Painting with Ichor

Matthew Doyle

If a city was a living being, this one had long ago lost its pulse. I pulled my coat tighter against the languid rain that poured from smog-stained clouds. A few people lurched about the streets, seemingly without purpose.

The city was drained of colour; its houses, factories and monuments different shades of a pallid grey. Perhaps once a great, vibrant metropolis, now it was rendered squalid and bland by an overabundance of industry.

I assume it had a name at one point, but it was merely The City now. Its true name had been forgotten.

Melancholy struck me as I walked the streets. I gripped the handle of the leather case I carried, determined to deliver the contents and get out of The City as soon as possible.

Thunder rumbled above and the din of the mechanized factories clattered out a ceaseless riposte. The air was unclean; I could taste and smell the smoggy bitterness that billowed out from the towering stacks. I did my best to take these sensory affronts in my stride. Rounding a big puddle, I sheltered under the awning of a long-abandoned store. I fished a wet scrap of paper out of my coat and read the water-streaked directions to the apartment of Clifton Cervantes.

I wiped water from my eyes and squinted through the sluggish haze of rain. I saw Acheron Boulevard close by, and made my way towards it. I stuck to the sides of the buildings, where I managed to keep, not dry, but less wet.

Within a few minutes, and little hindrance other than a couple of pond-sized puddles , I found myself outside of the apartment complex.

I buzzed number three. A hoarse, surly voice crackled through the ancient speaker.

"Yes, who is it?"

"Brother Hadrian," I said, "From the Morphean Priesthood."

Clifton Cervantes did not reply, but I heard a mechanism unlock the door. I pulled it open and stepped inside the foyer. As I shook the water off myself, I realised this was the first time I'd been indoors for days. The voyage to The City from the temple had been a long one, without so much as a hostel to stay in.

The foyer looked like the rest of the city; old, grey and dilapidated, but still lived in. A couple of kids played under the stairs as I made my way up to apartment three. Despite looking tidy enough, at least compared to the city, the foyer assailed my nostrils with the pungent smell of rotting wood and a fainter stink of refuse.

I knocked on the door, but found it was open anyway.

"Come in," Cervantes grumbled from beyond the threshold. "Close the door behind you."

I entered and shut the door. The studio apartment was just like The City, just like the foyer, but its colourless walls were brightened in places by large paintings; one was a house hanging upside down from the sky, another was a landscape of hills which rose from the backs of a school of barracuda. All of the pieces were surreal and their colours were brilliant and iridescent. As I admired his work, I noticed the strong aroma of sandalwood incense; no doubt a measure to alleviate the stink of The City.

I turned from the paintings and found their creator by the window sill, sitting at an easel and sketching with a thin piece of charcoal. His brow was creased in what I assumed was artistic frustration. The butt of a cigar hung from his mouth, its last wisps of smoke trailing about him.

"You got here quick," he said without looking up. "My last letter to your High Priest was only a week ago. Are you desperate for the money or something?"

I laughed, even though it was obvious Cervantes was not making a joke.

"My order has fallen on hard times."

"Haven't we all." Cervantes still had not looked up from his sketch. He was a tall man, and thin, with long salt and pepper hair and a hawk-like nose. Dark grey stubble bristled from his chin and jaw.

"Yes, I suppose…" I didn't know what else to say.

The artist finished his sketch, picked up a golden lighter, lit a fresh cigar and turned to face me.

"Is that it?" he said, pointing to the case I was holding.

"Yes."

"Good. Your money is on the table behind you, in the calico bag."

I went to the table and checked the money. It all seemed to be there.

"Well?" said Cervantes, stretching his hand out. I nodded and a pang of anxiety struck me as I gave him the case. Never before had our priesthood debased itself so much as to sell a portion of our holiest relic.

He opened it and looked inside. He saw three vials, filled with a clear liquid that was much like water, save for its unnaturally sparkling luminescence, testament that it came from the veins of a god.

"This is plenty. Is it the real thing?"

"Yes, Mr Cervantes, three flasks of Our Lord's blood."

He smiled at me. "Good. It was a pleasure doing business with you Brother… uh, I'm sorry, I forgot your name."

"Hadrian. Brother Hadrian," I said.

"Hadrian," he repeated. "Well thank you. You can take your money and go back to your monastery now. I've got everything I need right here."

Something akin to greed seemed to flash in Cervantes' eyes as he continued staring into the case.

"Uh… Mr Cervantes, I'm sorry, but I must remain here until you're finished with the Ichor."

"What?" His head snapped up from the case.

"Yes, to ensure that it's not misused."

Cervantes straightened in his chair and glared at me. "I told your High Priest what I wanted to do with it!"

I put up a placating hand. "I know. It's just a precaution."

The artist sunk back into a relaxed posture, and his brow unknotted.

"Fine. I suppose it will be good to have a witness to my last great masterpiece," he said with more than a hint of sarcasm. "Well then, take a seat."

I sat at the table with the priesthood's money. A few years ago, the High Priest would never have considered selling off even a single drop of Morpheus' blood, but the temple needed repairs, and the priests needed to be fed. And the amount of money Clifton Cervantes had offered us would have been enough to build another temple and feed another score of priests, so we were by no means getting a raw deal.

That said, a stranger now possessed the substance through which we communed in dreams with Our Lord. Something that had been so special and holy to my brothers and I, was now an artist's plaything.

So I sat there and watched Clifton Cervantes as he pulled out the flasks of Ichor and placed them on a small table by his easel.

