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

Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five // Part Six

As its name suggested, the travelers’ next stop was a burrow beneath a lone sycamore tree. No one knew who - or what - had planted that tree in the middle of an otherwise featureless grassland. No one knew who - or what - sustained it against the battering storms and long seasons of drought that afflicted the lee. But it had clearly grown there for countless generations, its many trunks and branches reaching up like bone-white claws to grasp the crystal blue sky above.

“‘Lo, pilgrims!” shouted a little voice as Master John limped towards the sycamore’s base. “Come, come! This way!”

On the cat’s back, Timothy peered down into the underbrush in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the speaker. Whoever it was, however, was well camouflaged and therefore lost to his sight —

— until, that is, they stepped through a door and started descending a tunnel in the soil. At that moment, an elderly pygmy mouse finally revealed himself by throwing off his cloak and lighting a torch. “This way,” he continued to mutter. “I have medicines this way.”

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

Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five

“In my observation, there are two general ways of looking at the world,” declared Master John as he carried Timothy over a footbridge in the salmon morning light. “One way focuses on the whole picture — and the motion of all things. The other sees the details by breaking things down into their component pieces. The first way is concerned with the particular and changing; the other, the abstract and the fixed.”

Atop Master John, Timothy fiddled with his whiskers. “Okay. I don’t know if I understand, but please continue.”

“If it weren’t for our ability to see the flux of the universe, we’d more than likely get hit by a peddler’s cart on Market Lane before too long. And if it weren’t for our ability to recognize wholes, we’d find ourselves adrift in a perplexing sea of unrecognizable objects of unintelligible significance. We might, for example, confuse a well pump for a living being.”

“How strange!”

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

Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four

It was an ancient coterie of prairie dogs who maintained the underground complex known as the White Flower Inn. The current proprietors - like their ancestors before them - were a rougher-hewn bunch than the rodents who settled in cities like Peacefield, but they possessed an obvious intelligence born of the travails of frontier life.

“Ma!” cried the pup sweeping the floor by the front entrance when Master John squeezed his bulk through the opening. “C-c-cat!”

“Eh?” 

“Cat, Ma! And he’s huge. Oh, he’s fixin’ ta eat us all! I just know it!”

A large sow emerged from a side tunnel wearing a stained yellow apron — and an exasperated expression. “Quit yer carryin’ on’, Billy. Cat’s don’t do that no more.” Then she turned to her guests. “Apologies, sir. The silly boy was born this season. He ain’t properly learned.”

Oh, well, I’ll ‘learn’ him, thought Timothy, offended on Master John’s behalf. But before he could give Billy a good cuff on the ear, his feline teacher held him back with one paw. “It’s quite alright, Mrs. —?”

“Mrs. Belle.”

“Ah. ‘Beauty’ in the old tongue. And quite fitting for a lady such as yourself.” Master John bowed respectfully before Mrs. Belle, who looked thoroughly chuffed. “Allow me to offer my apologies for the disruption of my arrival. By any chance, may my young friend and I rent a room for the night?”

It was not currently a busy season for Mrs. Belle’s establishment, so Timothy and Master John were quickly escorted to a well-appointed bedroom chamber, where they were informed of the meal schedule — and then left to their own devices.

“Why aren’t you upset?” Timothy asked the moment the master and apprentice were alone. “That pup judged you before he even knew you!”

“That pup,” Master John replied as he curled up for a rest on a well-worn ruby cushion, “is the victim of a universal curse. Even Enlightened creatures fear what is unknown. I dare say Billy had never seen a cat before today. And I’m a fair sight larger than most of my brethren. Between that and my fangs, it’s no wonder my appearance filled the lad with alarm.” 

“But — couldn’t you have corrected him?”

“No. Direct correction is not how creatures learn when it comes to these matters. Such schooling is best accomplished when one maintains a spirit of peace and friendship. If I had indulged my anger, I would've sundered a developing - and delicate - trust.” Master John yawned. “Now please, let me enjoy my afternoon nap.”

How I Built My Life: The Reflections of a Housewife (PG)

Okay: normally, I would save this until Sunday, but I honestly can't wait to share this piece with you all. It's basically my response to an article I encountered in which the writer decided to get a divorce to find herself because -- she didn't like the crumbs in her house? Or something? She never really made it clear. 

