Nova 3 Page 16

  Miss Emily approached and sat beside him, face flushed, eyes downcast, her clothes hot and suddenly uncomfortable against her skin.

  The satyr ended his song, kissed Miss Emily with lips like satin, and smiled at her radiant smile. “I heard your music,” she said softly.

  “Yes. I know.”

  “Did you play it for me?”

  “Yes,” he answered, with another kiss. “And for me. For anyone willing to listen.”

  Her eyes wandered down his body, lingered briefly on his sudden erection, and then moved shyly away. “Your song touches everyone.”

  “Not everyone. Some people can’t listen.”

  “How sad.”

  “They are getting fewer.”

  “And I love you,” he laughed. He kissed her again, and stroked her breast.

  “Do you really? Do you really love me?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I love without reservation; I love everyone. But right here and right now—at this particular moment in this particular place—I love you most of all.”

  She reached out a hand and touched his face. Her other hand ran along the seam of her garment; it opened and slid smoothly from her shoulders. She shook out her hair and stretched luxuriously, reveling in the sun as it covered her with light. The satyr began his caresses, and the warmth inside her threatened to shame the heat of the day.

  “I fear I shan’t be faithful,” she said, her breath panting out in that most natural way.

  “Nor shall I,” said he, “but I shall still love you. Remember that, and we shall be true to the meaning, if not the fact.”

  “I vow,” she said as she pulled him close, “I vow my faith in you.”

  “We have each other for the moment,” he whispered, and entered her, “and for the moment, nothing is more important.”

  When Miss Emily woke up, the first thing she saw was William leaning against a nearby tree. She reached hastily for her shift, but, remembering the song of the satyr, let her arm relax. “Hello,” she said.

  William watched her for a moment. Then: “Are you content?” he asked. “Do you enjoy life?”

  Her face registered surprise. “Yes. Yes to both questions.”

  “All the time? You don’t get bored occasionally? Angry? Dissatisfied?”

  “With so much to experience? How could I?”

  William frowned, and kicked at some leaves. “Yesterday,” he said at last, pointing in the direction of the pool, “I sat over there for a long time. I was almost seduced by a mermaid, but I fought against it. Even your satyr failed to influence me.”

  “But why? Why fight? It would have been very nice.” William slid to a sitting position, still leaning against the tree. “Well, there was no point, you see. When it was over it wouldn’t have mattered at all. Better not to happen.”

  “How can you say that? The act, the action, is important in itself. You would have had that moment.”

  “The moment? That’s worthless. I can always find something to amuse me for the moment, and always I wonder what I’ll be doing the next moment.”

  Miss Emily looked at him with great sympathy. “You must be very unhappy.”

  He shrugged. “No, I don’t think so. I am merely indifferent.”

  “I can’t believe that your life could be so empty.” William grinned and looked at the ground, shaking his head. “The only difference between my life and yours is that I admit the emptiness. It’s small comfort, but it’s all I have.” Miss Emily started to speak, hesitated, then got to her feet. She picked her shift off the ground and slipped it over her head. “Why is life empty?” she asked at last.

  “Because it’s meaningless. It’s static. There is nothing important enough to fight for.”

  “There is no need to fight. The battles have all been won.”

  “And life,” said William quietly, “has no purpose anymore.”

  Miss Emily was truly shocked. “What do you mean?”

  “Man’s greatest reason for existence has always been the struggle against his misery. Hunger, tyranny, ignorance, squalor, danger—these are the things that gave Man his soul and his destiny. Without them, we are less than men. Without them, we merely drift through the boredom of our lives until finally death puts an end to the mockery. And after it’s over there has been no sense to it; the fact that we lived at all makes no difference one way or another.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Miss Emily.

  “The pattern of our existence has been locked into an unending circle,” William continued, almost to himself. “In that circle, there is no glory; there can be no aspirations. The time of change is ended, and the lotus eaters surround me. I am useless; there are no worlds for me to save.”

  The lump in Miss Emily’s throat was a knot of pain. The tears washing her cheeks blurred William’s image. “I am so terribly sorry,” she whispered.

  William stood. “Your pity is misdirected,” he said. “I realize what we are, and therein lies hope. Cry for those who live in darkness.” He watched her a moment longer, then turned and walked away.

  And Miss Emily, powerless to help him, stood sobbing on the grassy hillside.

  The dragon drowsed on a rock in front of his cave, the afternoon sun sending a glow of honeyed warmth spreading through his veins. Not really asleep, but definitely not awake, he was content to bask in the heat, letting his mythological dreams carry toward dusk and dinnertime.

  The sound of doom blasted the still air, a sound like thunder in rage, crashing and booming so loudly that even the trees seemed to cringe before it. The dragon jumped and froze, shocked wide awake, every muscle tense and on edge. He smelled a burning smell, not unlike the familiar odor of one of his wild, rampaging brethren. But how could a beast of the Wildwood manage to wander into this tame and peaceful place? Curious, the dragon lumbered to his feet as another explosion ripped the afternoon. He looked around, unsure of the direction.

