The Canvas
“Hello. Thank you for coming.”
“I am honored you would choose me, Artist. I should thank you.”
“You are very beautiful. What is your name?”
“Again, you honor me. I am called Marilee. Shall I remove my robe now?”
“Oh, not yet. We will get to that in time but we have much to do before then. Marilee. That is an unusual name.”
“My father was a foreigner, Artist. It comes from his people.”
“A foreigner? Unusual indeed.”
“Does this displease you Artist? Shall I go…?”
“Oh no, Marilee, not at all. I relish unusual things. They are so rare anymore. It’s sad, really. I’m surprised by so little these days. Have you ever had a pleasant surprise, Marilee?”
“I have, Artist.”
“Would you tell me of it? While I prepare the instruments?”
“Of course, Artist. A time ago, before I entered the abbey of course, I must have been only six or seven summers, my father returned from a long trading expedition. I tried to wait patiently for my turn to greet him, but I remember it being very difficult. I had missed him terribly, you see. Yet out of my twelve brothers and sisters he chose me last for the greeting. It felt as though it took hours, watching this brother or that sister get chosen, seeing my father kneel and kiss them, and then present them with some bauble from his travels. After an eternity, he beckoned me to him. I waited, excitedly, as he knelt and kissed me. I had seen the beautiful gifts he gave to my brothers and sisters, you see. Gold and jewels and the like. But the gift he pulled from his pocket was only this.”
“Your bracelet?”
“Yes. Unfinished jade pebbles, strung together. I was crushed. It was so plain compared to the gifts the rest of my siblings had received. I thanked him, as was my duty, but there were tears in my eyes as I did.”
“It doesn’t sound as though you were very pleased.”
“I was not. But later that evening, after the welcome meal had been eaten, he took me aside, into his tent, and he produced a small golden box from his pocket. Inside the box, on a quilted purple pillow, was a small chunk of chocolate. Have you ever had chocolate, Artist?”
“Yes, I have. A long time ago. A very rare treat indeed.”
“My father had traded with a prince just to get it for me. At least, that is what he told me. He explained that it was such a special gift, and he did not want my brothers and sisters to be hurt, and so he waited to give it to me.”
“Your father must have loved you very much.”
“He did. That is why to this day I wear my plain bracelet. It reminds me of that night, and that something astonishing may be waiting for me, if I only have the patience.”
“That is a wonderful story, Marilee. Thank you for sharing it with me. And now, we are ready to begin. Please sit here on this stool.”
“Yes, Artist. As you wish.”
“I asked the abbey to send you here today because I have a very special story to tell, Marilee. Now I will not lie to you: this story is full of pain. But moreso it is also filled with beauty and joy and hope. Now I understand that there are certain… rumors about me at the abbey and the world beyond. Have you heard these rumors?”
“I have heard many things said about you, Artist. Some I believe, some I do not.”
“Ha! A clever answer if I have ever heard one. Well now that you have come to me, I can tell you the truth. Stories always begin with a truth, did you know that?”
“No, Artist.”
“So we will begin the story with the truth about me. Rumors say I only choose the most beautiful or the most thoughtful to be my stories. Have you heard this rumor, Marilee?”
“I have, Artist.”
“Marilee, please look into my eyes. I want you to see the truth in them when I tell you: this rumor is not true. Another rumor says I tell stories through some against their will. This also is not true. Anyone who comes to me may leave or refuse at any time. I keep no one against their wishes; though they will not be invited to me again. This includes you, Marilee. I will not ever force the story on you, or anyone. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, Artist. I understand.”
“Then the time has come for you to choose, Marilee. Will you be my newest story? Or do you wish to return to the abbey? There is no shame in refusing me; many others have, and lead tranquil lives.”
“If I may speak, Artist?”
“Of course. You are always free to speak.”
“I knew a girl once, a girl at the abbey. Celestina.”
“Ah yes, Celestina.”
“She refused the story you wished to tell with her, and returned to the abbey.”
“Yes. I remember that. It would have been a beautiful story.”
“She stayed two rooms down from me at the abbey. Every night I could hear her crying softly. One day, when I asked her why, she told me her refusal had stolen from her any ray of hope; that the life she led, while peaceful and safe, was empty because it lacked a reason. Without the story she could become nothing other than what she was, and no one would gain from her more than she had.”
“A story is not an easy thing to tell. But I have found it is far more painful NOT to tell them than to face their costs.”
“That is what I came to believe from knowing her. My decision is made, Artist; I will be the story.”
“Very well then. We begin. The story begins with blindness. Have you known blindness before, Marilee?”
“My grandfather, sir. He lost his sight as he grew old.”
“Some go blind this way. Others have younger eyes but refuse to see with them. It is this second blindness the story speaks of. To teach you of it, I must take one of your eyes.”
