The routine here is taking some getting used to. You know how much I hate heights I found out that you can go through the catacombs to deliver water to the crops. They can’t make an aqueduct from the spring, and the plateau is rock, so if they want to grow anything they have to haul buckets of water. The switchbacks are narrow, but the catacombs are labyrinthine until you reach what is evidently an exhausted mine. It’s peaceful in there. Possibly because nobody is supposed to be down
“The Power of Ariel is the patron spirit of the College of the Art of the Divine. You know this by now.” The students laughed and elbowed each other. “Likely, you also know that the Power of Ariel is subject to the domain of the Virtue known variously as the Jester, Raquelia, or simply described as Love itself.
“You know, too, that the Virtue of Love is the greatest of the King, Jester, and Student, each being that which will persist until the end, but love being the greatest of these. It is for this reason that the Powers attributed to the Jester are worthy of special attention. Overwhelmingly, the Powers subject to the Jester are those of artistic expression and, even more so, self-expression.”
“Amen!” shouted someone from a pew behind Vaterin. Father Sauer nodded his head in acceptance of the uninitiated accolade.
“Yet the Virtue is not an indulgent patron, given to gluttony or greed. Indeed, though she counts Envy among her Powers, the angel in question is there to protect from envy, to let it sublimate into something productive. Too, she counts Pain among her powers, and all of you have been selected because you know the special pain of an artist, driven to perfect her art.”
“Or his!” the Father inclined his head once more to the commentary.
That makes me a little uncomfortable. The only pain I experience for my art is the physical ache of painting for hours and the prick of my knife. Or… I suppose I wouldn’t subject myself to such things if I didn’t have artistic expression dogging my psyche. I hope I have it in me to be a painter. Funny how things seemed so much clearer when I was confronted daily with ciphering and trade routes, nobles and merchants competing in disdain. I suppose that’s the purpose of a monastic college, to get away from the distractions and get down to what lies at the heart of one’s motivations and desires.
“When I was younger,” the Father said, “I was convinced that self-mortification would bring about artistic inspiration. I took a flail, thinking to emulate the Savior and scourge the robber-barons of my soul from the court of my creativity.” There was a collective intake of breath in the audience of students. “It was a delusion. I thought I was expressing my own pain; in truth I was expressing a shallow understanding of what the One God wants for His children. I would scourge myself!” he bellowed, filling the small chapel with his voice. “And then in a frenzy put a riot of charcoal or color on my canvas!” He bowed his head. “I gave myself over to one Power, not realizing I was giving myself over to the Power of Norman, that aforementioned Power of Envy.” Surely this isn’t directed at me. I just arrived. I earned my place in this college. I “mortify” my thumb to summon the Muse of Painting, but she heals me as soon as I complete my prayer, and I do not attempt to paint some primal internal reality. I paint portraits, I paint glorious heights, I portray the person within the flesh of the person, their virtue free of sarx. “I envied those who could paint. Now? I find my expression of self in balancing the books of the College, allowing it to go on from expo to expo, educating student after student. There are many paths to honoring the Power of Ariel, of Art, and I would have you meditate upon that as you go about your day.” What is my path, if not painting? As Marble said, should I be patronizing people who draw from inborn talent? Why would the One God bless me with a muse if I was not meant to paint?
Vaterin continued to dwell in her thoughts as she followed Marble—aside from going down the switchbacks—through the manual labor that started off the days of the students. She hurried through the catacombs, bringing water to the fields of barley and—she had learned—turtleweed for the humans and saltgrass for the oxen that provided the hearty stock of the communal meals. After the watering, done before the sun rose too high, was maintaining the adobe of the College itself, painting over paint over paint over paint over paint… to shelter it from the elements. Marble had laughed at Vaterin’s characterization of the work. “You’re so funny, Vaterin!” I’m glad I’m making at least one friend. I wouldn’t have guessed that I would befriend a noble of all people, but a good friend is a good friend.
