Behind the Canvas (13 page)

She struggled again, but the Dutchmen held her arms and ushered her through the glowing doorway.

After lying in the freezing snowbank, the warmth that met her as she crossed the threshold was like a furnace. The inside of the café was painted red and green and was much larger than it appeared from the outside. Tables were scattered across the floor and partitioned booths lined two of the walls. Against one wall stood a counter, where a waiter served food and drinks to a handful of patrons. Behind the counter a door swung inward, revealing the clatter of a kitchen.

Cornelis strode toward a corner booth where an old man sat, eyes fixed on Claudia. Tufts of bushy white hair gathered around his head and trailed from under a white hat that flopped to one side like a deflated beach ball. A large, round nose sat prominently above a gray mustache, and his dark, penetrating eyes looked out from a puffy and wrinkled face.

The man's stare wasn't menacing, but it was painfully honest, as though he could read every secret hidden away in her heart and make them his own, leaving her empty and forgotten.

This was the Master from Rijn. And she knew him.

Not personally, of course, but in a way, yes. She had seen his face staring out at her from dozens of art books. She had even drawn it once.
Rembrandt
.
The artist
.
18

Cornelis leaned toward the old man, whispering low and urgently. The Master from Rijn listened, never taking his eyes off Claudia.

Could he really see inside her? Would he know she wasn't a witch-daughter? That she had come, in a way, to fight against Nee Gezicht? Did he really have the power to sentence her to death?

She couldn't stand there and let Cornelis have the only say. She stepped forward, eyes locked with the old man. Balthasar called out in surprise, but she moved quickly between the café tables until she stood just a few feet away from the Master from Rijn. Cornelis straightened.

The old man looked her up and down. He signaled behind her, and Balthasar stepped up and removed the gag. Her tongue felt like a gym sock in her mouth. She flexed her jaw. She would probably taste oil paint on her tongue for the rest of her life.

Which could be very short.

The Master from Rijn spoke. “Cornelis is a man I trust. There are so few these days. He claims you are a witch-daughter, in league with the Sightless One. How do you respond?”

“I…” She couldn't swallow past the lump in her throat, and her lifeless tongue didn't help things at all. “I'm not a witch-daughter. I'm only here to help my friend. He's a prisoner of Nee … of the Sightless One. I'm here to free him.”

The old man's eyes were fixed and impartial. “And your friend's name?”

Her eyes flicked toward Cornelis. “His name is Pim. But he's not evil, either. He's a prisoner, and I'm here to get him out of this world and back into mine.”

The Master from Rijn lifted his chin slightly. “And where have you come from?”

“Illinois.”

“Illinois?”

“On the other side of the canvas.” This wasn't going to make sense to him, just as it hadn't to the three Dutchmen.

But he leaned forward, his eyes now probing. “And did you come by your own magic or by another's?”

That wasn't the response she had expected. “By another's.”

“Whose?”

“Her name is Granny Custos.”

His face didn't change, but an odd look appeared in his eye. “Custos,” he repeated. “Indeed.”

The Master from Rijn regarded her for a moment as he stroked at the stubble on his chin. Then he reached to a dinner plate on the table and snatched up a knife. He wiped the sharp steel clean on a napkin. Then he stood and leaned toward Claudia, knife extended.

Cornelis stepped up behind her and grabbed her arm, holding her firm.

She flinched, struggling to jump backward as the knife flashed. But before she knew it, the rope binding her wrists fell away.

“Master—” Cornelis protested, but the old man held up a hand. Cornelis released her.

The Master from Rijn reached out and took Claudia's hand and brought it close to his face. He studied her fingertips, her palm, the back of her hand.

Finally he spoke again, slowly but with authority.

“You say you have brought me a witch-daughter, Cornelis. But I have seen past her eyes and beneath her skin and know what even she does not. A magic runs through her veins, yes. But she is not aligned with the Sightless One. She is an
Artisti
.”

