Hoarfrost and Throe

“No! Wait!” The painter looks panicked at the razor sharp edge of the dagger dangerously close to his throat. “I’ll show you! Look here!”

He pulls at the large sheet of paper he has been working on and fumbles for the colored pencils. His hands are shaking so, he loses the pencils and has to go down on his knees and search for them in the grass. The grass seems strangely unreal under his fingers, like everything else that has been happening the last minutes.

The dagger hovers impatiently in the air.

He finds the pencils, gets up on his field chair and puts the drawing sheet on the drawing board across his knees. The format is so big; the paper hangs down on the sides of the panel.

“Would you mind putting that away?” he asks unsteadily, “I’ll show you what I mean, here on paper. Seeing that… thing… makes it hard to concentrate.”

The dagger hesitates a moment, then moves slightly away, but not near far enough for his tastes.

He takes a rugged breath and starts to draw.

He has been working on a pencil drawing of the valley at his feet. He has captured the crisp autumn morning with a range of emerald hues going into lime and yellow for the meadow. The sky is painted with the icy blue he always feel fits so well to the clear fresh air and high sky on days like this. The rolling hill in the foreground make it seem like the watcher is standing on a slope looking over the gentle, yet untamed, landscape below. Which in fact is the case. He has been working on depicting the rime covered leaves on the trees surrounding the river in the bottom of the valley. The cold that meets the humid air above the river touches the green canopy of the trees surrounding it, giving it a chilling layer of hoarfrost. It is the first touch of winter’s sleep, a frozen image that has captured the battle between summer’s life and winter’s death in a single poignant motif.

An edgy move with the dagger sends his hands flying across the sheet. With swift strokes he outlines three figures on the hill, looking over the winter-touched valley. The pointy ears and finely chiseled features of one of them clearly picture him as an elf. A bow is strapped over his shoulder, and he holds a quiver of arrows in his hands.

“See?” he says unsteadily. “This is an elf, but it really is a metaphor.” He sketches on. Next figure is a woman, dramatically clad in black leather, alluringly exposing a voluptuous body. Almost as an afterthought, he fills in her features, make her turn her head slightly toward the onlooker and bare her teeth just enough to disclose the pointed fangs. A dagger rests in her right hand. “This is a vampire,” he adds. An angry sound makes him add hurriedly, “But she is a metaphor too.” Grabbing for another pencil he hurtles on, hoping to keep the focus on the sheet of paper in front of him so that the dagger will remain quiet. The third figure he portrays is a man, sitting on a stool in front of a portable floor stand. Shaking, he says, “This… this could be anyone.”

He jumps as the dagger hits the drawing board, pinning the sheet to the wood. The plunge is hard enough to make the dagger stand on its own, but light enough to be removed with one hand, as it now is, accompanied by a low growl. He stares at the sheet. A narrow slit runs from the base of the neck of the artist down his spine, clearly showing where the thrust has been aimed. Quite accurately, he doesn’t doubt.

“I mean it!” he shrieks. “It could be anyone! Listen! These are metaphors! Metaphors, d’you hear? Nothing more!” The anxiety makes it difficult for him to breathe, and he has to hold on to the drawing board with both his hands, struggling to take in the big gulps of air he needs to continue.

“Look,” he says when he has the breathing under control. “This looks like three persons, but it isn’t. It is, you know, the noble values of thought and control, and that is the base desires of, of… anyone.” Chilled, he stares at his own drawing. The dagger resumes its position a little to the left of his throat. It motions to him to go on.

“The - the vampire,” he begins nervously. “She’s not really evil, she’s not. It’s the elf that says she is, because he represents her opposite.” He taps on the torn image of the artist. “Everybody is attracted to the vampire. She symbolizes the lure, the desire, the hot hot hot urge to sate, unconcerned of the cost. Or it can be the reversal too, the sweet surrender of the will to the vampire; it’s basically the same thing, you know. The vampire is the eros, the sum of instincts, desire without control.” He blots the sweat on his forehead. It seems like the day is getting warmer. “I made it a woman because the female body is such a powerfully loaded symbol. The sexual undercurrents are so easy to draw. Well, okay, okay! Blame it on guys!” He is rambling, and he knows it. Afraid to bore anyone he picks up his pencils again and start adding depth, avoiding the uninteresting details; he works on the colors, deepening some, changing others, transforming the picture to a landscape where the frost-wrapped river becomes a defining background rather than the focus.

Then, with some relief, he focuses on the elf. He almost forgets the threat as he relishes in the clean lines, the well built body resting in perfect equilibrium, poised between action and reflection, wisdom and tranquility expressed in every stroke. His pencil lingers on the manly beauty; a little stubble appears and a faint trace of masculine scent seems to drift through the air.