Finally, after scrubbing the floors of the College and Chapel both, during which Vaterin and Marble were too spread out to chat, the bell tolled which declared it time for breakfast. I question the merits of either ox cheese or popped turtleweed, though I’ll admit it’s filling. Marble seems to appreciate it. “You’re telling me we eat the greens with dinner and the seeds with breakfast? What do they plant, then?”
“Oh, they reserve some seeds for planting. It’s a vigorous crop, and it doesn’t need much water that’s not from the sea.” She knows everything about this place. Sarx, she probably supported it with her tithes before her family wound up in penury over a dragon’s wrath. That story haunted Vaterin. Dragons were the embodiment of sacrificial love, according to the catechism of the Wholist Church. The first dragon, Gotorjod, had her wings seared off using them to shelter the first humans from the fiery wrath of the One God when they defied Him. It was Gotorjod who clothed them and taught them to work the land, clearing it of brambles and making furrows for seeds. All as I was taught, long, long ago. And yet for a dragon to exact such harsh vengeance on a noble family… what do I know?
“Marble, what is the dragon of Tourmaline Isle like?”
Marble started. “Uhm… she’s a water dragon. So theoretically mellow and slow to react.” “Theoretically,” because the dragon who would have drowned her family’s mines would have been of the same humor. “I haven’t had much interaction. I heard she has a hand in picking which initiates of the College go on to become teachers on the Isle. Why?”
Because I’m struggling to reconcile water dragons with a dragon who would drown mines for any reason. Even if humans fall short of the glory of the One God, dragons are supposed to be elevated above that. Immortal, noble, powerful in their element in ways humans cannot even conceive of… not the kind of being which would exact such a nigh-irrevocable toll upon an entire family. And for what? A sin of greed, which I have a lot of trouble believing Marble would deal in bad faith, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Then again, perhaps my merchant’s eye is clouded by nerves. Maybe I’ve misjudged her. Only one way to find out. Now if only time would hurry up and pass. Not that I mind talking with her.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
It was again quiet in the still life rooms where they spent the midday heat, a relative term, this far north, taking advantage of the sunlight to explore both color and shadow. The teacher was fair like Vaterin, and hectoring one of the students. “Your perspective is off, Slate! Start over from the beginning!” They had been working at their respective pieces long enough for the sun to track from a corner of the room to the middle. The student looked to be near tears, and Vaterin felt strong compassion for them. Marble, evidently, felt still stronger compassion, for she vacated her seat and walked over to the student, murmuring what were doubtless words of comfort and offering reassuring physical contact until the teacher—Brother Pumice, not that he seems very brotherly—ordered her back to her seat.
“The foibles of man are exemplified in that teacher, I swear,” Marble muttered under her breath as she passed by Vaterin. She cracked a grin. Evidently she wasn’t the only one with opinions about her nominal betters. And evidently there was fire in Marble, for all that their collective Virtue was an angel of water.
Dinner was yet again barley and turtleweed, stewed in ox bone broth. “What did you think of your first full day?” Marble asked her as she choked down a meal which—on an ocean island no less—could have used a bit of salt. Or spices. Maybe instead of writing home I should have brought some coriander in my knapsack.
“The sermon was thought-provoking. There will be another one after dinner, yes?” Marble nodded. “I have to wonder where all their inspiration comes from—” Vaterin held up a forebearing hand, “—I know, I know, they are divinely Inspired. Uhm… I only got lost in the catacombs once—” Marble shuddered visibly “—which was honestly less terrifying than trying to go down the switchbacks with two buckets of water.” Vaterin paused, and hesitated. “It was admirable of you, to go and comfort Slate. They looked like they were about to cry from the Brother’s admonition.”
Marble scoffed. “Brother Pumice has it in for Slate, I swear. He’s been on their case about their charcoals since day one. Then too—”
Marble was interrupted by the setting down of a bowl of stew by another student. “If it isn’t the two painters! Let me know when you get tired of working out the One God’s glory in only two dimensions! I work in three and even then I can’t capture the fourth.”
Marble muttered an oath before replying. “Felspar. Not all of us care to work in clay.”
