The Problem with Posing
“Ye be not worthy!” Alexander screamed as he threw the shield and sword into a pile of miscellany. Having spent most of the morning stamping his feet, throwing paint, brushes, and props around, the great artist was in quite a mood. Having boys pose when he wanted men was not helping matters any. Ripping down his painting he had started the day before, he threw it across the studio and glared angrily. Platov shrugged, but in truth, he had never met such a strange, disagreeable man before.
“What do you do?” Alexander demanded as he picked up various costumes and threw them back.
“Me?” Platov replied meekly.
“What are you?” Alexander demanded.
“We fix wagons,” Tate said.
“I do not need a painting of common boys!” Alexander scoffed.
“We can sweep up,” Platov offered.
Alexander drew near examining Platov’s face carefully. “I do not see wagon boys. I see something…yes, I see a sparkle in your eyes. You are a wizard!” Then he glared at Tate. “And you are not! You are a wagon boy.”
“I have magic,” Platov admitted.
Tate cringed and felt shame in being who he was.
“Then perform magic! Paint a great work of art,” Alexander demanded. With a scoff he stood back and put his paint stained hand under his chin while expecting something remarkable to happen.
“I can make spiders,” Platov offered.
“And why would someone want a painting of an urchin who can make spiders?” Alexander scoffed.
“I have a magic stone,” Platov suggested.
“A magic stone?” Alexander looked curiously.
“Let him see it,” Tate urged Platov.
Pulling the labradorite stone from his pouch Platov held it out. Shimmering in the light with many shades of rich green and iridescent blue, the stone had a mist about it.
Alexander threw his hands up in the air and in a rage stormed off to throw more costumes and props on the floor. Then he came right at Platov pulling him in front of the window. Then turning Platov around gruffly so that his youthful face captured the light he glared contemptuously.
“Hold the stone up!” Alexander demanded. Then he stepped back and framed the portrait with his hands. He moved from side to side looking for the best vantage point. “Hold still!”
Alexander was behind the painting board again making a racket of clicking, complaining, sneezing, and endless rants. Platov held still but soon his arm was growing tired.
“Tate, take his place and do not lose the pose!” Alexander growled. Then without stopping he continued to paint while Tate exchanged places with Platov.
“The stone does not glow!” Alexander noticed immediately. Stepping out from behind the painting he glared at the labradorite stone expecting it too to be cooperative.
Platov reached over and touched the stone, setting it to glow while Tate looked terrified to have it in his hand.
“Do not move,” Alexander threatened.
Over the course of the entire morning, Platov and Tate switched places while the artist dabbled and jabbed paint with his brushes and palette knife. Without ever having seen what he was doing, they were finally dismissed. Given a copper each, Alexander demanded that they go. The boys just did not inspire him, or so he said coldly.
“I guess we be done,” Platov sighed. He had never spent so much time with such a disagreeable person, not even Wraith. Together they left the artist’s studio and wandered toward the main square of the village.
“Tonight we get to eat,” Tate said, as he tried to shake off Alexander from his mind.
…
Days had past and the two found chores where they could, such that they could afford to share a meal. The blacksmith was letting them sleep in the corner of his shop with an old scratchy dog. Thinking about wandering on, the boys were asking what lay beyond the village walls.
“You be making a tasty morsel for the wolves,” the blacksmith said. He had a long black beard, one eye, and an arm that had been burnt to blackness. “Go gather up some firewood, I needs to be tending my chores.”
Tate shivered while Platov decided that maybe they ought not venture beyond the walls of the village very far. Gathering up firewood in a nearby forest, they were listening carefully for the wolves. At night they could hear them howling and sometimes when they went up on the walls, they could see their eyes flash in the moonlight. Hurrying with their task, they dragged firewood through the gate. Then they went about the work of cutting and stacking it up. Rewarded with enough for a small bowl of stew and bread, they hunkered down in the back of the blacksmith’s shop for the rest of the afternoon.
Then Alexander appeared at the door. He wanted them back to model for his next masterpiece, a paying commission. With no time to spare, Alexander marched them to a nearby tree. Then pacing around, he studied them closely. Rearranging them with a gruff hand, Alexander finally appeared ready to paint.
“Where is the stone?” Alexander asked as Platov’s hands were empty.
Platov obediently withdrew the labradorite stone and held it in his hand. A misty aura surrounded the stone.
“The other, the thing that talks?” Alexander said. “Make Tate hold that. You are academics and being taught by a great noble wizard. I want you to look the part…though I have my doubts.”
Tate watched as Platov set down the labradorite stone and then untied the cloth bag that was always attached to his belt. Hearing the Sage complain but secretly so that only Platov heard, Platov mumbled back that it was worth another day’s meal, maybe even two. The Sage with a grumble and two blinking eyes fell into Tate’s hand. Holding it up curiously as Tate had always been amazed by the orb, he inadvertently posed himself exactly to Alexander’s contentment. Now unable to lower his hand, Tate stood, cringed, and pretended that he did not really need to scratch some part of his body. Platov in the meantime, held out the labradorite stone and made the monumental effort to stand perfectly still despite a bee that was swarming around his head.
