The Artist
The light from the lamp created strange shadows in the Yard. As the Artist walked, the broken statues all around him seemed to shift and move, but he dismissed it all. People may say the Yard was haunted, but he had come here tens of times to draw, and nothing strange had ever happened. The Artist knew that Yard was short for graveyard, but he paid no heed to it either.
Even though, he had to acknowledge, he had never been here this late. But last week he had had this idea, and being as stubborn as he was, he couldn’t really shake it off. Therefore, he relented, and here he was.
He found the spot he was looking for, in a clearing right under the shadow of three large horses that stuck out from a large wall of stone pieces. A statue of a giant man stood there, buried up to his knees, arms stretched upwards towards the heavens, as if appealing to the gods. But the statue’s head was missing. The Artist found the image compelling: was he praying? Proudly defiant?
The Artist left his lamp on the ground, then moved this way and that, staring at the statue. He moved the lamp a little to his left, then repeated his own movements and sat down. He shook his head and looked around, then climbed on the small ledge right under the horses’ hooves. He smiled. The perfect combination of twilight and the shadows from his lamp. He sat cross-legged, took off his drawing book and charcoal pencils from his satchel and started working. Those perfect lighting conditions wouldn’t last forever.
The Artist was fast and good. In few minutes, he already had an excellent sketch in his hands. Then he heard it, a faint scratching sound, like stone on stone.
He looked around. Nothing. Some bird or a cat, surely. The Artist had always been a pragmatist and, when he dared confess it, an atheist. That is why he never believed in stories about the Yard being haunted. The old mutilated stone statues had been there for so long nobody knew where they came from, that much was true. Did that make them somehow bewitched? No way.
When the next time the scratch was a rumble, and his lamp shook and tumbled below him, ruining the light effects, he couldn’t ignore it. A quake?
He couldn’t help himself, though: “Who’s there?” he said.
“Hum, he’s really captured him, don’t you think, guys?” a raspy voice said from above his head.
“What…?”
“Yes. I like the light effects. He’s really good, I’d say,” a second, mellower voice said. A thumping noise came from a little beyond.
The Artist backed up. Could it be…? The stone horses were talking?
“What…? How…?”
“Ah, it seems you’re much better with your art than with your voice,” the first horse said.
“There’s a reason why they say the Yard is haunted, boy,” the second horse said. “It’s because it is.” There came a thumping from the third horse, the one whose muzzle was missing and, the Artist realized, therefore couldn’t talk.
“You… Can you talk?” he asked, rather stupidly.
“Only by night, you know, but we definitely can,” the first horse said. “By the way, you’re really good, boy. I’ve always wanted to tell you, but you usually leave too early for a chat.”
“Eh… thanks?”
“I concur,” the second horse said, even as the third stomped once again in agreement. “We saw your sketches of us. They were magnificent.”
The Artist couldn’t help himself and leafed through his notebook.
“These… these here, from last week?” he said. He had been sketching the horses, jutting out from the pile of broken pieces, from this and that angle, catching the three animals as if they were striking different poses.
“Certainly, boy,” horse one said. “They make us look as if we’re alive.”
“Well, thanks again.”
“Speaking of which…” horse two started. “We’d like to ask you a favour. We thought of it as soon as we saw your work.”
“What… what’s it?”
“Please draw us,” horse one said. “Draw us again.”
“Complete. Full-bodied,” horse two said. “And there were four of us, originally.” Horse three nodded with his stumped head.
“And do it by night,” horse one said.
“By night? But I won’t have enough light, I’ll have to draw using my lamp. Why do you want that?”
“We believe the spell will be broken,” horse two said, “and we’ll be free again to roam the world.”
“Would you do that for us?” horse one asked.
~~~~
This is my accompanying entry for the Weekly Writing Exercise: September 5–11, 2016 on the Writer’s Discussion Group in Google+. I am responsible for creating the prompts for the Exercise, so I don’t take part, but I still like to write a story each week.
I cannot remember how I came across Cynthia Sheppard’s work, but either it was casually through Pinterest, or I saw her book covers and searched for her work. The image for the prompt, Momentum, made me think it has a story behind it, which is why I chose it this week.
I hope you like where I took my story. Who knows where those four horses came from, eh?