Claudia watched Cornelis's jaw drop—something she wouldn't have thought possible. The other Dutchmen also wore expressions of disbelief.

She knew the old man was wrong about her being an
Artisti
, but she didn't care. A thin strand of hope returned to her.

“
A-Artisti?
” Cornelis stammered. “A creator?”

“Not one of
the
Creators.” The Master from Rijn dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “But one who creates, yes.”

“But might an
Artisti
also be a witch-daughter?” Cornelis countered. “So little is known of them and their—”

“Cornelis.” The Master from Rijn cut him short. “In this you will need to trust my judgment. She is not a witch-daughter. She has no allegiance to the Sightless One. If I am not mistaken, it is quite the opposite. You have done well to bring her to me, if perhaps”—he stuffed the binding ropes into Cornelis' arms—“a little roughly. It is good that she did not fall into other hands.”

Cornelis stared at Claudia for a moment longer before his gaze fell to the floor. “My apologies, my lady,” he mumbled. He nodded curtly to the old man. “Master.” Then he strode to the exit.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It looked like there wouldn't be an execution tonight.

The old man gestured at the other two. “You may take your leave. There are stirrings that the Fireside Angel is on the move from the East. Ride with caution.”

Balthasar gave a swift bow and then turned and knelt on one knee in front of Claudia. Hendrik followed suit. She felt her cheeks blush.

“My lady,” said Balthasar, “we have done you wrong and beg forgiveness.”

She shook her head. “No, no. I mean, you saved me from the dragon, you know, which was … pretty cool.”

Balthasar looked into her eyes. “You are a lady of passion and purpose. You will, no doubt, succeed in your quest.” With a full flourish he placed the feathered hat on his head and followed Hendrik to the exit.

She watched them go, the tension draining from her body. It was quickly replaced by uncertainty. She was so incredibly relieved, but she was still lost with no clue where to find Pim.

No one else in the café seemed to notice that Claudia had come close to being executed, nor that a
creator
stood right there in their midst, whatever that meant. The other patrons saw to their business, and the bartender lazily rubbed down a row of glasses. Nobody glanced in her direction.

Except for the old man with his penetrating eyes.

The Master from Rijn had seated himself again at the table, and he motioned for her to join him.

She sat on the bench across from him. Could he help her find—?

She was suddenly distracted by a table full of dogs playing cards.
19

From where she sat, she could see into the adjoining room. At a green felt table in the center of the room six dogs sat upright, cards fanned out in each pair of paws. They all had a drink glass or bottle nearby, and a white bulldog crunched the stub of a cigar between his canines. The bulldog passed a playing card under the table to the dog next to him using the toes of his hind leg. The bulldog glanced up at Claudia and winked.

She tore her eyes from the bizarre card game and looked again at the old man.

He didn't say anything, so she did.

“You're Rembrandt, aren't you?”

The old man didn't blink. “It is what they called me—in another lifetime, yes.”

Rembrandt continued to stare at her. She felt like a slide under a microscope. “Thank you for not executing me.”

“You should know,” he said, just loudly enough for her to hear, “that I lied on your behalf. You may very well be a witch-daughter—I know not. It is mostly
Artisti
who arrive through the window-caves. And the reputation of
Artisti
Custos is known to me—if you were trained at her hands, it bodes well for you. But being an
Artisti
does not preclude you from being a witch-daughter. Is not the Sightless One herself an
Artisti
? And a Creator? Power does not necessarily beget honor.”

Claudia set her backpack down on the bench next to her. She was tempted to tell him that she—Claudia, ultra-boring sixth grader—wasn't an
Artisti
, but thought better of it. “Why did you lie?”

“Call it the prescience of age. A hunch. You come seeking Pim, the witch-son. I do not think you come to join him in his … work. That means you are here to destroy him or to save him. Either way you champion a cause we have long hoped for.”

She stared at him, unsure of where he was going with this. “What do you mean? What cause?”