At any rate, borrowing heavily from the experiences of people I know (while changing details to protect the innocent), I've penned something that mimics the style of the aforementioned essay while telling, I think, a deeper - and much less narcissistic - story. Hope you enjoy!

How I Built My Life

The Reflections of a Housewife

That damned cornice! I’d spent hours nailing the plywood together - and more hours still covering it with the rose damask I’d so carefully selected - yet the mounting was not quite going to plan. Actually, to be more frank, the mounting was evolving into an outright disaster. For some reason, the wall above the living room window would not hold the hardware on one side. As flecks of plaster rained down from above and lightly dusted my hair, I let loose with the filthiest string of profanities I could possibly muster.

“You forgot ‘piss,’” my seven-year-old son brightly noted.

“And ‘damn,” added his older sister.

Right. I’d forgotten they were in the room. A real mother-of-the-year move there, Annora. And when exactly did our children learn to curse like sailors? I’m pretty sure I didn’t intend for that to happen. I’m pretty sure my goal was to raise children with exquisite, Emily-Post-worthy manners.

*****

I once had a lot of goals — though I’m not really sure all of them were truly mine. In junior high, I discovered a gift for languages, so I decided to pursue a career as a military linguist. But this, I think, was my father’s goal and not my own. My immediate relatives had served in the Navy for generations, and Dad had always envisioned his own children plying the family trade. And if you think my being a girl dissuaded him, well — let’s just say you have another think coming. Strangely enough, he was perfectly egalitarian in his overbearing expectations — especially after my brother died.

I also dreamed, in secret, of going to art school. This, I believe, came from the real me. I had a knack for picking up foreign tongues, but said talent was far outclassed by my inborn artistic eye. I was winning quilting and sewing competitions before I learned to drive, and earning ribbons for my floral arrangements not long after. At eighteen, I was secretary of the Granger FHA — a confirmed domestic goddess and top-flight wife material. Right then, I could’ve found myself a man and left the public world behind. So what stopped me? Well, the women’s lib movement was in full swing by the time I graduated from high school. Between that and my Dad, it seemed somehow more - acceptable - to be a pioneer — to grab at a chance to be one of the “first women who [X].” And so I became one of the first women admitted to Annapolis. 

And my other aspirations? Well, sometimes I imagined using my talents to design a line of clothing for real, living women whose bodies were like mine: curvy, soft, and not six feet tall. Sometimes I imagined designing costumes for the Broadway stage — and maybe, at the pinnacle of my career, winning a Tony Award for my efforts. And sometimes I wanted to study math and medicine too; my mind, after all, had always been a lively thing.

Art school happened in time once my children were grown. But everything else was left by the wayside, pushed into the corners where my free time dwelled. That, I suppose, is the reality of being. Eventually - if you’re going to build a life that’s really worth something - you have to choose one main road - one central goal - and allow other turns to recede in the rearview mirror.

My vocation, it appears, was to be a housewife. 

The Right Thing (PG)

Here: have another rage fic! It's super short, but once again, I needed to vent.

*****

I got in the car. He did the right thing.

I drove up the hill. He did the right thing.

I reached the summit. He did the right thing.

I stumbled on my way to the grave site, one of my black heels sinking into a patch of mud. It had rained the previous night, and slate-gray clouds still lingered in the sky, grim and threatening. A hand caught my elbow - I don’t know whose - and I righted myself, pulling my shoe from the sucking mire with a sickening slurp. He did the right thing.

I sat down beneath a fluttering canopy on a plastic folding chair and stared straight ahead at my son’s coffin. It was blue with gold accents, a nod to plans interrupted. The weekend Matt died, he was supposed to be packing for Annapolis. He made another choice instead — one that led to a brief hospital stay and - eventually - a closed-casket wake. The funeral home could only do so much, after all. But he did the right thing.

Didn’t he?

Everyone had said so the day I agreed to turn off Matt’s life support. Even his closest friend had said so when he stood to deliver Matt’s eulogy in the sanctuary of the ransacked church which stood a hundred yards below. He did the right thing. He was a good person. He took the beating like he was supposed to.   

