Adam was consumed. The staircase was all he saw when he closed his eyes, and it left such an indelible e image that it was all he saw when he opened them. He worked. Unceasingly. Unerringly. He read both manuscripts again and again. Looking but never finding his redemption in those lines or between those words. He had been neglectful and he had been complacent, and he saw that now. Here. Wherever the now and here were in the unrelenting ebbing and swelling of time. Time that had become bloated and a mockery of what it once was. Every so often he would stop, remove the sheets of pen ad paint soaked paper and cast it to the ground, where it was held fast by the creeping tendrils that now didn’t even wait until he turned away. They had no shame, nor were they shy in showing themselves now. Once they had crept behind his back. They had grown when he wasn’t looking, or when sleep kept him. Only pausing when his nightmare disgorged him screaming into wakefulness.
I heard you scream.
Of course she had. Yet it wasn’t his daughter that had heard him. It wasn’t his neighbour, Denys, who was now a shaded amorphous afterimage of the person he had first presented himself to be.
It was ivy.
It was Ivy.
For when he screamed he awoke. When he awoke. It stopped. She stopped.
No more.
Here she creeped. Because this was her story, and she wanted to see it done. She wasn’t the only one.
Clarity. It washed over him in euphoric waves. An ocean of purpose.
Mamoulean had been right. What potential he had wasted. Throwing his gift away on a whim. He had become lazy, complacent and - worst of all - completely passive. Art wasn’t passive. Art was urgent. That urgency could announce itself anywhere, at any time and to any thing. He had scoffed and eroded his commissions, his illustration work. Brushing it aside as not true art, yet lacking the belief to do more.
Not now.
They had shown him. She had shown him. Daphne. Whose face was forever superimposed on the staircase in his mind. The accident had been more traumatic than he had given it credit for. It had broken a part of him inside, yet here he was now mending it. The ivy was drawing it and knitting it together.
Yet still something nagged at him. Something he had not quite forgotten, but placed lower in the hierarchy of his thoughts.
Another drink would solve that, except he was nearly out. The beer was gone, the whisky, the vodka. His hidden benefactor (he couldn’t believe it had been a mix-up, it had been deliberate, and it had come at exactly the right time he required it), hadn’t given him any more, yet had possibly given him enough.
Just enough.
To finish.
He read the manuscript again. Front to back. He could almost recite it verbatim.
Pouring himself more vodka, he added more honey. It had already began to blacken in the jar, becoming dark and clot-like, similarly to how the other jar had gone. He guessed that it had a short life. Like most things. No longer Amber. It had reduced to a thick, viscous, tar like substance. Yet it tasted just as sweet as it always had. So he scooped out a large ball of it on his finger and, after taking a tentative lick and finding it good, he dropped it into the glass. Another stir with his brush - this time filling it with paint and blackening the vodka further - and he downed it in one. The brush stayed in his had and, instead of leading with pencil, or pen, he began to just paint directly to the paper. I long sinewy tendril of ivy dropped low from the ceiling and caressed his face slightly, as if blown by an invisible breeze. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead and then several more. In the bedroom something heavy fell from - presumably - the bed, thudding to the floor. He glanced over there but only for a second. In time to see something oozing out from under the door. Dark matter and a host of small things that wriggled towards him blindly.
None of this deterred him. He had seen it all before. None of it mattered. How could it? When he was producing something so beautiful.
Like you could have done it without her words.
Her words.
They were his catalyst. His muse. Adam thought that she knew that. He needed to go back to the gallery. He needed to go back because he would find her there, if he went back to the retrospective. She would be there and they wouldn’t be strangers this time because he remembered. He could thank her and he could show her the wonderful work he had done.
Not yet. He hadn’t finished.
But he would finish it, because nothing else mattered.
Another drink.
More painting.
Something was lodged at the back of his throat. He tried and couldn’t clear it. Coughing now, his brush gripped tightly in one hadn’t eh other hand gripping the table to steady himself. Panic swelled in his chest. His eyes were wide. The ivy seemed to retreat slightly from him, drawing back and constricting into itself. Try as he might, he just could not clear it. One fist beating his own chest. Higher. He couldn’t catch a breath.
Then it was out. His head was low, and it felt from him and landed on the table beside his glass with a dull splot. All he could think was, huh, there she is. The bee moved slowly, not quite dead. One of it’s antennae was moving, the other missing. It’s wings were destroyed, crushed back against it’s body. Adam looked at is closely, and wondered where it had come from. He scooped it up with a still sticky honey covered finger and put the tip into his mouth. It tasted so sweet. He crunched down on it, relishing the bitter juices that flowed from it. It reminded him of the tablets he had consumed earlier, and was a similar taste. He grinned as he chewed, and went back to work.
I’m going to paint an ocean, he thought, and scooped a large amount of cerulean blue on to his brush, laying it down thickly on paper that had already begun to curl.
If only they could see me know. I’m on the slip slide.
Outside, beyond the suffocating flora, the sun refused to set. There was no more physical law it deferred to, and instead was a singular unblinking eye, it’s gaze fixed on the artist as he worked.
He finished the ocean and then he painted a doorway, through which the water lapped and eddied.
Ivy had lost track of time as she ascended. All thoughts on her mother. Her sister Violet was now a constant companion to her, and her voice helped spurn the girl on.
Somewhere down, far below, from where she had come from, the great machine at the heart of everything began to increase it’s infernal pace. Hidden gears clattered and whirred, grinding together with a purpose that was alien to her. She asked her sister once, in the subconscious way that sisters sometimes could.
