The Painting in the Hall: A Fable (G) - Part Three

Part One // Part Two

Behind Master John’s head, Timothy clung to the nape of his teacher’s neck with all his might. It was the first time he’d ever mounted a cat — and while Master John did his best to keep his stride smooth and even so as not to throw off his diminutive passenger, Timothy’s heart still raced each time his perch vibrated and swayed.

Then again, was it simply the roughness of the ride that flooded Timothy with this curious mix of apprehension and exhilaration that tightened his muscles and churned in his gut? Or was it also the apparently infinite, wide open sky above? 

Beyond Peacefield’s western gate, a vast, largely uninhabited sea of grass and wildflowers stretched all the way to the distant foothills. And while Timothy knew, intellectually, that this great expanse of nothing was dotted with a number of underground inns and safe houses (constructed to accommodate travelers to Alexandria and the mountains beyond), he nevertheless felt frightfully exposed - and even a little dizzy - each time he chanced a glance at the billowing clouds on the horizon — or the golden sun that shone near the zenith.

We are alone, Timothy thought. We are completely alone. Ancient memory urged him to flee — to find the nearest hiding place before he was snatched and devoured. But he resisted that primal voice, choosing instead to bury his face into Master John’s fur and breathe in the cat’s familiar, comforting scent. “How long?” he asked when he’d regained a small portion of his equilibrium.

“‘Til our first resting place?” Master John replied, chest heaving with exertion. “At this pace, it will be another hour or two.” Paws pounded against soil. Then: “Why? Do you wish to turn back?”

Timothy gulped. That would be the sane thing to do, would it not? To return to the security of home, where he could drink water out of reliable cisterns and crouch beneath sheltering eaves? But somehow, he suspected he would come to regret it if he abandoned this course now. Somehow, he suspected all of Peacefield would regret such a failure in time. “No,” he squeaked at last. “No, press on.”

So Master John did — and meanwhile, Timothy fought to keep his terror in check.

Lifetimes seemed to come and go as Timothy’s ersatz steed trotted across the prairie. But eventually, the mouse was able to lift his eyes again to take in the landscape as it passed, assessing it with an artist’s eye. Eventually, nothing became something — a complicated mixture of ambers and greens interspersed with pops of purple and white. Could he remember this so he could paint it later? Could he fix this indelibly in his mind? Timothy wasn’t sure — but he would certainly try.

“Uh oh.”

The concern in Master John’s voice immediately wrenched Timothy out of his reverie. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Once again, his heart began to pound against his rib cage.

“I think a storm is coming.”

Timothy looked up — and sure enough, the clouds he’d noticed earlier in the day were now closer and far more menacing. “Will we be able to get to that first stop in time?”

“I can’t judge.” But Timothy could feel Master John pick up his pace. Years of experience had taught them both not to underestimate how quickly the weather in the kingdom could change. “Hold on tight, little one. I will try to beat the rain.”

Timothy’s bottom bounced on Master John’s back as they galloped towards their goal. Around them, the world began to darken as the tempest approached, the grasses leaning away from the gust front in a kind of submission to the Maker’s strength. In the middle distance, a brilliant bolt crashed groundward — and seconds later, thunder roared.

There! Timothy could see it: a blue signal flag snapping in the wind above the surrounding vegetation. They were mere spans away — but alas, the rain was already starting. Large drops splattered onto Timothy’s head, soaking him from crown to foot. “Faster, teacher!” he almost screamed. “It’s on top of us!”

By the time Master John threw open the trapdoor to the safe house and bounded into the tunnel beyond, they were being pelted with ice pellets that stung and bruised on impact.

Once he’d registered that he was inside, Timothy tumbled off Master John and hugged the close-packed dirt floor in his relief. He could hear rage of the storm outside - could hear the hail slamming against the reinforced entrance - but here, at least, he needn’t worry. Here, he was out of harm’s way.

“I suggest,” Master John panted, “we get a fire started so we can dry our things.”

For no reason at all, Timothy began to laugh.

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