“My…eyes, Artist?”
“Yes. Do you see that copper bowl? There, on the pedestal?”
“Yes Artist. I see it.”
“Within that bowl are burning coals, which I prepared before you arrived. Buried in those coals is a shaft of iron. This iron has been specially prepared for just this purpose. I will use the iron to pierce one of your eyes, taking it’s sight from you. By this you will learn blindness, and the beginning of the story you are to be. Does this frighten you?”
“Yes Artist. I… I knew there would be pain involved in learning the story. But… My eye…”
“As I said before Marilee, you do not have to. I will not force or coerce you. But I will also not change the story for your fear.”
“No Artist. If I am to be the story I must tell it entirely.”
“You will feel pain. Your body will go into shock, and then unconsciousness. I will attend the wound while you are unconscious. I have poultices that will remove the pain and heal the damage even as you sleep. When you awake you will have learned of blindness and its pain; but you will also have learned of healing.”
“I understand, Artist. I am ready.”
…….
“Marilee? Can you hear me?”
“Yes Artist. I am awake.”
“You did very well. You have now learned of blindness and can speak of it to others. I have bandaged the wound and covered it.”
“It hurts still. A little.”
“It will, I’m afraid. The salves do much to heal the wound, but they cannot take all the pain. And pain is part of blindness, Marilee. Some feel it; others are numb to it. The story you are to become begins with a man who knows he is blind, and feels the pain of it. But because he is blind, he cannot see what will ease his pain, you understand?”
“Yes, Artist.”
“Now this man, he is neither the best of his profession nor the worst. Nor is he more or less noble than most men. He can see with his eyes, but he cannot with his heart. For this I call him the Half-Blind Man. Lower your robe to your waist, if you would, and lean here, just so.”
“Like this?”
“Yes. Rest your arms and chest here against these beams. I will teach you a different part of the story now. This device here allows me to put ink under your skin. You have seen storytellers in the marketplace with these markings before?”
“I have, Artist.”
“It will hurt, but only a little bit. I describe the feeling as though a kitten had hooked you with it’s claw. It will be uncomfortable, but nothing serious. We can also take several breaks, whenever you would like. Would you like to rest a bit more, or are you ready to begin?”
“I came to hear, Artist. I am ready now.”
“I will begin, then. The story, as many do, begins with a rose. Do you know roses, Marilee?”
“I tend them at the abbey, sir.”
“You are even better suited to the tale, then. As I said, the story begins with a rose. The Half-Blind man was about his business one day when he saw a collection of roses in the marketplace. It was this day he first felt the pain of his blindness; for as he beheld them he knew he had no one to give them to. And so he went home and was very sad. He stayed indoors, and ignored his workshop; for the pain of his blind heart was acute, and it consumed his mind. To remind you of how the Half-Blind man learned of his blindness, I have marked you now with a rose.”
“It did not hurt badly, Artist. Please continue.”
“Turn on your stool then, like this, and lift your left arm. Hold this ring here, if you would like. It will make it easier for you to keep it aloft. I’m going to write here on your side now. It will hurt more than your back did, because of the nearness of your ribs, but it will still be bearable.”
“I understand.”
“After seven days, the cupboards of the Half-Blind man began to run bare. Though his beard had grown and he had not washed, he resolved to go to the market to replenish them. Ignoring his postbox, which overflowed with inquiries from clients, he took his bicycle down from the side of his home and left the yard, intent on the market.
As he rode to the market, the Half-Blind Man saw a peculiar thing. A woman, comely in face and body, stood in the middle of the lane throwing rocks at the boughs of a tree. The heart of the Half-Blind Man began to race as it had never done; for though the woman was not beautiful to all men, she was beautiful to the Half-Blind Man.
When the woman saw the Half-Blind man approaching upon his bicycle, her face became fearful, and she gathered her skirts about her and ran into the trees.
The Half-Blind man didn’t know how to react to this strange episode, so he continued to the market, buying the supplies he needed and returning home. Once there he returned to his work, thinking often of the strange lovely woman he had seen throwing pebbles at trees. Soon, the Half-Blind man thought of the woman more than he thought even of his blindness. And so it happened one night by candlelight he sat at his desk and wrote a poem to the woman. It is this poem I am writing on you now.”
“What did the poem say, Artist?”
“The words were not as important as their meaning, which is why I am teaching it to you in a language no one knows. As the storyteller when you tell others of this they will ask the question you just did. They will wish to know what the words were; and then, they will imagine what the words might have been. It is for this that I tell the stories; to teach them to ask the right questions.”
“What is the right question?”
“The right question is: ‘what would I want the poem to say if it were written for me?’ The poem is finished. I will cover it and the rose with bandages and then you may replace your robe.”
“Thank you, Artist. Is that the end of the story?”