“I know not what it is, for it is farther from me than you,” she had replied. “I am far beyond the ocean and here there are no such things. What can you tell me of it?”
So Ivy began to describe the sound, yet never seemed to find the words.
“Can you paint me a picture of it?” Violet asked.
“I could,” replied Ivy, “if I had the tools with which to.”
It was then that something caused her to draw up to the railing that ran atop the wrought balustrades and look upwards, a frenzy of footsteps far above.
Te man was leaning over the edge, looking down at her. This was the man that was between ivy and her mother. She was above, so far above. If she was not, then Ivy would have no purpose here, and her quest would be for naught. The tiger would remain outside for her and if she dared to return home, it would stalk her, then it would devour her. She had to believe that her mother was here. Yet the man was a stranger to her, his purpose unknown. An air of familiarity wasn’t enough to convince her of his intent.
Yet the fear in his face when he saw her was real enough, and he fast ducked out of sight, continuing to move up where she could not espy him.
“Before I do that,” she asked Violet, “what can you tell me about the man?”
“He is nothing,” he sister replied. “He is consumed by something that you can never understand, and need not fear him. In fact, do you not see how he fears you? He knows he impedes you. He also knows that this staircase only ascends, and you will soon catch him, for you are fleeter of foot, regardless of how much you tally or defer. Do not feel losing your pace, for shall never lose your focus. Now, would you wish to show me that machine?
In the foreground, in front of the door which itself was in front of the ocean, Adam painted white sand, and an easel. In turn facing the easel was a small girl. It as this girl that caused him some difficulty to paint. He was adamant that he did not wish to paint any identifying details, for he felt that he knew her.
He concentrated and lost himself to the painting, only stopping when he felt something on his leg, just at the prosthetics joint on his right hand side. Something was moving there, pushing out from the connecting joint and sliding between his skin and the carbon fibre (which now had more the appearance of iron), moving underneath the ivy that twisted up the limbs. He thought that perhaps it was that which now held it in place, not the corroded joint at all.
It pushed it’s way out and he scooped it up with his hand. This one got no more than a cursory glance before ehe put it into his mouth. He felt it wriggling across his tongue and gave it a moment before hitting down. There was something about that rush of bitterness, that took him to a place where he was happiest. Something on his left leg now. Then another on his right. They were coming from the prosthetic limbs.
Let them, he thought happily, and continued to work. Never her face.
He didn’t wish to see her face.
“Ivy,” Violet said, “this way. You can show me in here.”
Ivy drew up to the balcony.
When she looked over the side, there was the sam distance up as it was down. Behind her was a door. A deep cerulean blue.
“Come in,” her sister said. “You can show me.”
Ivy did as she was bid and opened the door. Beyond the threshold was the ocean, and the sound of it caused her heart to ache. She had never been to the ocean.
“Do you live here?” She asked her sister.
“Far beyond,” Violet said, “but I can see you from here and all you do. I have left you the tools with which to show me.”
Ivy walked across the cool sand, taking of her shoes and instead enjoying the feeling on her bare feet. She could smell the brine of the deep, far out beyond a sky that was an echo of the sea. She strained to look, but could don’t see her sister. To her left was a small easel, beside which was a table containing ink pens and paint. On the easel was a canvas, primed white in anticipation for her.
“What do I show you?” She asked.
“Show me the machine,” Violet responded.
Ivy painted darkness on to the canvas, in increments until all the white crisp purity had succumbed to the pigment. She didn’t like what she was painting, yet found herself powerless to stop.
All of this, Adam painted, as he chewed on the insects he absently took in to his mouth. Juices were running from his lips now, down his chin and staining his front, his legs, the chair on which he sat and even the artwork upon which he laboured, black. He continued to paint until the vodka was finished, and he could eat no more of the drugged and dying bees. It didn’t matter. This had been the final piece, and he had finished it.
I ended at the middle of the ascent. I wonder why I did that. I started at the end, then
slip slide slip
went down to the beginning, and now I’ve ended at the middle.
It didn’t matter of course. All that mattered was that he ha finished it. He took the paper off the drawing board and let it float down to the floor, where it was held by the ivy.
What now?
The doorbell rang.
“I see you soon,” Denys had said.
Adam stood, warily, slowly, and walked over to the door, being careful to avoid standing on any of his pieces. The door was stuff, caught now on both sides by the increased mass of vegetation.
Denys was there in the hallway. He didn’t look good.
No shit.
“Denys? Is that you?” Adam asked in spite of himself.
The thing in the chair nodded enthusiastically. It’s features didn’t seem to be as defined as they once were, and looked like the result of a painting that had began to run into itself. It beckoned Adam over, a small sideways slit opening up in part of it’s head. Adam caught hold of the doorframe and leaned in to that slit. There was a sudden belching noise from it, accompanied by the hot stink of rot. At the same time, a handful of white wriggling things fell from that hole and landed on the floor, turning over themselves uselessly.
“It’s time, Mr Adam,” the Denys-thing said. “Are you finished?”
“Yes but I don’t…I mean I don’t know why you’re…Where’s the other man? And the woman?”
“My penance,” it croaked. “You come. Bring pictures.”
Adam had a million questions but it was clear early on that his former neighbour wouldn’t be answering any of them.
“Fuck it,” Adam shrugged. “May as well.”
He went back and gathered his paintings up, rolling them into a couple of tubes that had been in the box with the original pieces, and slung them over his back. A quick sideways glance at his chair was all he needed to know to ignore it. The ivy held it firmly. There would be no movement there.
He drained the dregs from the glass, wished he had more, and joined Denys in the doorway.
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