The old man's bulbous nose shone a shade brighter. “Open war with the Sightless One. And you, child, shall strike the first blow.”

 

C
HAPTER
13

O
PEN WAR
with the Sightless One
.

Claudia suddenly felt numb. War? That wasn't what she was there for. Was it? She'd come to steal a stupid piece of wood from some old woman. That was it.
Break the staff. Break the curse. Break Nee Gezicht.

But everyone here seemed terrified at the thought of the Sightless One. Who was Claudia going up against?

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she finally said. “I'm here to help my friend.”

Rembrandt pushed aside an empty dinner plate. “What do you know about this boy Pim? Really.”

Fear gnawed in her belly. Scraped at it. Is this where she would learn how Pim was an evil creature who had betrayed her?

She forced the thought away. “I know that he's been behind the … here … a very long time. I know that he was trapped here by a witch—an evil one, not just a magician or an
Artisti
, but someone really evil. I know he's a prisoner. I know I'm going to free him.”

Rembrandt returned her gaze with eyes as steady as granite.

“Why?” She tried to keep her lip from quivering as she asked the question. “What do you know about Pim?”

Rembrandt scratched at his stubbled chin. “What I know is that people are not painted in black and white. They are composed of shades and hues and layers of brushstrokes, some of which never see the light of day. People are the most complex art form in existence and never complete while breath is drawn. No person is wholly evil or entirely good.”

Claudia shook her head. “That doesn't help me. What is Pim? Why does everyone here seem to hate him? Why do they call him a witch-son?”

“What is Pim? You said it yourself: a prisoner. He has committed evil, and long has he suffered for his errors. There is much to pity in him. Trapped in a world where—for him, at least—time stands still, where hunger is never sated and rest is eternally elusive. Others of a lesser mettle would have fallen into madness ages ago. This world is not meant to house those of flesh and blood.”

“What do you mean, he's committed evil? What has he done? Has he stolen things? Has he…” She lowered her voice. “Has he
killed
someone? Can people even die here?”

“While time does not age or decay in this world, death and destruction at the hand of another are possible, yes. When citizens of this world die, they do not return. All that remains are their effigies in the paintings that created them in the first place.”

“Okay, but what about Pim? What has he done?” Rembrandt was answering some of her questions but not all of them. It was getting annoying.

The old man smiled sadly. “You are determined to judge people by their past, by what they have done. I prefer to judge them by their future, by what they have the
potential
to do. Your friend Pim yet has great potential to do good for this world.”

He obviously wasn't going to tell her why people hated Pim so much. Had Pim really done things so terrible that Rembrandt didn't want to talk about them?

“How do you even know who Pim really is?” she asked. “Where he comes from? How do you know about my world? Those Dutch horsemen didn't seem to have a clue what I was talking about.”

Rembrandt took a swig from a stein and dragged his coat sleeve across his mouth. “The nature of this world is mysterious, and there are only a handful on either side of the canvas who truly understand it. The people in your world don't know it exists. The people in mine don't know that they were created by the magic synergy found in paint and canvas.”

“What's synergy?” She recalled Granny Custos using that word, as well.

“When two things combine together to create something greater than the sum of their parts. Paint is merely oil and color, and canvas is merely cloth; but together, with the touch of the talented hand, they become a café, or a countryside, or a kiss. Or an old gray artist staring into the mirror. Only the limits of the mind can determine what finds its way to canvas, and therefore what finds its way to this world.”

A sudden thought came to Claudia. “You're not …
the
Rembrandt, are you?”

A grin spread across his face. “Never have I lived in the flesh, no. But the real Master, the one from your world, he knew of this place. Many portraits he painted of himself, each holding a different piece of his nature, perhaps even his soul. Those have been layered together in me, like sketches showing through fine vellum. Much of who Rembrandt was, I am. Like the Creators, he sought immortality. And when his flesh wasted to dust, he had achieved his aim—in a way.”