An image rose unbidden before my mind’s eye: Matt lying still in that ICU bed, surrounded by beeping machines, most of his swollen face obscured by white bandages that held his battered flesh in place. One of his assailants had cut him with a pocket knife; the other had bludgeoned him about the skull with a metal baseball bat. But Matt didn’t fight back. He’d made a mistake at first; he thought he could protect Mr. Jefferson’s drug store. But in the end, he recognized his error, and he did his duty. He put down his gun — and he submitted. Because he knew what was just, the sweet boy.

Someone pushed a packet of tissues into my right hand, and I realized - with a twinge of horror - that my face was wet. Dear God, what’s wrong with me? Matt did the right thing! I’d spent the entire day mentally repeating this like a mantra, yet my white woman’s tears still came just the same. I thought I had done the work, but I was still a manipulative monster. I was still centering my own selfish, privileged desires. I was still refusing to accept this balancing of the scales. But our kind must be held accountable. We are the reason much is wrong with the world.

The pastor spoke. The coffin was lowered into the freshly-dug pit. Flowers and dirt were scattered atop its glistening lid. And presently, the small crowd faded away, leaving me alone to watch black smoke rise from Main Street — and contemplate my reckoning.

End.

The Best Laid Schemes (PG)

This is a piece of flash fiction that hit me like a bolt from the blue. It's angry, it's pointed, and it's not subtle at all, but I had to get it out of my head before returning to my larger, more ambitious works in progress. Hope you enjoy!

*****

Jason Michael Barrett was the safest man in the world — and had mere hours left to live.

Jason, alas, was unaware of the nearness of his demise. But in fairness to our hapless main character, no one had ever thought to look for the congenital weakness in that vessel at the base of his brain. After all, as far as Jason knew, he was perfectly healthy. How could he be anything else when he was so fastidious — so responsible?

Hefting himself from his desk chair, Jason walked over to a sterile cabinet situated by his front door and tapped its keypad. After a series of clicks and buzzes, the bottom drawer opened with a hiss, revealing the single-use protective gear he always donned before stepping outside.

Normally, Jason would spend the entirety of his day - as he spent most of his days - ensconced inside his first floor condominium, parked in front of the computer on which he penned his prize-winning columns for the Journal. But he’d just received a notification on his desktop that his grocery order for the week was sitting on his stoop — and unfortunately, that necessitated a short trip beyond his front door.

The Blue Scarves: A Fable (G) (Audio Version)

The text of this story can be found here.

Stay: A Halloween-Themed Story Fragment

(Prompt: “Write about someone’s first Halloween as a ghost.”)

 

Bob hadn’t expected this — not so soon.

 

Until now, his Halloween had been quiet and entirely ordinary. Trick-or-treating had fallen out of fashion in his neighborhood, so in lieu of sitting by his front door with a supply of snack-size Milky Ways, he'd stayed in the basement with his wife and watched a special presentation of The Exorcist. That Fright Night tradition, at least, had managed to endure.

 

From there, his routine had rolled forward as usual. Stuffed peppers for dinner. Another quick scroll through his Facebook app and a dashed-off post defending the president from some ridiculous calumny that was lighting up the feeds. And once the grandfather clock struck nine, his evening meds and the pleasures of his favorite pillow. And then —

 

— then he was here. In the — wait, what did his strange visitor say?

 

“The Between.”

 

Bob jumped, not realizing he’d asked the question out loud. “And — I’m dead? How?”

 

“A blood vessel in your brain," said the hooded figure at his side. "You went in your sleep. Peacefully. What happens next is up to you.”

 

“What about Lyla?”

 

They’d been married for forty-five years, Bob and Lyla. And Bob had hoped their life together would last for at least another ten or twenty more. Damn. It’s not fair.

 

“You can be with her — in a different way. She won’t see you. She won’t hear you. But if you choose, you can be bonded to her. Where she goes, you will go. You will be able to watch over her at the very least.”

 

“And my other options?”

 

“There are two paths. You can bond — or you can transcend.”

 

The choice was obvious. Bob decided to stay.

(What do you think, readers? Should I continue from here?)

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

Part One // Part Two // Part Three

The following morning, once the squalls had passed, Timothy stepped out again into the big, wide world — and was instantly entranced by what he saw.

