The Painter

The fabric was weaved with the cleanest hands skill ever had, made with the whitest threads Nature could offer. Hot pressed, the finished product was whiter than the freshest milk. It was priced at the cost of mind, which few understood or comprehended. Pity, the one to purchase it was a painter. Its virtue would not last long.

Travelling from the clefts of the Orient to the dry sands of Kemet, the Painter chose only the choicest of inks. His bags grew heavy upon the backs of his minions as he selected paints for his masterpiece. From the crevices of hills in many a land, the smoothest, softest pens of coal were picked. Slowly, but surely, the Painter finally reached the shack he called ‘Home’. With a carefree heart, he began to nail the fabric onto ironwood, albeit with extreme difficulty, to create what he thought was the perfect canvas for the perfect masterpiece. Alone but his unspeaking minions for company, he began.

The brushes, made from dearest hair, took the innocence of the fabric with the Painter’s deft strokes. Gently penning in every emotion his heart ever mustered, he slowly fed the canvas his heart. His fabric greedily consumed his skills, his soul, and all else he had to offer. The images forming were exquisite, till upon it, he placed a small gold dot. Perfection save that, the Painter called out in such loud rage and anguish that his minions dropped everything they did to cover their ears. The skies knew the screams certainly reached kingdom come.

The minions watched in horror as their Master ripped fabric from wood and took it to the well outside. Washed with unlearning hands, the water failed to rub it all off. No matte his efforts, stains remained, singing despair and teasing him with visions of perfection. An idea hit the Painter; a fool he was to follow it. With it, he plotted the fall of both his work and himself.

Upon the sullied fabric, the Painter began from nothing but scratch. He once more set to defile the fabric, confusing his minions for his previous work had been a golden dot but flawless. They toiled as their Master maniacally covered the stains with duller and darker colors. What ink and coal could not do, the Painter covered in scarlet and crimson. Even then, it stood out to him, cursing him with hellish songs of hidden, untold secrets. In desperation, he took to crimson and green of sage.

Agonized by the obvious imperfection, the work was repeatedly put through the same cycle as the Painter continued his search for the faultless piece. The minions stared on sadly; their Master had completely fallen prey to his work. Aside from the Painter himself, they were the last few ones to know of the fabric’s initial and first beauty. They were the testament to its former glory, glory that even the heathen under earth had forgotten. Now, the canvas was a mere polyglot of paint wasted, speaking of eons and millennia of abuse and ruin.

The Painter let out a frenzied call, speaking a tongue even the Flood knew not. He broke down the door of his shack, making way for the overhanging cliff. His minions ran out, trying to give him but alas! The last thing they heard before freezing in time was a loud splash. The bond between the Painter and those who vowed eternal fealty to him was broken and till Ragnarok would remain incomplete.

With time, wanderers and the lost laid gaze to a ruin, one that housed a single painting. This painting, without a creator now starved; its hunger for paint yet not sated. Perhaps, perhaps one day…