“Not yet, but I think we are done for today. I’ve made a bed for you there. We will continue in the morning. It will give you time to heal from learning the story.”
“As you wish.”
…….
“Marilee? Can you hear me?”
“Yes Artist. I am awake.”
“I trust you slept well?”
“My blindness bothered me some, but the bed was very comfortorable, much more than the beds at the abbey.”
“I will apply more of the salve. The soreness should abate by the end of today and be well on its way to healing by tomorrow.”
“Will the story take that much longer Artist?”
“It can, though it is very rare. Are you eager to see the world then?”
“The sisters at the abbey tell us things from time to time, but yes. I am eager to see the world. Especially as a storyteller.”
“Have you been a long time at the abbey, then?”
“My family was taken by an attack. I was sent to the abbey as a comfort to my mother, who was taken as a prince’s consort.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What of your father?”
“I… don’t know. We were seperated soon after we were taken.”
“Is that why you are here?”
“To be the story is the only way I could leave the abbey and travel freely. Everyone loves a story.”
“I see. Marilee, I wish you would have spoken of this yesterday. Being a story… it is not only for yourself. It is for everyone. Becoming a story as a way to search for your family, while noble…”
“Artist, if I may speak?”
“Of course.”
“Growing up, my father loved stories. He would send for any he could find, sometimes financing their travel over great distances so he could bring them into his tents to speak their tales. While I do hope my family is alive, and that I may even find some of them, I become the story not for that purpose, but rather to honor my father. While being a story is the only way I could leave the abbey, it is also the truest way I know to make my father proud, be he alive or dead.”
“You are truly an exceptional young woman, Marilee. Very well then, we shall continue.”
“Thank you, Artist.”
“The Half-Blind man had written his poem, but it had not cured his blindness. Indeed, for all his pining after the woman he had seen in the road, very little had changed in his life. He went about his daily business, met with his customers, crafted his wares, and went to the market. Turn towards me please.
It was a day like any other when the Half-Blind man saw the woman for the second time. Much as it had been the first time, he was riding to the market when he saw her again: same blue dress, same flowing golden hair, and at the very same thing.”
“Throwing rocks at the trees?”
“Yes. Place your chin here, it will help keep your head in place as I speak. Because of the nerves in your face, this drawing will be more painful still than your side, yet not so bad as you cannot handle, I think. I will also be adding some emeralds to this drawing, so you may feel some pinching as I embed them.”
“I understand.”
“The woman, startled by the Half-Blind man’s appearance in the lane, once again lifted her skirts and began to run into the forest. Not willing to let so lovely a creature escape him a second time, the Half-Blind man abandoned his bicycle and persued her into the forest.
The woman leaped gracefully over fallen trees and dodged underbrush as though she were mist. The Half-Blind man, however, was not so nimble; each obstacle widened the gap between them until finally the Half-Blind man stumbled panting into a clearing to see he had lost sight of her.
‘Wait!’ he cried to the forest. ‘I wish only to speak with you!’ But no response came. Wearily the Half-Blind man dropped to his knees, and then to his back, chest heaving, to stare defeated at the sky. His blindness was a hardened knot in his chest, curling around his heart. He could hear his blood pump in his ears, feel his pulse bulge from his neck. And then she spoke.
‘What do you want?’ a voice, sweeter than any music, came from somewhere nearby. The Half-Blind man struggled back to his knees and then pulled himself to his feet using a tree to support him. The clearing appeared just as empty as before, but he could feel eyes on him now, appraising.
‘To talk! Only to talk.’ the Half-Blind man spoke to the forest, holding his hands wide to show he possessed no weapon. ‘I saw you the other day, and I… I wished to know what you were doing.’
‘Throwing rocks. Now away with you,’ the voice came again, though the woman remained hidden.
‘But why?’ the Half-Blind man persisted, fearing that if he lost this chance he would remain blind forever. ‘Why do you throw rocks at the trees?’
‘And why do you care, merchant? What business is it of yours?’ the Half-Blind man heard her voice take on an angry edge.
‘I care! I…’ the Half-Blind man did not understand her sudden anger, but knew he must allay it if he were to have any hope of knowing her. ‘…I thought I might make a machine! To help!’ he replied.
The woman emerged from behind a tree. Her anger only accentuated her beauty to the Half-Blind man. Her blue eyes flashed as she approached, her cheeks flush.
‘Help?’ she asked, her voice growing shrill. ‘My home is burned; my husband dead, hung for killing a man; I am outcast, and no one in town will trade with me because of my husband; I throw rocks at trees, merchant, because I am trying to have something to eat other than roots and berries; I have no weapon to protect myself or kill an animal for food; only rocks that I throw at nests in hopes they have eggs I might catch before they fall and break. Tell me merchant: how would you help me? How?’