 

The land before him was still moist, and it glittered in the early morning sunshine, adding a new layer of color to an already complex palette. In a flight of fancy, Timothy imagined the Maker’s emissaries descending from the firmament during the night and draping the field in a web of diamonds.

 

And there was more. For you see, Timothy recognized in a flash that his initial judgment of the plain had been faulty. It wasn’t uninhabited; on the contrary, it was teeming with life. To his right, an industrious brown spider swung between blades of grass, weaving a web with a geometric precision that rivaled the blueprints of Peacefield’s most famous engineers. To his left, a butterfly lit on a nearby blossom to feed on the nectar within, spreading its spectacular orange wings to take in the warmth of the dawn. And swarming by his feet was a line of black ants who marched off to Maker knew where, chittering and waving their antennae as they communicated amongst themselves.

 

These were lesser creatures - creatures that hadn’t been touched with the light of the Mind - but they were the Maker’s all the same. And for that reason alone, they were beautiful.

 

“You seem quite transported, my dear mouse.”

 

Timothy startled, then turned to his teacher, who was currently hunched before the flag and pawing at the soil to scare up his morning’s repast. Timothy grimaced a little as he watched Master John snatch and swallow a fat green caterpillar. “Does it bother you sometimes,” he asked, hesitant, “that you must hunt meat to live?”

 

“Hmm.” The cat sat back on his haunches, his expression thoughtful. “It would be rather silly for me to resent my Nature. The Maker designed me this way for reasons beyond my ken. But it does bother me when others of my kind allow Nature to dictate their every act. Our instincts are meant to be harnessed by rules — by Reason.”

 

“And that’s why you only eat the lesser animals?”

 

“That’s right.” Off Timothy’s uncertain expression, Master John then added, “But make no mistake, young Timothy: I respect these creatures too. I never consume more than I require for sustenance. And I never toy with them before I eat. That is feral — beneath a proper cat.”

 

Timothy gazed again at the spider’s web, which had grown more complex as he and Master John had conversed. “Still — it seems a shame that you are forced to destroy things that are capable of such feats.”

 

“Ah. Well, you are not the first to express such sentiments. Come — take your place on my back, and I will tell you another story of my brief time at Alexandria.”

 

This time, as Master John walked in the direction of the White Flower Inn, Timothy felt bold enough to reach out his paw and seize one of the purple flowers that grew along their path. He closely examined the bloom’s silky petals and yellow stamen as his companion launched into his tale.

 

“Among Mistress Rachel’s many disciples was a philosopher cat by the name of Master Dunkin who taught that Nature was, in fact, a lie — that what we call Nature could be remade through the application of Will. And he railed most passionately against predation and the consumption of flesh.”

 

“So what happened to him?”

 

Master John wound his way around a rock that impeded their progress and leapt across a small stream. “Well, like Mistress Rachel, he was quite persuasive. Many young students joined his pact and limited their meals to plants and seeds.”

 

“And then?”

 

“And then they discovered fairly quickly that such a diet could not sustain a cat. They became ill and listless. And eventually, the more sensible among this group gave up their quest and returned to eating meat.” Then Master John sighed. “But sadly, Master Dunkin refused to admit that he had erred — even after he went blind and his heart started to fail.”

Timothy shuddered, disturbed by the account. “Why would he do that? Why would anyone choose to disbelieve the evidence of their own senses?”

 

“Reason is not a perfect instrument, little one. If we are possessed by Ideology, we will see what we want to see — and not what is.”

 

Timothy carefully placed his earlier acquisition in his pack, touching the flower one more time before he closed the flap. As an artist, he would always remain in the realm of the real. After all, there was enough in the Maker’s world to inspire a thousand paintings.

Next

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.

Next

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

Continued from Part One.

Back at Master John’s studio, Timothy tacked his incomplete illustration of Old Sage onto his easel and sighed again. “Teacher,” he ventured, “do you know where that painting came from?”

“The one you so frequently admire?” Master John, who had just finished a serving of mutton, licked his paw and scrubbed at his whiskers. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. It’s been in the Hall since before my time.”

“They wish to tear it down.”

“What? Who?”

“Princess Anastasia. And the mice who follow her.” Timothy clenched his own tiny paw, suddenly enraged. “But they don’t know what they seek to destroy. By the Maker, they don’t even understand the painting’s meaning! They see subjugation where there is none.”

