Behind the Canvas (19 page)

Cash growled at her side. “Looks like we've stepped into some deep guano, kid. Don't see a way outta this one.”

“I'm sorry, Cash.”

“That's all right. My head only ever gets me into trouble. I'm probably better off without it.”

The Lady's words popped into her mind again.
Listen to what they tell you
.

It was simple and could have meant anything. And it came from the Lady, who made as much sense as a helicopter with an ejection seat. But when the Lady said it, Claudia had still been listening at just the right speed, and she knew there was something there she needed to pay attention to.

But an
execution
? Maybe even hers?

The lights went out, plunging the clearing into darkness.

It only lasted a moment. Then a circle of light popped into the middle of the meadow, directly over Pablo. He spoke, his voice reverberating through the clearing. “Ladies and … well, canines. For some time now we have prepared and rehearsed and perfected what we consider a great work. A story of melancholy and triumph. Of remorse and wisdom. Of abstraction and beauty! You shall now be the first to witness the execution of … our play!”

And then there was darkness again.

Claudia held her breath, wondering if she had heard Pablo correctly.

Music. The wisps of melody were low and simple at first. She had to strain just to make them out. As they grew stronger, a section of the clearing grew brighter. Figures moved into the open space. Their movements were awkward but deliberate and rhythmic, like paper dolls doing aerobics without the help of knees or elbows. They moved in patterns and lines, interacting with one another.

They're dancing,
thought Claudia, relief rushing through her veins.
The execution of their
play.
Why didn't they say so?

“Spades and britches,” Cash murmured. “You gotta be kiddin' me.”

Soon figures crowded within the lights of the grassy stage. Each one looked like it had jumped right out of a Cubist painting. Some were geometric and multitoned like the clowns. Others seemed to be made out of fragments, like the man in the suit. The strangest of all were the brown and gray figures made of lines and shades that hardly looked like a human form at all. As they moved, the individual fragments and shades shifted, like dozens of dirty playing cards lying on top of one another. Only the fact that one end stood on the ground gave a clue as to where their heads and feet might be.

Off to the right was the source of the music: a group of musicians, as strange as the figures on the stage, gathered together playing instruments. Another harlequin stood with the group, strumming its guitar. A brown “playing card” woman picked at a mandolin. And in the center of the group stood a squarish cartoonlike trio dressed in bright colors, bobbing up and down as they played their instruments. The bearded accordion player winked at Claudia, and she looked quickly away.

The panic and fear from minutes before had ebbed, leaving a syrupy puddle of frustration. This was ridiculous. She was wasting time here while the Fireside Angel—and who knew what else—was out there tracking her down. She pulled again against the hand clamped on her shoulder. The Lady was wrong. They weren't going to tell her anything useful.

And that's when they started singing.

It wasn't belting-it-out-on-Broadway kind of singing, but low and rhythmic and a hundred voices in unison. The kind of singing you snap your fingers to in a smoky café.

“We'll tell you a tale, as you sit in your seat

That is neither objective nor true,

But it's chock-full of color and wonder replete,

And of fortunate Mortimer Skew.”

The words they sang were captivating. At times they seemed to be singing only in her head. In the next minute the words were almost palpable, as though she could snatch a handful and put them in her jeans pocket. And then, occasionally, random words from the song seemed to appear in the air above the singers, but it wasn't clear if they were really there or if it was a trick of the light.

“Mortimer Skew was a healthy young lad

Who ate three bowls of bran flakes each day.

But that's because that's all the grocery store had—

For his world was just shades of gray.

“No color, no flavor, no imagination—

Not a sniff from beginning to end—

No opinion, no thought, no diversification

Was found between stranger and friend.

“One morning as Mortimer ambled through town,

With nary a thought on his mind,

He happened to spot on the cold cement ground

A fairly fantastical find.

“Glasses—with lenses that glinted bright green,

And frames of an old tarnished chrome.

Then glancing around so as not to be seen,

Morty snatched them and headed for home.”

A Cubist in the center of the stage acted out the words of the song as dozens of others danced around in synchronized movements.

“Once safe in the walls of his humble abode,

He brought spectacles up to his eyes

To see everything that the glinty green showed—

And he shouted in wondrous surprise.

“Colors! In every last thing he gazed on—

Not just greens, but chartreuses and blues

And crimsons and teals and lemon chiffons,

With innumerable patterns and hues.

“And sounds! He heard sounds that were gentle and sweet,

Like the giggle and laugh of a child.

And then there were sounds that could make his heart beat,

Like his neighbor's Rottweiler gone wild.

“Curious, Morty then opened the cupboard

And gnawed on a sponge for a while.

‘Ma, what a horrible taste I've discovered!'

He finally said with a smile.

“He ran out the door and he breathed the fresh air,

And he noticed a cloud in the sky.

‘That looks like my math teacher, Mr. Beaufrere,'

He said to a kid passing by.”

Other actors joined in the pantomime, playing other characters in the narration. A crowd slowly built around the Cubist playing Mortimer.

“He looked at the ground and he thought about ants—

‘Do they call each other by names?

Is it the fashion for men ants to wear pants,

With dresses adorning the dames?

“‘Oh, I see with my eyes and I hear with my ears

A place both exciting and new—

The world can be different from how it appears

Depending on my point of view.'

“A neighbor approached with a scowl on his face

And his finger was wagging with shame.

‘This nonsense you spout is a horrid disgrace,

And a blemish on your family name.'

