But he was nimble as a dragonfly, slipped backward easily without losing his balance, and fronted me with an insolent grin.
Then we were at it in earnest, thrust and parry, slash and sidestep, overhand and underhand and backhand. It was warmer work than I had anticipated. I struck the harder blows, but my opponent's was the art of evasion and I spent much strength upon empty air. He had a smooth, swift, sidelong motion that a stoat might envy, and by the time he began to breathe a little more quickly I was panting heavily. Finally he made a quick, twisting thrust aimed at my shoulder, and in avoiding it I tangled with a table leg and went down on my back, my sword clattering away into a far corner.
I thought my hour had come as I lay helpless, seeing his sword point descending toward my nose when he disappeared from my view. Where he had been there stood now a dark mist and from this dimness there came a sharp, high-pitched cry of distress.
Then there was Astolfo's voice, jovial and mocking. “Falco, this dueling tactic you cling to, falling down prone, will never be praised in the arms manuals. Why you persist in following it I shall never learn."
I got up quickly. I did not want to look at Astolfo. Instead, I watched the cloudy mass that had appeared above me. From this angle I saw it was the shadow of Morbruzzo. It roiled and heaved like steam that might rise a little above the mouth of a pot and hang there, working furiously within itself. From this shadow came little gibbers and yips, as of someone being nipped by a pack of terriers.
Then with a broad, gently sweeping gesture, Astolfo removed the shadow.
The art of shadow-flinging is a familiar conversational subject of those who trade in the commodity, of thieves of every sort, of warriors, of courtiers, of tavern-sitters, of priests, and of scribblers. I have read many an account on many a dusty page, but I had never witnessed it before. Even in the observing I was not sure of what I saw, only that the roundish, shortish, baldish master of shadows held his body at a certain angle, extended his right arm and drew it in a wide semicircle, and held his hand relaxed with the fingers bent slightly inward. I could see that if I were to try such a maneuver, my hand would tear through the fabric of the shade and I would be holding nothing.
But Astolfo brought it away to reveal Pecunio's servant standing there in a vastly altered condition than formerly. In the first place, this was no man. Her blonde hair was cropped, most of her clothing was in scattered rags and giblets, as if eaten away by acids. The tall boots remained intact, but the thighs that emerged from them were fair and smooth, not mannish in the least. Her figure was lissome and small-breasted but undeniably female, and her face, now that the greasepaint was mostly removed, was that of a piquantly attractive woman.
She struggled to speak but could not. Her eyes were filled with confusion and fear.
Astolfo spoke to Pecunio: “If you had but told me you had taken this woman into your household, you would have saved yourself much grief."
The old man hung his head and shook it regretfully. “I thought it wise to keep her secret and all for myself. I am not the man that once I was."
"Your vanity and venality have cost you dearly, not only in gold but in the matter of your health. Did you not know that she is one of a famous pair of shadow-thieves? This is the notorious Fleuraye."
Pecunio was visibly startled. He looked again at the woman with his mouth amazedly open. “I did not know that."
"She and her consort, the silken-mannered privateer Belarmo, have been partners in many a merry escapade. They have cozened and cheated and robbed and stolen with profitable success for some few years now. Much of their success may be credited to the fact that she is most pleasurable to look upon. Is this not so, Falco?"
"Umm.... Yes. That is true,” I said, and at last tore my gaze away from her true blonde charms and her large gray eyes that were now filling wetly.
"Pay no mind to her tears,” said Astolfo. “She can pour them out at will, as if from a canister."
At once the welling stopped and she gave Astolfo a stare of scarlet enmity.
"We have crossed paths before, years ago, and Fleuraye saved her Belarmo from the fate I designed for him by means of a diverting ploy I may sometime whisper to you. But I believe they must have fallen out with each other now. In fact, I am certain that the shadow you purchased from her is that of her consort."
"It does not belong to Morbruzzo?"