He unstopped one and poured a little of the contents onto one of his pallets. He added a blob of red paint and mixed it together with the end of his paintbrush, staining the blood. He repeated this process several times with different colours, then took up his pallet and went to the huge canvas that leant on the west wall. The canvas was taller than two grown men and wider than three.

I watched as Cervantes paced up and down before the canvas. It took him about ten minutes before he painted his first stroke. As he touched the stained Ichor to the canvas it glistened and seemed to burn into its surface.

Another brush stroke, then another, but I could not yet see what he was trying to paint.

As he worked, he began to speak to me again.

"I suppose you would be somewhat of an expert on dreams, being that you worship the god of dreams."

"Yes, you suppose correctly," I said.

"Why do you think we dream?" Another brushstroke. It was taking shape, but I still wasn't sure what it was.

"We believe that dreams are gifts from our god. He grants them to us."

"But why do you think that is?"

"Our Lord lives outside the world, and dreams are his only means of communicating with us."

"I would suggest an alternative hypothesis. And in doing so, please understand I don't mean to offend. I think that yes, something, call it Morpheus or any other god you want, gives us the gift of dreaming, and imagination and creativity, because the reality of life is so shitty and painful and horrid most of the time. Dreams are our escape from that."

"When you talk of those living in this City, I can see your point," I said, looking out the window at the desolate city beyond.

Cervantes followed my line of sight and nodded. "I've lived in this city my entire life, you know. And to be honest I didn't always hate it. I have travelled to other places, but I realised that I'd hate them just as much. Because life to me is miserable no matter where you are. The City is just honest about it. That's why I stayed here. But I have grown tired of the world , more than this city. That's why you're here, you know, that's why I'm doing this."

I nodded. That was all I could do. I might have gotten into some philosophical discussion with him, but the conviction in his voice told me he would never be swayed from his outlook on life.

He continued to talk, and paint; I continued to sit there, listen and watch. His painting was starting to take shape. It was a colourful landscape, with rolling blue hills, a purple sky and trees with candy-striped trunks and multicoloured foliage. He painted a small cottage between two of the hills and it stood on long female legs clad in fishnet stockings. It was a rough painting, but the effect of the Ichor was filling out the gaps for Cervantes, swirling about and painting the detail in the leaves and the blades of purple grass with weird finesse.

When he had finished, Cervantes stepped back and surveyed his work.

"Beautiful," Cervantes said.

"I agree."

Cervantes smiled at me and put down his brush and pallet.

He then walked toward his painting and paused. He turned to me and said, "I suppose I should thank you again."

"No need, Mr Cervantes," I said, pointing to the bag of money on the table.

"Okay then, well, here I go." He paused. "Would you like to come with me? I know what your answer will be, but I thought I should offer, out of courtesy."

There was something spiritually appealing about the prospect of residing in such a dream-like environment for eternity. Living outside of the world in a paradise of dreams as Morpheus did was either blasphemous or glorious. I wasn't sure which, but it was certainly tempting.

"Thank you, but I'll have to stay. The priesthood doesn't need another deserter — we're small enough as it is. And who will take the money back?"

"I know, but as I said: courtesy."

He put out his cigar on a nearby table, then jumped towards the canvas. As expected, the Ichor did its work. The painting sucked his body in and he became a figure within the idyllic image. He smiled and waved as he shrunk and floated down to a hill. The iridescent landscape became his reality.

As the painting's surface ceased shimmering and hardened back to corporeality, the image of Clifton Cervantes waving from the top of the hill stopped moving. I approached the canvas. I felt compelled to name this piece. On a scrap of paper, I wrote down an unoriginal, yet fitting title: Forever in a Dream.

I tacked the title onto the canvas, then turned and found Cervantes' golden lighter on the table next to his stubbed-out cigar. It was pure gold and decorated with intricate, swirling patterns. I scrunched up a few pages of Cervantes' sketchpad and set them alight. I waited for the flames to grow, then set fire to the painting. The fresh paint caught easily and the Ichor in it made iridescent smoke.

I turned away as the flames engulfed the shrunken figure of Clifton Cervantes. My guilt was shallow; I knew this had to be done. The Dreaming God's blood, even on a painting, was too dangerous to be left unsupervised by the priesthood. The painting was too large to carry home; there was no choice but to destroy it.

Did Cervantes and his dream world die? Or was it still out there somewhere? I liked to think so, if for no other reason than to eliminate any guilt I had. He had achieved his goal. He had escaped the world and all the pain and sorrow that comes with it.

I was envious of his success until the painting disintegrated, crumbling into charred pieces. I turned away from it and watched the grey rain fall outside instead.

Collecting the bag of money, I fastened my coat and admired the paintings of Clifton Cervantes one more time. I closed the apartment door and set out for home.

Click here for commentary by Matthew Doyle

MATTHEW DOYLE is a twenty-three year old writer of speculative fiction who lives in Townsville, North Queensland. As a child, he began creating stories for himself and his brother to act out in the battle against boredom, but started writing in his early teens and has not really stopped. He has a Bachelor of Arts in History and is currently undertaking postgraduate study in English Literature at James Cook University. Matthew repudiates the implementation of undue verbosity, especially when employed superfluously. He writes in his dark, air-conditioned room, avoiding the oppressive stickiness that is the tropical climate and escaping the banal horrors of a garrison town. Evidently, he is a professional pessimist. He can be found online at http://mattdoyle.livejournal.com