“‘Your head is a square,' was young Morty's reply,

‘With circles for eyes, nose, and mouth.

Your middle reminds me—now don't think I lie—

Of a hippo that's heading due south.'

“A crowd had now gathered round Mortimer Skew,

Lips pursed and with eyebrows pulled down.

‘You cannot see anything more than we do—

Stop this nonsense. Quit clowning around.'

“But Morty refused to deny what he saw—

A wondrous new world complete.

The angry crowd bellowed to bring out the law,

And they strung the boy up by his feet.”

The Cubist playing Mortimer disappeared into the roiling crowd. One end of a rope fell from the dark ceiling, swaying as the crowd took hold of it. It snapped taut seconds later and an upside-down figure rose above the crowd, its feet attached to the rope.

It wasn't a Cubist but a regular person. A boy. His mouth was gagged and his hands tied behind his back. His crystal-blue eyes were wide with fear.

Claudia couldn't restrain the cry that leaped from her heart. “Pim!”

“‘You, Mortimer Skew, are as guilty as found

For trying to change status quo.'”

Pablo was there onstage, at the edge of the crowd. He pulled a lever protruding from a stone. A circle on the ground opened just below where Pim hung, producing an orange glow that flickered like flame. Undulating waves of heat rippled the air above it.

“So into the Furnace we must thrust you down

To pay out your sentence Below.”

Claudia struggled against the hands on her shoulders, but the more she pulled, the tighter they clamped down. “Pim!”

A rough set of stairs appeared next to the dangling Pim. As the music built to a crescendo, Pablo climbed the stairs, clutching a triangular knife.

“No!” she cried, beating against the hand that held her.

Cash skittered under the chairs and sunk his teeth into the ankle of the harlequin. It cried out, loosening its grip on her shoulders.

She was out of her chair in an instant, sprinting toward the stage in the clearing. Sprinting toward Pim.

“No!” she shouted again. “Stop!”

She was a handful of paces from the crowd when the harlequins materialized on both sides of her and grabbed her arms.

The music abruptly died, notes fizzling in the air. The entire crowd onstage looked at her. The knife in Pablo's hand was pressed against the dangling rope. Pim's intense gaze drilled into hers.

A frightening grin spread across Pablo's fractured face. “Audience participation! How delightful. But you do realize you're interrupting the story's climax.”

“Please,” Claudia begged. “Let him go.”

“We can't just release the star of our show,” Pablo explained, waving the knife in the air. “He's under contract. Talent like this doesn't come along every day. You do know who this is, don't you? Pim, the witch-son? The right hand of the Sightless One? He's played in venues across the land, bringing down the house, quite literally. For years he has crept through our forest, avoiding sentries, gathering information, and always, always, always”—Pim winced as Pablo poked at him with the knife—“avoiding his adoring fans. And then today he walks right up the path to our front door. Has a question, he says. Looking for someone, he says. Now, what was he looking for…? Oh, yes. A girl with raven hair.”

Pablo stopped and looked at her, covering his mouth in mock surprise. “A girl with raven hair? I don't suppose…” He held out his arms in question.

Claudia was speechless as her heart and mind battled. Pim had been looking for her. Why? Why had he brought her here? She had seen the burnt farm, Cornelis's hatred, even the knife in Pablo's hand. She had already made her decision—she was going home.

But to see him hanging there, helpless. She could feel the heat bursting from the pit below him. Is this really what he deserved? What if she was wrong? Could she just walk away?

No. She would always wonder. She would never stop wondering.

“I need to talk with him.”

Pablo laughed. “So sorry, my dear, but you'll understand that it just isn't possible at this juncture in the story line.”

“Please,” she begged. She had no leverage, nothing to bargain with.

Pablo shook his head sadly and raised the knife to the rope. “The show must go on.”

“No!” She struggled against the harlequin guards. “I've come all this way to find him. Even Rembrandt said I needed to find him, and I'm not going back until—”

“Rembrandt?” Pablo paused. “You spoke with Rembrandt?” He rushed down the stairs toward her, waving the guards away. He put an arm around her and drew her away from the crowd. “What did he say? Did he send a message?”

Pablo had dropped the showman facade and spoke now in serious whispers.

“He told me that I needed to find Pim,” she said carefully. “That I'm to…” She hesitated, not sure how much to tell him. He seemed to have a genuine respect for Rembrandt. “That I'm to strike the first blow against the Sightless One. But that I need Pim's help to do it.”

Pablo studied her for a moment, scratching a fragment of his chin. Then he spun around and shouted, “Cut! Strike the set!”

The light in the clearing returned to a soft glow. The Cubists on the stage scattered like roaches. One of them pulled the lever and the opening to the Furnace rumbled closed. With a cranking sound from above, Pim was lowered to the ground.

Pablo stepped over and roughly pulled Pim to his feet, slashing the bonds with his knife. A Cubist brought two chairs over and placed them next to Claudia, facing each other.

Within twenty seconds, everything and everyone else had disappeared from the clearing, except for Cash, who was scratching at his neck where the collar had been. Pablo leaned close to Pim. “No funny business, bub. You're surrounded, and the show ain't over yet.”

He bowed to Claudia. “We'll be close by.” Then he disappeared into the shadows at the edge of the clearing.

She sighed. At least for the moment, no one was being executed, no one was going into the Furnace, and no one had a vise grip on her shoulder. And yet her stomach turned flip-flops as she stared at Pim. He looked just like the miniature boy in her painting, except so lifelike. And he was taller than her by a few inches—she hadn't expected that.