“Ah. So Anastasia’s sojourn at Alexandria is finally bearing fruit.”

Timothy favored Master John with a quizzical look.

“The Priory at Alexandria is where cats of high breeding receive their training. It was opened to gifted mice many generations ago — but on that mountain, cats still maintain the majority.”

Timothy huffed, mildly offended. “I know all of that. Everyone knows all of that.” Indeed, the lack of mice at Alexandria had been a topic of extended discussion for many, many years among cats and mice alike.

“Of course. But are you aware of its corruption?”

Now this was something entirely new! Leaving his work, Timothy joined Master John at the table, grabbing a seed to nibble in anxious anticipation. The fat, polydactyl Maine Coon was an accomplished raconteur as well as a fine artist.

“It started in my time. I came to Alexandria to hone my talent with the greatest masters — to discipline my brush and enhance my technique. And indeed, I had many instructors who were eminently skilled at their craft. I will always thank the Maker for their honorable work.”

“As I will thank the Maker for my chance to work with you.”

Master John bobbed his head, gratified. “Unfortunately, there was one cat in residence at the Priory who despised the old ways. Mistress Rachel. She was a sculptor of middling ability, but she had a cunning mind. It wasn’t long before she realized she could rise by exploiting our shame. It discomforts many educated cats, you see, to think that we were once your torturers.”

“But that was the past,” Timothy pointed out, scratching his ear. “No decent cat now living has ever eaten a mouse. Only criminals do such a thing in this age.”

“That may be so. But the guilt still lingers — especially since, as you well know, many mice still struggle to prosper. That’s how Mistress Rachel was able to succeed in bringing many cats at Alexandria to her side.”

“And what happened next?”

“Well, they razed the Archives, for one. I still remember the feel of the blaze on my fur — and the stench of the char.” Master John shuddered, his yellow eyes taking on a haunted aspect. “That was the day I decided to leave.”

“Was everything in the Archives lost? Is that why the painting in the Meeting Hall is a mystery?”

“Not everything was lost, no. There was one heroic cat - Master Thomas was his name, I believe - who braved the flames with several of his students to rescue what they could. But they carried all of it away to a hidden priory beyond the mountains. And for good reason, no one has heard from them since.”

“Is there any way I could find this priory?”

Master John’s laughter rang through the room. “Surely, young Timothy, you can’t be serious!”

“As serious as an April windstorm.”

“You would have to travel countless miles through difficult, exceedingly dangerous terrain. And even if you did find Master Thomas, he might not even possess the records you seek!”

Timothy sobered. In his enthusiasm, he hadn’t thought of the risks.

So far, the small apprentice had spent his entire life living amongst the tightly packed cottages and winding alleyways of Peacefield. Safe behind the fortifications that ringed the great city, no mouse needed to fear the depredations of the hawks that ruled the skies — or the wolves that stalked the wildlands. To depart from Peacefield on this possibly futile mission was indeed to court his own death.

But then again, wasn’t the truth more than worth such a price?

“I understand, Master John. But still, I feel I must go.”

“Hmm.” Master John twisted his head back and chewed at an itch on his flank. “Well, I have heard that there are cairns on the other side of the mountains that may lead you in the right direction — piles of oddly polished stones that may point the way. But mind you, these are rumors I’ve heard whispered in underground salons. I cannot confirm their veracity.”

Nevertheless, Timothy felt hope swell in his breast. If it meant he could save the work he loved so much, he had to seize this chance — no matter how vanishing it might be.

Timothy and Master John stared at each other for a long moment. Then Master John growled lightly in frustration. “Very well. I can see you are quite decided. But you will not go alone. I will accompany you. After all, you might have need of my fangs and claws if the hawks come calling.”

Timothy smiled and threw himself at Master John’s furry leg, hugging it as fiercely as he could. “Thank you! Thank you! I know you think me a goose, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“Steady now, dear mouse,” Master John rumbled. “We may be embarking on fool’s errand — but perhaps, after all these years, it’s time for a little adventure.”

Next

The Painting in the Hall: A Fable (G)

It stood in the Meeting Hall, a massive painting measuring more than twenty spans across. As far as anyone was aware, no one now living in Peacefield knew its provenance, for it was an old masterpiece indeed — but Timothy, a little gray pygmy mouse, loved to visit it as often as he could.