  Close by, the field of the unicorns dissolved into chaos. The roar, the horrible flash of light, the huge chunks of earth torn out of the ground transformed the meadow into a picture of hell. And the unicorns, having never experienced anything like this before, stampeded in terror, maddened by a force they couldn’t understand. Some fell, shredded apart, others lay tom and bleeding, crying their pain, their grief and their confusion.

  At the edge of the meadow stood William, a third grenade in his hand, set to throw. His arm cocked back, his eyes strained through the dust, searching for the fleeing herd.

  Something moved at the corner of his eye.

  He whirled, ready to throw, then checked the move. Off to the side, near the woods, stood Miss Emily, surrounded by the children. They huddled against her, weeping. Miss Emily stood tall, as if unaware that she should fear this man and what he carried. Her face had such sorrow, such pity; it was a barrier between them, and William turned and fled.

  And the satyr waited for him by the side of the trail. William couldn’t use his grenade—the explosion would get both of them. So he hurled it far off the side, relishing the sound and the fury. Bits of dirt and shrubbery rained down on them.

  “Stay out of my way,” he screamed.

  The satyr, beautiful and grim, raised one hand. “Hail, William,” he said, “the new Messiah.”

  “Don’t laugh at me!”

  “I can’t laugh at you, William. I worship you. You are saving us from our stagnation. You are helping us out of the abyss of our happiness.”

  “It has to be done!”

  “Not for our sake, William. Please, don’t do it for us.”

  William reached in the bag at his side and grabbed another salvation. “The struggle must resume. The battle must be won.” He hurled the words over his shoulder as he plunged through the trees.

  “You’re too late, William,” called the satyr. “You’re much too late.”

  The last explosion was in this direction. The dragon walked carefully through the tall grass, skirting the trees in his path. And then a human ros
e up in front of him, a human throwing a rock, a human who made the ground shake and the dirt bite. The dragon’s hide was lacerated by the explosion; his feet flew out from under him.

  And William saw the dragon rise, towering high above him, nostrils smoking, bellowing a roar that matched the thunder of the grenades. And, with visions of glory and carnage dancing through his brain, the dragon let loose a mighty ribbon of flame that crackled over the man and consumed him. The dragon also consumed William.

  And then, the madness gone, the dragon whimpered at the thought of what he had done. He had killed a human. And what’s worse, he had eaten him, just as if he still lived in the Blackwood. For this sin, he would live in the Blackwood, banished forever from his peaceful, contented, lazy existence.

  He’d be found out. The rangers would come for him and paralyze him; they would put him in one of their great machines and throw him to the mercy of the wilderness. He would live out his life as a target for the hunters, condemned to the violent legends he dreamed about.

  The other dragons would hurt him, because he had no practice in the business of survival. Everything would be a danger.

  The dragon cried his panic and stormed through the brush in a wild attempt to reach the safety of his cave, cool, damp and secure near the pool of the mermaids. Blindly he waddled, crushing plants underfoot and knocking aside the smaller trees.

  And inside his cave, when he reached it, he curled up and shivered in an agony of fear and guilt. His wounds hurt also, sending steel bolts of pain through his body. He would have vomited the man if he could, vomited the experience, but dragons don’t do that sort of thing. So he waited, and ached and tried not to think of his punishment.

  The industrious elves came out of their burrows early this evening and set to work repairing the damage wrought by William’s grenades. They tenderly removed the bodies of the dead unicorns and took them away to use as fertilizer, continuing the cycle that had been started so long ago. The rest of the herd, blessed by short memories, soon forgot why they had run and settled down to rest for the night.

  Miss Emily and the children were not so blessed, but the teacher knew that, although the children had seen death, senseless, brutal and ugly, the love around them would reassure them, help them retain their innocence. They would understand, perhaps better than anyone else, just how precious their world really was.

  As for the satyr, well, he had followed William, and so witnessed the outcome of his meeting with the dragon. And as the dragon lay terrorized in his cave the satyr sat cross-legged on the ground outside it, raised his pipes and sent a gentle melody in to lull the huge lizard with tranquil harmonies. And as he played, the tension left the dragon’s form, the panic slipped away, the memories vanished. He calmed, relaxed and slept.

  And still the satyr played, filling the dragon’s dreams with loving tunes, giving him visions of soft flowers and running brooks, bright baubles and laughing children.

  The knights in armor were gone.

  THE EXHIBITION

  By SCOTT EDELSTEIN

  Is there a future to the arts and do artists have a future? Not a very nice one in an overpopulated world, Scott Edelstein tells us, not a nice one at all.

  HIS NAME, ACCORDING to his identagram (No. 5551070023), is Wilson Francis Howell Markham. There are eleven other Wilson Francis Howell Markhams also alive, none of whom knows he exists. He knows none of them.

  His profession, according to his identagram, is pnt:imp. An impressionist painter. One of 8,997,020 living impressionist painters.

  His economic classification, according to his identagram, is dole. Meaning he is still on the Allowance; meaning he is an unknown. Meaning he is a failure. Meaning his apartment walls are adorned by his own work only.

  He is a tall, lanky, tired young man with slightly slumped shoulders and lines reaching down from his nose to his mouth. With thin, straight, long yellow hair and a soft, urgent voice, with sad features and a sagging walk. With long, slender fingers that move quickly and smoothly and deliberately.