“I’d be dishonoring my family name if I didn’t, to say nothing of the inadequacy of portraying the Glory of Creation on a flat canvas.”
“I’ve never heard of the Clays,” Vaterin said, temper flaring. “So clearly you need to preserve what honor the name has if it has so little.”
“I’ve never heard of the Limes, so what are you doing at an art school?”
Marble put a hand on Vaterin’s arm. “Let him go. He’s just like that.” Vaterin nodded, and they finished their meal in silence. At least, Vaterin thought, he’s a he and I won’t have to interact with him in the dorms. I wonder which dorm Slate sleeps in. Or maybe they converted a storage room for them. I should ask what Slate’s name is. I’d rather know their name than Felspar Clay’s. He’s obnoxious. I don’t even know what he was on about, talking about fourth dimensions. Doubtless some ciphering nonsense I don’t need to know. My muse provides me with all the knowledge I need. Why else would the Supreme send her down to Orth, after all?
In the dorm, after evening service praising a good effort and exhorting them to pray in thanksgiving with their idle time, Vaterin reclined on her bunk, sore from unaccustomed labor and the indulgent—but effortful—hours spent painting. Marble was tending to her hair, dipping her fingers in a small dish and working the liquid into her dreads. Vaterin hadn’t seen such careful and methodical care given to one’s hair, and watched in fascination. Marble caught her eye after a while, and cocked her head questioningly. “You’re quite the femme,” Vaterin explained, “you’ve spent several sandglasses just tending to your hair.”
Marble’s face hardened. Well dang, and here I thought that was a compliment. “Your white butch behind can probably air dry from a dunk in a bucket of water and have hair as fluffy as a feather! My hair demands care if I don’t want it to be dry and disheveled.”
Lacking a better idea of what to do, Vaterin fell back on merchants’ precepts—laugh gaily, admit fault, and offer some flattery. Maybe without the flattery, lest I stick my foot further into my mouth. She laughed, and nodded. “You’ve just about described my hair care routine. My apologies, I clearly missed the mark on being ‘complimentary.’” Marble seemed appeased by the admission of fault, and returned to tending her hair. Vaterin continued watching idly, finding the ritual element reminiscent of her meditations to welcome the Muse of Painting.
Curious, she fished her penknife out of a pocket and murmured her prayer, communing with the angel spirit she had so dearly acquired. The sunset and a candle or two offered only a modicum of light, the dormitory was arranged to catch the rising rather than the setting sun, the angles and shadows utterly beyond her ability to conceptualize. Holy Spirit, bless me with the inspiration of what to paint in time for All Saviors’ Day. I need to ask Father Sauer if I could paint him. Or maybe Marble. Except the time she lights up the most is in the still life room, and the lighting there is so boring. Just a flat wash of daylight. Maybe I’ll go through some of the folios for drawings of great beasts. For whatever reason, her talent lay with figure painting, but also with portraying creatures and abominations of all shapes and sizes. Sometimes she could even manage a solitary plant, provided it was not too sharply angled, too straight vertically. But generally not. It must be some interaction between the divine and my own soul, for surely the One God’s Muse is not limited to portraying one aspect of His Creation. Vaterin watched Marble tending to her hair. You know, there’s something of how she looks when she’s painting in how she looks when she oils her hair. The same focus, the same economy of movement. But if I had enough light to paint by, it would spoil the effect. I suppose I could work from memory…
Vaterin’s thoughts were interrupted by Marble rising from her stool—I guess she’s done, finally. Not that I was in any hurry. Meditation of any kind is relaxing to watch—and moving with a single candle confidently through the dark room. At one end of the room, past empty cots without students, she swept a cloth off a canvas. Is she going to paint now? At this time of night? There isn’t even any light to see by? And what is she painting? Vaterin’s curiosity surged, and she rose with her own stub of a candle to approach the far end of the room. Marble set her candle next to the canvas, which Vaterin could not even make out for want of light. It’s too dark to paint, surely. …isn’t it?