table. He knew she’d been making polite small talk. What she really wanted to see were the paintings.
“Oh, this one’s lovely. And I like this one too. Oh my god. I must take this one. It’s extraordinary.”
He looked at it. Ah. One of the underwater scenes. He wasn’t sure how those would go over, but he loved them.
She continued going through the paintings as he made tea. Dylan poured the boiling water into the tea pot and inhaled the steaming leaves. Smelling their greenness. He loved feeling the heat from the steam enter his nose, carrying moisture and heat.
The tea steeped and he poured it into the mugs. He carried one over to her and she took it.
“You’ve outdone yourself this time. I’ll certainly be able to sell these.”
“Good,” he said.
“I really like this one,” she said. “Do you have any more along this vein?”
She was talking about the underwater scene.
He walked over to the short chest of drawers he’d bought from one of the local antique shops. It was made for holding maps and had long wide drawers which were shallow.
He opened the second drawer and pulled out about thirty paintings.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d like these. They’re darker and murkier than what you usually take.”
He laid them on the table and picked up his tea to sip.
“Oh my god. These are amazing.”
“They’re my underwater scenes.”
“But you don’t dive.”
“No. The inspirations come from my dreams.”
She went through the stack of paintings, pulling a couple aside.
“I’ll take all of these,” she said, about the large pile. “Can you write up some sort of description about them? I think we can sell this as an entire show. Would you be willing to come back to New York?”
“I don’t fly.”
“Train?”
He shook his head.
“Better get on a boat then. If I can sell this idea to a large gallery, they’ll expect you to be there. Meet the art buyers.”
“Do you think that’s where my time is best spent? I think it’s better spent painting.”
“If you flew it would take you less than a week. Three days. Fly in, gallery preview. Next day gallery opening. Fly home the next day.”
“Not flying.” He shook his head.
“Well, let me see what I can set up. This could make your career.”
“I’m not interested in a career.”
“You told me that you wanted to have your art seen by as many people as possible. That’s what a career is. Have you changed your mind?”
“No,” he said. But there was no way he’d fly to New York. Or anywhere. He was a water creature. Being up in the air, he shuddered at the idea of it.
“Okay. Well, I’ll take all of these underwater ones. My goodness that’s a lot.”
She unzipped her large leather portfolio and lay the paintings inside, wrapping them with a soft gauzy fabric. Then she zipped it back up.
There were only two paintings she’d passed on. He’d sell those in a local store who took his work.
“Anything else you haven’t shown me?”
“No. You’ve seen everything. Except for one that I won’t part with.”
“Can I see it?”
He nodded and pulled back one of the curtains to his bedroom. On the wall hung a painting that he’d framed with pieces of driftwood, one inch thick boards he’d found. Battered by the sea.
It had a dark perylene green base. Underwater. In the River Liffey. Where he was born thousands of years ago.
He looked at Amelia. She stood staring at the painting, her mouth open. She spoke not a word for at least five minutes. He’d never seen that reaction from her.
The painting showed undines and water sprites beneath the current. Playing, sleeping, communicating with fish, otters and diving birds, weaving water plants. The life of water spirits as he remembered it.
He longed for the family he left behind hundreds of years ago. As Faerie retreated farther from this world. And he could no longer turn a blind eye to what humans were doing to the Earth. To his beloved waterways.
Finally, Amelia said, “This. This is what I’ve been looking for. Forever. It’s as if you’re channeling E.R. Hughes. Except underwater. Can you do more of these?”
“Possibly,” he said.
This painting had taken much, much longer than any of the others. Layer after layer of color. It had been difficult to get the lighting the way he saw it in his head. To show the glow which happens underwater when the sun hits the surface of the river just right.
“I understand why you don’t want to sell this. I could look at it forever. All the complexity, all the beings. You know there’s a huge market for fairies.”
“I know.”
“It’s a different market than for your other work. Not fine arts. But more people love this. You would have to decide which direction you’d like your work to go. I’m not sure the market will let you do both. The people who love this wouldn’t care. But the gallery people, they wouldn’t touch your other work, if this got popular notice.”
He nodded. He’d been aware of that.
“But with this, you could branch out into prints, cards, calendars, journals, anything. You would reach more people this way.”
He knew that as well. But the people who liked “fairies” as she called them, didn’t believe they were real. Or if they did, they didn’t make the connection between them and the natural world which was being destroyed. They didn�
��t necessarily have the power to stop the destruction. Which was what he wanted.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
“You should think seriously about it. You’re a wonderful artist. People love your work. It’s hard to say this, but I’m not sure you have a right to keep your art from other people. Where would we be if Rembrandt or Degas or any of the others had kept their work private? Unseen?”
“It’s not a decision I’m going to make today,” he said.
“Okay. But I’m going to push you to make a decision. And I want you to paint more along this line. It’s exquisite. I love your other work, but this, this is … breathtaking.”
She finished packing up and left soon after that.
Dylan unpacked his paints and cleaned his brushes with a mild shampoo. Then he left them out to dry.
He was done painting for the day. The day was almost over.
He felt unsettled after showing Amelia the painting. He probably shouldn’t have. Should have kept it hidden. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to paint any more of these. Wasn’t sure if seeing it every day was even good for him.
The old days were dead.
They’d never come again.
And the pain of losing paradise hurt him, cut him deeply. With every breath.
He needed to swim. To leave this human body behind.
At dusk, he left his human body in bed. And slunk down back alleys and side streets.
His Fae self was leaner, blended in with the landscape. The skin was a pale greenish color which like all sprites, leaked water continuously. His long stringy, green hair reached his hips. Underwater it always looked like a water plant. It took on a life of its own. His eyes saw better in the darkness. It was always a bit darker beneath the surface.
There were a few people still on the beach, farther down on the sand. He kept close to one of the tall cliffs. The rocks were sharp, but his feet were tough, even the webbed bits.