"That savage pirate would have retrieved it by now, wherever it was hidden and whatever the cost to him. No, this is the shadow of Belarmo.” He held it at shoulder height before him. “And you see what decadent state it is in. Fleuraye has worked upon it so as to make it a poison thing. This you can observe in its colors, the nauseous tints and tinges of corruption."
"Poison....” Pecunio's weak murmur sounded like an echo of itself.
"Did she not implore you to cloak yourself in it? Did she not tell you how brave and stalwart it made you appear when she came to your bedchamber? And yet the anger and jealousy that rages within it fed upon your manhood and shriveled all your virility. Is not this true?"
"True as the summer sky,” Pecunio said. “And now, if you will but hand me her sword where she dropped it from within the shadow—"
"No no,” Astolfo commanded. “Nothing of that. I have saved your life and you are indebted to me in the amount of three thousand gold eagles. I shall collect another three thousand from Belarmo when we rescue him from whatever vile place it is where he is being tortured."
"He is yet alive?"
"If he were dead, if his lover had dispatched him, his shadow would be a poor, pallid thing almost lifeless. But it stands in strong sympathy with him. As its condition is, so then is his. I suppose that this all fell out as it did from the beginning because of a lovers’ quarrel. Jealousy will be in play."
Flueraye spat her words. “A low tavern wench. A slattern with teats like harbor buoys. An arse like a refuse barrow."
He spoke to her. “And so you suborned some of his men with gold and they turned on him and you are exacting your revenge. At the same time, you thought to acquire a coin or two and increase the humiliation of Belarmo and of my friend Pecunio here."
"I am not of a mood these days to coddle the coxcomb sex,” she said.
"Yet your only hope to escape the gallows is to tell us where to find your lover. Rescuing him, you rescue yourself. For your other crimes a prison ship bound for the sultry latitudes may suit. But now is the moment to say, for he is after all little more than a pirate himself and his life may not weigh greatly in your favor. Yet if he dies, that will weigh against you. And I think you would not long be able to endure being cloaked again in Belarmo's shadow. The rage within his spirit as he lies bound and tortured makes his shade a cruel garment to don, does it not?"
And so she told where Belarmo lay in the cellar of a warehouse in Stinking Alley and gave clear directions how to reach him. Then she added, with the most baleful of looks, “I daresay we shall encounter again, Astolfo. Perhaps next time you shall not fare so lucky."
"Perhaps by next time Falco shall have learned the proper use of a sword."
So Pecunio was rewarded with his life and some restoration of his health; Astolfo was the richer by thousands of eagles; Belarmo was to be rescued from his agonies. My reward was to undergo more practice bouts with Mutano, my bruises black as onyx and purple as sunset. This discipline for the craft of shadow-taking is a harsh one and I do not lightly recommend it to any of you who may have attended my story.
* * * *
"Let's talk about your motherboard."
* * * *
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Story: A HISTORY OF CADMIUM by Elizabeth Bourne
Elizabeth Bourne is a painter whose work has been exhibited both nationally and internationally. She has done work for NASA and SF fans can find her artwork in Mary Rosenblum's collection Synthesis and Other Virtual Realities. She lives in Seattle with her husband, writer Mark Bourne, their dog Kai, about whom she writes Dogku
incessantly; and occasionally their son, who is off exploring the greater world. This story is her first fiction sale.
* * * *
"Cadmium: a family of yellow to red colors, renowned for their brilliance and lightfastness. First discovered outside of Thebes, Greece in 1817. Named for the founder of Thebes, the ill-fortuned Cadmus. Due to their toxicity, cadmiums are being replaced by azo yellows and reds in artists’ materials."
—The Artist's Color Book
* * * *
Lloyd expected me at the gallery. I hated to go. I promised I would. I needed the cash during probate. The painting lay on the kitchen table by an old journal. There was one black garbage bag left from the trash to be hauled off. So much junk. My mother never threw anything away. After placing the painting in the bag, I went downstairs.
