Engin

  He’d cupped the petals into small porcelain bowls, carrying them on a silver tray, one floor up to the Lady Elenora’s room. Treading carefully down each step, balancing the bowls so they didn’t fall, he made his way through a short corridor lined with wide storage rooms stacked to the ceilings with the lady’s scrapped artwork. At the end of the hallway was a double door, on whose walnut oak surface he knocked three times. It gave off a rich rap, echoing like only a strong door could.

  He stared at the marquetry inlaid on the wood; subtle white blooms married to a dove like a wreathe.

  He looked down at his own platter of flowers; dandelion, buttercup, honeysuckle, rose.

  I hope I’ve picked the right ones, he thought.

  After what was a long silence, he tried the door himself. The knobs turned ever so gently, opening to greet him with an enticing aroma of dried paints and coconut butter.

  The lady was sat on a stool. Not a very big stool, but comfortable enough for her slim stature. Her hair flowed straight and black, her gown just as elegant, resting atop the flooring around her feet. In her hands she held a palette and a brush, her eyes gliding across the canvas between every stroke.

  “Lady Elenora.” Engin called out to her.

  “Just a moment,” she said immediately, her voice a shallow whisper.

  She was not fazed by his interruption. Dabbing then stroking then dabbing again, she created waves of blue, then midnight purple, before moving the easel a bit closer to her face. Her hands were shaky, frantic almost in the way that they trembled.

  She was so beautiful, not a single marker of age blemished on her skin.

  But Engin knew her appearance was fool’s gold.

  The lady was sick. She’d been ill for a month.

  Ever since she’d made the trip out of the city to see her family, she’d returned a shell of her former self. Her mood a constant grim, long ways from the caring and spirited woman that she once was.

  “I’ve brought flowers, Lady Elenora,” Engin said, soft and with a hint of impatience. “Your favourite kind.”

  “Set them down,” she spoke, wasting no motions in her work.

  Engin moved across the room, placing the tray onto a table that was illuminated by what little sunlight there was seeping through the large draping curtains of her window.

  He stood there for a moment, in complete silence. Watching, observing, hoping.

  The lady continued to paint, broad strokes, then subtle details and palette swaps. The image was starting to become clearer, a boat on a river, floating beneath the darkness of purple skies along the horizon.

  “It’s beautiful, Lady Elenora.”

  …

  Silence.

  A heart wrenching one.

  It was never this hard. To talk to her. To get a smile out of her. Even if it was just a short one.

  The room was a mess. But that was not out of the ordinary. She liked it that way. She called it her haven. Her place of worship. Where she could be alone and never have to worry about anything other than her art.

  Engin pivoted awkwardly, taking one last glance around the space. The far end was littered with canvases covered in rags, some so large they looked like they belonged on the walls of a church or a gallery.

  I thought she was done with her panel work, he wondered.

  For a moment he felt excited, almost blurting out another compliment for the lady to hear. But his conscience stopped him. This was not the time to seek her attention. She was busy, working.

  I should leave now, any longer and I’ll be a bother.

  But as he approached the double doors on his way out, the lady stopped him.

  “–wait –” she said, calm but still demanding. “Just a moment. Not much longer.”

  Engin’s heart sank. He turned to face her again, but she was still painting.

  And so, he waited. A minute or three, long enough for it to feel like an eternity.

  Finally, the lady put down her palette, and then pushed her easel farther back, the wheels squeaking like mice as they rolled.

  “What do you think?” she asked, staring at her own work.

  Engin moved closer, seeing the full picture now. Faces in the skies, the likeness of gods and goddesses watching the boat float down the river below. Inside the boat was a figure, a shadow with no face.

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  Suddenly, his thoughts began to change. An unsettling pit, growing deep within his mind. He felt so hollow, so full of despair. Crude images of glory and conquest shuttered by him, and then a queen, a crown on her head and fiercely cunning eyes to match. He tried to hold onto her visual, but it was already lost, shuffled away with the others. A flurry of emotions had washed over him, and he couldn’t help but feel that he had failed to reach a precise understanding.

  “It’s Balan…” Engin said, thinking aloud. “Riding the Kreflon Moat back to his city.”

  Lady Elenora met his eyes. She finally smiled at him, “I’m impressed, you figured it out so quickly.”

  “I felt his pain. His heartache. His… longing to return home.”

  Lady Elenora nodded. “It isn’t finished yet, of course.”

  Engin was in awe. He knew the lady was talented, but her gifts had far exceeded even what they were before. The Aya-Machine had given her a rare blessing, illusory feats that were still inoperable in modern-day primanetics.

  “But I have a question,” Engin asked.

  “What is it?”

  “Why did I see his mother?”

  “The queen?”

  “Yes! She was alive, sitting on his throne, awaiting his return.”

  Lady Elenora made a face; one of thoughtful confusion. “I’m... not sure, to be honest with you. But the mind does have its own unique ways of coping with my aya. You see, I have infused a certain layer of influence into this piece, one that sways your emotions in a particular direction. How far they go in that direction is based on you, the observer – and your interpretations of the content in the piece. At the end of the day, your individual perception gives any art it’s meaning, Engin. No amount of my influence can change that. And I wouldn't want it to either.” The lady dusted off her dress. “Does that make sense to you?”