  He has been a painter for ten years and has painted one hundred and five oils. Before he became a painter, he went to Art School and graduated with honors. Before that he received an M.A. and a Ph.D. from Michigan College, and before that he received a B.A. from Southern University. Before that he attended Academy and before that Basic Ed.

  At this moment, Wilson Francis Howell Markham lies slumped in his armchair, asleep and exhausted, his fingers wrapped around a No. 3 paintbrush. In front of him is his easel, and on it his one hundred and fifth painting, just finished. A piece of W.F.H. Markham (which is how he signs his paintings) on canvas, and another line added to his aging face.

  When he awakens, he must call Art Center, division nine, and say to them, “I, number five five five one oh seven oh oh two three, have finished my hundred-and-fifth painting. It is called ‘Reluctant Sunset.’ ” And the computer will say, in return, “Thank you for reporting. We will file this information, and we wish you the best of luck in your career.” And the circuit will disconnect and the computer will flipflop first this way, then that, and it will file the painting between “Reluctant Soldiers” by No. 4113908891 and “The Reluctant Women.” by No. 4189767720, and also under No. 55510700230105, and again as painting No. 1908055944. And W.F.H. Markham will go out of his apartment and will try to sell his painting to famous artists to hang on their walls. Then perhaps he will go back to his apartment and eat, or perhaps he will stand in line to visit the park, or perhaps he will try to find someone to copulate with. Perhaps he will cry. Artists do cry.

  Man in the City

  It is early afternoon, and W.F.H. Markham awakens dizzily. He is covered with the sticky, odorous sweat of artistic labor, and he does not feel well rested. He exhales loudly and stands, rubbing his eyes. He looks at his one-hundred-and-fifth painting, which has taken over a month to finish. He smiles inwardly, proud and satisfied with his creation.

  This, he thinks, is his greatest work. And he feels, inside, that this will be the painting that will sell, that will make him Recognized. He feels excitement on top of accomplishment. Perhaps, perhaps . . .

  He calls Art Center, division nine, and tells them of his painting. The computer thanks him and wishes him the best of luck in his career.

  He calls Jerome J.N. Nathan. Nathan’s secretarial machine answers. He makes an appointment for three o’clock that afternoon. Jerome J.N. Nathan can give him fifteen minutes, he is told. He thanks the secretary and hangs up.

  He can feel it, growing stronger—an inner stirring, a combination of yearning and joy. “Reluctant Sunset” is his masterpiece, the final product of a life of study and work. It is all that is his life, all that is his environment, all that is his mind and soul. All that is good, all that is real.

  He removes his clothing, goes to the cleanser in the comer of the room, stands under it and turns it on. He feels the dirt and moisture being sucked from his skin.

  Today. Today is a beginning.

  From across the room, he stares at his hundred-and-fifth painting, and smiles.

  Street Scene

  On his way to Nathan’s home, Markham passes the open-space art gallery for his subcomplex. Several of his paintings are on exhibit at this gallery and are available for purchase and reproduction by Recognized artists. None of his paintings has yet been bought.

  Markham checks his chronometer, finds that he has a few spare minutes. He sits cross-legged on the grass near the small display of his work and watches the passersby peruse his paintings.

  A well-dressed middle-aged man, probably a Recognized artist, glances briefly at Markham’s paintings, walks past. Another Recognized man examines the exhibit more carefully, gazing at each individual painting for several moments before moving on to the next. At the last painting he grimaces and turns away. Markham thinks he hears the man sigh. He grasps his most recent painting more tightly.

  A young woman passes by next. She is tall and striking, and Markham thinks tha
t she had probably been the model for many paintings by Recognized artists. She looks briefly at the first painting on display, then turns, her hair bouncing against her shoulders, then walks past Markham’s other paintings, disinterested.

  Markham feels a brief twinge of failure. Then, clutching his newly finished work, he rises and continues to Nathan’s residence. His hopes remain with him.

  Pilgrimage to Canterbury

  “Hellow, Wilson,” Nathan says pleasantly, looking up from his easel and putting his brush down on the table beside him. “You’ve brought something for me to look at?”

  Markham smiles a ridiculous smile. Jerome Jeremiah Nevil Nathan is an abstract artist, one of 12,525,611 abstract artists. One of the most famous. He is, in fact, one of the ten or twelve best-known artists in the Middle Atlantic Complex. And he is noted for his willingness to look at the work of young, struggling, unknown artists. He is always encouraging, and many artists who have sold paintings to him have rapidly achieved Recognition, and then success.

  When Markham brought Nathan his one-hundred-and-fourth painting, Nathan smiled and said, “This isn’t bad, you know, this isn’t bad.” He nodded, twice. “You may make it yet.” And he smiled again and very politely showed Markham to the door. No sale.

  But that was two months ago, and that painting (or so Markham thinks now) was vastly inferior to the one which he now holds proudly in his slightly trembling hands.

  “Yes,” Markham says softly, removing the painting from its protective covering and holding it out for Nathan to take. “My latest. My best, too, I think.”