It was pouring. I hesitated at the door. Moon-colored leaves from the spindly maple splotched the sidewalk in front of our three-story brownstone. The streetlights made the drumming rain sparkle. Cursing, I ran for the subway holding the painting over my head as protection, wondering again why I'd come back to New York.
I pushed my way out at 57th Street, two blocks from the gallery that showed mother. More running. Shit. Water trickled cold tracks between my shoulder blades. The sign on the gallery door announced a private function. Invitation only. In my paint-spattered leather jacket, I didn't look like anyone who should be at a private function.
Servers in black and white held trays set with glasses of wine and expensive tidbits. Julia Katz, my mother's closest friend, beckoned through the rain-tracked glass. She pulled me into the antiseptic showspace. “Caddie child. Come in. Lloyd's been going crazy waiting. Is that it?"
Julia's pointed chin dug into my shoulder as she hugged me, ignoring my wet. Her perfume, Poison, smothered me in a memory of Julia and my mother laughing in our dirty kitchen, a bottle of wine between them, talking about things I couldn't understand. My mother's pigment-stained fingers tapping out secret messages on the table. Pots of brilliant color mixed in among the food. They were always talking about things I couldn't understand.
Lloyd's pink face gleamed with goodwill. His hands shook as he accepted the garbage bag. Whispers circulated as guests explained to each other who I was. Daughter, you know...the unknown painting...have her mother's talent?...didn't know Cassandra died.
Screw them.
Julia twined her arm in mine and snagged two glasses from a passing server. “The wine's crap. It doesn't matter. Drink up, baby girl. You're paying for this."
We trailed Lloyd to a spot-lit location. He reverently removed the painting from the plastic bag, then placed it on the wall where the lights drenched it. Beneath it he affixed the pasteboard sign, Cadmium, oil on linen by Cassandra Ross. Desire breathed out in his sighs. He stroked the canvas's paint-splotched sides. You could still see her smeary fingerprints on the folded cloth edges.
The paying guests herded in front of the piece. I knew why. My mother's masterpiece had existed only in whispers. Art critics had theorized about it for years. No one could view it unless I permitted it. Until tonight, I had always turned them down. It was mine, and mine alone. It was Cadmium, and it was legend.
I thought I should burn it. When she died, I swore I'd use it for firewood. It showed a beach laced by a strip of water with waves that seemed to roll. You could practically feel the sun crisp your skin. A little yellow boat had been dragged up on shore and footsteps dug into the sand until they disappeared behind dune grass. The images were razor sharp; real life wasn't as clear. The path at the top of the dunes wandered into a mossy wood. It was hard to see under the trees, and believe me, I'd tried. I wondered what happened in the woods. Perhaps that's what made me shove it in a corner with its face to the wall. It was the only thing my mother did for me. I couldn't destroy it, but that didn't mean I had to look at it.
Julia wandered me around the gallery. “When Lloyd told me you agreed to show the painting, I wondered what you were thinking. The painting's never been in public."
"She didn't leave anything, you know. Just trash. What am I going to live on? Maybe this will start a revival. You know she hasn't shown in years."
Her lips thinned. “I'd help you. I was just thinking what a risk you're taking."
"I need the money. Lloyd's paying well."
Lloyd used this one-night showing to display the other of my mother's paintings he still possessed, like jewels in fine settings. I'd seen them in the mine of my mother's studio. The pictures glowed with that unique fire she provided. A preternatural beauty that hooked your soul. A second Turner, some said. A feminist Caravaggio. Her landscapes were mystical. But she painted sensuality too. Julia, always Julia. Made famous in paint. A smiling sphinx. A New York houri. Her lynx eyes holding unknown truths, and with her, so many men. Cassandra's Adonises. One of them was my father. I have no idea which one.
As we paced, Julia nodded to the sharply dressed people, promising dinner here, a phone call there. I'd forgotten she was a somebody. Married to an important someone. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.
"Finish school here. Clean up the house. I knew she was messy, but my God, the place is disgusting.” My wine was red. It was impossible not to admire the color. The color of garnets.