“This, the picture of the elf,” he starts, conscious to avoid provocations this time, “He represents The Good, Wisdom, Judgment, everything that is controlled, deliberate, skillful,” he pauses, wondering if there will be any reactions this time. “Except, he’s not really good at all. He just seems so because he’s the opposite of the vampire. Good is immaterial.”

Someone clear his throat. In amusement? He doesn’t give himself time to consider that. He goes on.

“The elf is the cool distance, he gives clarity, he is the shaping power. I love the elf.” The last sentence is out of his mouth before he can think, and the hand moves with lightening speed, forcing the edge of the dagger into his neck, but containing the force so it just pricks the skin under the chin. He rocks back on the chair, gasping. He knows that it will not take much to squeeze the little extra that will make him bleed to death.

A soft whisper at his ear, says, “Don’t lie to me dear. You know you can’t.”

The man whimpers a bit. “I know, I know. I didn’t mean it.”

“No, you didn’t,” the voice murmured, “You really should learn not to lie.” Compelled by forces he doesn’t comprehend, he suddenly begs. “Bite me, beast. Save me!” The throaty laughter that answers his plea makes him giddy with exhilaration. Then disappointment swells when a clear voice rings over the hill:

“I don’t think so. That would not be a good idea.” 

A slender hand stretches over his right shoulder and removes the dagger with surprising strength. He feels some drops of blood trickle down the throat, and nausea threatens to overwhelm him. He wonders briefly what it would be like to die this way. Then the hand moves over his throat, he hear a low muttering and the blood dries up, disappears, and miraculously the superfluous wound closes. Only the sweat on his brow and the rasping sound of his breath bears witness of what has just happened.

“Stand back, woman,” the clear voice sounds again, and only the sounds behind his back tell him that a vicious fight ensues. He doesn’t dare to look. Rather, he picks up his pencils again and focuses on the sheet. Soon the fight comes to a halt. A standoff, he guesses. It always is. This time when the dagger reappears, there is a red stain to it. His blood? The pencils fly over the sheet, dragging tendrils of purple, black, rust and gold over the paper. The winter-threatened copse at the river come into focus again, the brilliant colors now tempered with the undercurrents of the death-throes of life.

“Yes,” he heard the whisper at his left ear again. “Yes, that is much better. You do learn.”

Not surprisingly the cool male voice concurs. They always end up in agreement. It is only him that always ends up bleeding, lambasted to the point where he swears he’ll never pick up his pencils again. They know he will, though. Their constant bickering makes sure that he will again attempt reconciliation. Then a reassuring hand lands on his right shoulder.

“It’s all right,” the beautiful voice says. “I’m looking after you, don’t worry so.” He nods weakly in reply, wondering if he will be allowed to remove the disguise of his sex now.

It is the female voice that replies. Again, it is no surprise.

“Why, of course you can,” she murmurs to his unvoiced question. “As a matter of fact, I would much prefer if you did so.” An ever so slight touch of a finger on his neck sends a shiver down his spine. The shiver seems to remove the outer shell of his body with it, shrinking his torso, narrowing his waist, and as she watched, the shirt started to swell out with breasts.

“Well, I suppose, if you must,” come the male voice again. The ruffle through her hair belies the gruff tone in the voice. She feels the stare over her right shoulder resting on her cleavage as she sketches on. She could have sworn that the sudden gust of wind that without warning exposes a lot more bosom than she is comfortable with came from her left. She ignores it. The picture is nearing completion now. Is it balanced, impaired, perfect? She can’t tell, she never can. With a sigh, she tears her attention away from the paper, the drawing board, the colors, and the presence behind her back.

Stretching, she closes her eyes and uses her magic to draw them back in, into the guise of her body where they reside unseen and unheard by anyone but her. Vile creatures, lovely hands, alluring kisses, both of them. Standing up she studies the result of her work. The glowing colors of the meadow, the chill arch of the sky, the white skeleton hand of winter gripping the lush greenery by its throat, it all adds up to an eye-catching background for the trio on the hill. She decides they were a mistake. As she thinks she won’t bother to redo the picture, she feels more than she hears a faint snicker. A flicker on the edge of her vision contracts into the shape of a dagger. Then an ethereal arrow whirrs past and knocks it away. She hurriedly packs down her art material. Without looking back she slings the collapsed foot stand onto her back and scurries through the tall grass toward the road where she has parked her car. Two shadows seem to glide in her wake while they glower at each other. There is no escape. There will be another painting.