  Engin nodded. “Yes, I think I understand.”

  Lady Elenora smiled and then said, “I’m glad to see you that you are still so inquisitive.”

  Engin felt a sense of pride boil over his cheeks. “Will you be sending this to the guild, lady? Are you working with them again?”

  Her lips turned weak. “No, my dear. This one is just for me.”

  “Oh.”

  I shouldn’t have asked that. What was I thinking.

  “But if you’d like, we can hang it up somewhere downstairs once it’s finished.”

  She was smiling at him again.

  “Um, yes, please! I would like that.”

  “Alright, then. I’ll leave you in charge of where to put it.”

  Engin already knew where he wanted to hang it. Right outside their sleeping quarters, on the wall across from the door.

  “Now then, let’s see the flowers you’ve brought for me today, shall we?

  – goodness, the roses are so vibrant this season,” she said, picking apart the contents of each bowl as she juggled them in her hands. “You’ve even remembered to bring the leaves.”

  “I figured you’d want to make some green paint out of them, better than them going to waste.”

  Lady Elenora gleamed with excitement. “Perhaps you should always be the one bringing me my flowers from now on then.”

  Engin hadn’t seen her smile this much in close to two months, he felt his own anxiety melting away. “I would be happy to! Any time you want!”

  She studied him for a moment, with caring eyes. A side of her that had been scarce for so long.

  “I’m sorry that I’ve been so distant from all of you.”

  She asked for his hand, and he gave it.

  “I want you to know that I’m still here. No matter how hard things are right now. I’m not going anywhere. You know this right?”

  Engin let her caress his hand. The Lady’s palms were soft, but unusually warm.

  “Are you sick, lady?” he managed to ask. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  She looked off to the corner of the room, and then back towards his eyes. “Some battles are meant to be fought alone, sweet boy.”

  Engin felt a sense of dread wash over him. He was hoping that she would tell him she was okay, or that her sickness was nothing of worry.

  Lady Elenora ran a finger across his knuckles. “Better days are never far, Engin. All I need from you is your trust in me. And your strength to be good, good in every way that you can. Look out for your brothers and sisters. Can you do that for me?”

  Engin felt his heart racing. “Yes. Always, Lady Elenora.”

  “Good.” She let go of his hands, turning her hips to set down the bowls. “And how is your sketching going?”

  “Its-”

  He wanted to say it was going well. But he shouldn’t lie to her.

  “I feel like I’m not getting any better.”

  “Oh?” she said, lifting her chin. “What are you struggling with?”

  “I just make so many mistakes in my shading, and the features never turn out how I want them to look.”

  “Hmm…” her eyes wavered over to her right. “Here, hand me that pad over there,” she pointed.

  Engin followed her gaze to a desk with three small towers stacked with scrapbooks and art tomes. He brought back a dingy brown pad of paper that had a few old sketches sticking out of its side.

  The lady propped the pad open, discarding the old sketches onto the floor like they were trash.

  Engin watched as she began her demonstration, scratching away at the blank sheet with her graphite tip.

  * He still remembered her advice from that day. *

  “Sketch the lines that you see, Engin, not the ones that you think you know. What you know is complete and indivisible, but what you see, can be divisible.”

  “Use the world around you to learn. Learn shapes, learn perspective, learn angles. Then, once you’ve truly learned, you can use it to create something new, like this...”

  The lady had drawn 5 different sketches of Engin on that paper, each one more impressive than the last. The fifth was only of his likeness, but a lot more aged, and a tad bit more savvy. The young man had a poncho on, and a rancher's bandana that accentuated his smile.

  Engin had left the room that afternoon with the pad in his hand, unable to stop himself from looking down at it every chance that he got.

  He’d never stopped sketching since that day; never stopped drawing faces, never stopped drawing the city landscapes, never stopped drawing the clouds during the monsoon rains. He wasn’t the best, and some of the other orphans were so much better. But he never did stop.

  “It’s a lot better than the last one,” smiled Perry, staring at Engin’s work from his bunk.

  “I guess so...” Engin said, taking another look at it, wondering if he was being too hard on himself.

  It’d been well past an hour since Burn had left them with the promise of dinner, and some of the boys were starting to become a bit cranky. Cisco was making those loud sighing noises he’d make when he wanted something really bad and wasn’t getting it, and Krip was occasionally yelling at him to shut up and let him finish his nap.

  Engin stopped sketching, wiping away some of the rubber shavings still left on the page. The mountains didn’t look right, the way they dipped across the landscape.

  “Lady Elenora says I should stop erasing my mistakes.”

  Perry raised his brow. “But then, how would you fix it?”

  Engin chuckled. “With more sketches I guess.”

  “Mm, I’d still give you eight coins for this one.” Perry reassured him.

  “Eight?” smirked Engin. “That seems a tad too high don’t you think?”

  “Not to my eyes.”

  “Alright,” Engin played along. “What would it take to get ten coins in your eyes then?”

  Perry’s lips pressed into gentle mischief. “Um,” he leaned forward so no one else could hear. “Well, it depends. Do you still have that funny drawing of Mr. Piggot you made.”

  Engin couldn’t help but grin widely. He did indeed still have it, stashed between a number of the other comical portraits in his art-book.

  “I’ll show it to you later,” Engin whispered back. “When there aren’t any snitches around.”