Timothy, you see, was an artist’s apprentice. He loved the feel of charcoal on his paws — loved the smell of the pigments Master John mixed in the studio every morning before their daily lessons. For Timothy, it was a sort of meditation to paint twenty versions of the same fallen apple, revising and revising until he - and Master John - felt he had truly captured its essence.

Each time Timothy viewed the painting in the Hall, he knew he was looking at the work of a creature just like him. He could see the painstaking effort the mysterious artist had put into his celebration of the Truce — could see the thought put into each individual brush stroke. What’s more, each cat and mouse depicted was rendered so distinctively that Timothy, at times, imagined them jumping right off the canvas to tell him their stories.

“I want to learn how to do that,” Timothy said to Master John just one harvest before. “I want to learn how to make my pictures come alive.” 

That day, the usually stern Master John actually purred with pride. “Then let us continue our examinations of light and shadow, my dear mouse.” And with a feline grace that belied his dumpy appearance, he leapt upon a nearby shelf and threw open the window sash to admit the sun.

At the present moment, Timothy was sitting on a bench before the great painting, his notebook and pencil in paw, his tongue protruding from his mouth as he concentrated on his sketch of Old Sage, the regal tabby who’d been instrumental in ending the conflict between cats and mice. In the painting, Old Sage dominated the center of the composition, and Timothy wanted to see if he could adequately capture the swirls of the king’s long fur — or the piercing wisdom of his gaze.

Timothy eventually got so absorbed in this task he’d assigned himself that he almost didn’t notice the crowd that had started to gather in the Hall. But then someone began to speak above the others in a loud, commanding voice, breaking Timothy’s focus.

“Proud mice,” she said. “Hear my words. For centuries, you suffered under the domination of the cats. And yes, you suffer even now. Cats no longer hunt you and kill you for their food, but ask yourself: is the work of liberation really done when a cat still reigns as king? Is the work of liberation really done when the richest, most powerful citizens of Peacefield are mostly cats — and not mice such as yourselves? Is the work of liberation really done when cats still win most of our prizes in science and art?”

As the assembly of mice muttered in discontent, Timothy scurried to the front to get a better look at their chosen orator. What he hadn’t expected to see was a lithe, glistening Siamese, who paced before her audience as she spoke, her long black tail swishing through the air in agitation.

Timothy knew this cat. She was Anastasia, the daughter of the present king.

“And what are you to make of displays such as this?” Anastasia continued, gesturing to the painting behind her. “Old Sage ate mice! Oh yes, he did! Years before the Truce, he was as cruel a hunter as any cat of his age. So why do we memorialize him here? Why do we keep this painting in our Hall? Why would you tolerate such a thing? Look! Look at the mice who are groveling at that killer’s feet!”

“Excuse me, please, but that’s not right.”

All of a sudden, the room fell silent.

Timothy hadn’t planned to say that out loud — but he’d studied that painting for many years, and he was certain Anastasia had read it wrong.

“And who are you, citizen?” Anastasia asked, her jade eyes bright with anger.

“Timothy. I’m apprenticed to Master John, the icon painter.”

“And why, pray, do you dissent? Are you not a mouse?”

“I am. But I also know the mice in this painting aren’t groveling. They’re standing tall and rebuilding their village.”

“And why does Old Sage loom so large? Why is he given such a place of honor?”

“Not because he once ate mice, your majesty — but because he stopped. And because he decreed that other cats should stop as well.”

Anastasia scoffed. “You have spent too much time with cats. It has clouded your mind.”

“Oh? Do you know, then, why this was painted? And do you know who painted it?”

“A pointless question. Your kind feel degraded when they see it now. That’s all that matters. Now come, mice. Let us go to the palace and demand this painting be destroyed.”

Once Anastasia swept out of the hall with her backers, Timothy sat back down on the bench and sighed heavily, his paws running over his unfinished drawing. He hated that he’d failed — hated to think that such a beautiful work may soon be erased in total ignorance.

And most of all, he hated that he was benighted too — that he still didn’t know the identity or the heart of Old Sage’s painter. Clearly, he needed to do some research. Because if there was one thing Timothy did know, it was that context did matter — that context, in fact, was everything.

Next