Julia said, “Cassie lived by her own rules. Her last days, she only wanted to paint. Nothing else mattered. She was in such pain.” She drank her straw-tinted wine like water. Maybe it was to her.
"Where are the rest of the Rare Earth canvases? I found an old painting journal. It was in bad shape, but still legible."
Julia snatched another glass of wine. The server offered one to me, too. I took it. He had pretty eyes. Lloyd was doing business with a bald Asian man. That was good.
"She meant to.” Julia sloshed her wine, as if that would improve it. “Then you were born and babies change things.” She shrugged her scarlet, silk-draped shoulders. “She started on the Cloud Set series instead."
We'd circumnavigated the gallery. The freshly painted white walls bounced the chatter of the carefully dressed guests. The noise rattled in my head along with the garnet wine. We stood before Cadmium. Julia said, “When she painted this she was round as an orange with you kicking inside. She told me about the Rare Earth series, but she only painted Cadmium. She got that wicked smile, you know what I mean."
I did. She got it when she thought of a particularly good Christmas present, or when a new man came into her life. She got it when she loved a painting, before she forgot the painting in making the next one.
Julia tugged my tattooed earlobe. “She was a mystery to me too, Caddie. I loved her. A genius. She held nothing back, ever.” Julia scanned the painting. “I remember the beach being bigger. I think the water was more pthalo green, and the woods, did there used to be woods in this picture? I can't remember."
I gave her a look. “It's Cadmium. What do you think?"
* * * *
When you grow up, you have your own life. You don't think about your parent's friends. You're busy with what you want to do. Julia phoned occasionally, but we moved in different circles. She made a name as my mother's high priestess and her husband was important. It wasn't my world.
I was interested in my husband Dev's career. He invested, or mortgaged, or something. We did the things young married couples do. We went to good shows and had select parties in the brownstone house.
When Julia called me, of course I was glad to see her. She'd practically been my aunt. Besides, Dev said knowing Julia and Frank was good for his career. I hadn't thought of that. Julia wanted to borrow Cadmium. She was opening her own art gallery, separate from Lloyd. A display of Cadmium would guarantee success.
Age had made Julia more birdlike. It had made me more contented. I brought her up to the old brownstone's third-floor studio. It was tidy. No jars of pigment spilled across tables in streams of color. No sticky swathes of varnish dripped from the shelves. No conté crayons rolled along the floor, to be found later, broken-bac
ked and reproachful.
I'd had the floors sanded to remove the stains. The room smelled of clean earth. Julia sat in my studio, her brown eyes examining the changes, while I slapped a lump of clay on my wheel. She said, “If you put the house in both your names, he'll have a right to half of it. This place is a piece of art history, you should be careful."
The clay slab was cool under my fingers. I kept a steady push on the pedal to keep the wheel turning evenly. The pot was coming along nicely. It had a good form. The utilitarian comforted me. Julia didn't know Dev. He was a good man. “Of course you can borrow the painting. You were my mother's friend. My husband wouldn't do that."
Julia crossed her legs. “At least arrange it so he only gets any post-marital value. Property in this part of the city has gone way up. Think about it. Are you showing any of your work?” She stood, flattening her dark skirt along her thighs to walk about. She drummed her fingers on the shelves holding the finished vessels. She wouldn't care for my work. Julia loved my mother's paintings. Fragments of sky and sea. Secret words. Splintered music. These were nothing like that. Julia picked up a rounded shape. “I like the female features of these constructions. What attracted you to pottery?"
My fingers slipped into the clay. I spent a few moments repairing the error before I answered. I thought about what I liked. The rootedness. The common voice of clay. Pottery reaches into civilization's earliest moments. I feel I can touch the first people who molded a shape from sticky red stuff. I sense their art. When you work in clay you speak to earth and fire. “Pottery is practical. And it's not painting.” I snapped my lips shut.
FSF, May-June 2010 Page 9