The Half-Blind man was taken aback by her rage. She seemed place the blame of all that had happened to her upon him in that moment. Yet she was so lovely, and his blindness so acute, that he could not bear to abandon her to her fate.
‘Stay with me,’ he said to her, realizing only after the words had passed his lips what he had said.
‘Stay with you,’ she repeated back, eyes narrowing. ‘And what? be your pretty piece of tail whenever you’re feeling lusty? Clean your dirty laundry and wash your dishes? I am no whore and I am no maid.’ How are you doing, Marilee?”
“The drawing is painful, Artist. But I can endure.”
“For your father?”
“For my father, Artist.”
“I have surrounded your missing eye with branches and leaves. These will remind you of where the woman lived, and how and where the Half-Blind man came to meet her. And now we must prepare for a more painful part of the story. Follow me over here please and sit. Thank you. Give me your arm, please. No, the right one. Thank you. Now Marilee, this foot pedal here allows me to raise the fire bowl almost as high as your head. For our purposes today though I will only be raising it as high as your arm.”
“Am I to be burned, Artist?”
“I am going to burn your arm so that it will scar. It will hurt badly, and most likely you will lose consciousness as you did yesterday. The chair you are in was designed to keep you from falling or moving to much and interrupting the process. You will see a horse’s bit there on your left; that is for your mouth, that you may bite down as the pain and heat increases. I will cover the wound with a numbing agent and gauze when it has been sufficiently burned, and you will have limited movement as early as tomorrow afternoon. Again I remind you that you may leave at any point. I will not force you to do this, but it is vital to the story and must be told. Do you wish to continue?”
“I am afraid, Artist. But yes, if it must be so, let it be so.”
“I have often thought that bravery is the state of doing what must be done in the midst of being terrified. You are very brave, Marilee. Let us begin.”
…….
“Marilee? Can you hear me?”
“Yes Artist. I am awake.”
“Here, drink this, it will numb the pain further. You did very well.”
“I… don’t remember much of it.”
“That is probably for the better. Do you remember the story?”
“The woman had just accused the Half-Blind man of only desiring her for her services.”
“Good. That is very good. We are almost finished. Are you ready to continue? Or do you require more rest?”
“I can continue.”
“Wonderful. The woman rolled up the sleeve of her dress, exposing her forearm which was horribly scarred, just as you now are.
‘This is what they gave me. This is the help I received,’ she shouted at the Half-Blind man. ‘They came in the night and burned our home. Even though my husband had already been taken. They burned it, knowing he was gone, knowing that I was still inside. To the people of the town I was just as guilty as he.’
The Half-Blind man was at a loss. His blindness constricted around his heart. He knew, through instinct or insight, that this was his moment; he would be free or he would be blind forever. Before the woman could react he sank to his knees and seized her scarred hand, kissing its knuckles tenderly. The woman tore it from his grasp immediately, but the rage on her face had been replaced with confusion.
‘My dear lady,’ the Half-Blind man said to her, ‘I cannot answer for the terrible things that have been done to you. Nor can I heal the wounds you have suffered. I only ask for the opportunity to be something more to you than what you have lost. If you refuse me this, I will leave saddened; but I will leave.’
The woman stared at the Half-Blind man for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, a corner of her mouth turned up ever so slightly.
‘Very well merchant, show me this home of yours,’ she said to the Half-Blind man.
And in his heart, the Half-Blind man began to see.
That is the end of your story, Marilee. It is who you have become, and it is what you will tell to any who ask, great or small. My storytelling is at an end.”
“I don’t understand, Artist. Is there not more?”
“There is much more to the tale of the Half-Blind man, Marilee. But it will be told in the hearts of your hearers. You see, by persuing the woman the Half-Blind man had begun to see in his heart; for the heart sees by doing, just as the eyes see by looking. By beginning to do, his blindness had begun to ease. Your hearers will understand this with their own hearts, though they may not realize it until much later. This tale will also awaken hope, as they will contrive to themselves all manner of things the Half-Blind man and the woman with the scarred arm did to bring love to blossom. And it is in these thoughts, the doing and the hoping, the seeking and the devising of good, that your story will bring much to the people who hear it and to those who will begin to see from hearing it. You are now the tale of the Half-Blind man, Marilee, and our time together is finished. Your arm will heal in two days time. Here is a patch for you to wear over your missing eye. The inn in has been instructed to care for you for two days and nights in their finest room while you heal. After that your travel and destination will be completely up to you.”
“Thank you Artist. It has been an honor.”
“Likewise, Marilee. You may be my greatest story yet. Do you know where you will go?”
“East. Towards the desert. It was where the prince who took my mother lived. Perhaps she is still there.”
“I hope you find her, and the rest of your family as well.”
“Goodbye Artist. I take my leave of you now.”
“Goodbye, Marilee.”
{Original Photo by Kr.B.}