Alexander was making a great mess all around him. Pouring paint, throwing brushes, and splashing around smelly spirits that cleaned the brushes, he painted the scene. Then he stood back and finally relieved of the tedious duty of standing perfectly still for hours, the boys lowered their aching arms.
“You are too short!” Alexander howled. Then inspired he found a stump for Platov to stand on.
Covered in a heavy faded blue robe, Platov stood on the stump while Alexander stuffed a pointed hat onto his head. Then more props were added, mostly charms of different sorts that were arranged meticulously to hang from a rope belt.
“Do not move!” Alexander demanded when all was perfect.
The only problem was the stump was wobbly and with great effort not to fall, Platov stood as still as he could. The bee found him again and was buzzing around his head. Then Platov sneezed.
Alexander went into a tirade over the disruption, but thankfully, ordered Tate to take Platov’s place. Careful not to disturb the delicately arranged charms that hung from the wizard’s robe, Tate climbed up onto the stump. Platov took a well-earned break under the tree while Alexander worked tirelessly.
Hours later near dusk, they saw the painting. The two young boys the old wizard was teaching looking the spitting image of themselves while the wizard was old, gray, and wrinkled. Alexander had painted the wizard holding the labradorite stone in his hand. Platov chuckled as he was both the old wizard and the young academic in the same painting. How Alexander could do something so magical, he could only wonder.
“We shall sell it as soon as it is dry!” Alexander picked up the painting and carted it off to his studio.
Platov and Tate picked up the remainder of Alexander’s mess and dragged it back. Given a coin for their troubles, they left the crazed artist for the night. Later, sitting on the village walls near a short tower, they watched as falling stars streaked through the night sky. In the far distance were the fiery tracks of dragons wh
ile in the other direction the wolves were howling.
…
Alexander was dressed rather pretentiously with a colorful woven tunic of gold and red fibers. His hat was sloped to one side with a rather long feather that draped to his side. The client, a man named Lord Tancred was a gray wizard who sat in a hard-backed chair waiting for the great masterpiece to be unveiled. Carried into the chamber by Platov and Tate, the painting was covered in a heavy canvas cloth. Alexander was making a great longwinded introduction. Impatiently, Tancred tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. He had long gray hair, a long white beard, a wrinkled face, gray eyes, and a long wrinkled red nose.
The painting, Alexander explained, portrayed Tancred in a fine light as he imparted his wisdom onto the future generation. Befitting a wizard of his notoriety, the portrait would impart the ideas that Tancred was benevolent, wise, and respected by his contemporaries. Then without further delay, Alexander held out his hand toward the masterwork. On cue, Platov and Tate unveiled the portrait. Alexander had captured the wizard’s image from memory and the portrait was a precise likeness.
Tancred stood up and walked closer. Studying the portrait carefully, his eyes took in the sight of the students. Then he glanced over Platov and Tate who had posed for that part. He showed no emotion as he took the painting in from one side and then the other. Then he moved directly in front of it for a final viewing. Alexander held his breath and looked anxiously at his helpers.
“You will be recalled as a great teacher!” Alexander stepped in to sell his painting.
“I have never taught,” Tancred deflected the statement. “These boys, they are your models?”
“Yea,” Alexander replied. “Platov and Tate, they are experienced. My best models! See how they hold themselves in perfect form.”
“The composition I do not regret,” Tancred said dismissively as he studied the painting. “Nor do I complain of the clothing that you portray the urchins. This stone, the Stone of Cuore that I hold in my hand. I have never possessed such a stone. Why have you placed it in my hand?”
“Inspiration,” Alexander replied. “What is a great wizard without a great stone of power!”
“The other,” Tancred pointed first at the painting, then at Tate. “He holds an orb. How do you come to be inspired by these things?”
“A great teacher needs…” Alexander started to say but then was quickly interrupted.
“The painting is a fraud!” Tancred stepped back and glared between his image and Alexander.
“I have taken a few liberties, inspired to portray you in the grandest of manners,” Alexander gasped and replied quickly.
“How do you come to have the Stone of Cuore?” Tancred inquired curiously.
“Platov holds the stone,” Alexander replied.
“The other, the orb, is that in the other boys’ possession?” Tancred growing agitated asked. Alexander cringed as the sale was not going well.
“This boy here, he holds the Stone of Cuore?” Tancred’s eyes were on Platov.
“Yes, by what means I do not know,” Alexander stated.
“May I see it?” Tancred asked.
Platov retrieved the stone from his pouch and held it out in his hand. Cautiously, Tancred stepped closer but did not reach out to touch. He held his breath and then studied Platov’s face curiously.
“The stone is genuine, I suspected a fraud,” Tancred said and then stood back again.
Platov cringed while Tate glanced over at Alexander whose face was red with rage.
“This is strange,” Tancred finally said. Then he stepped back and was examining Tate. “The one has wizard’s blood, it is in his eyes, yet this one is not gifted. Yet he holds the orb?”
“The orb belongs to Platov,” Tate gulped as Tancred deemed it necessary to interrogate him with his gray eyes. As if he were a horse to be purchased, Tancred was conducting his examination thoroughly.
“Then it is partially explained,” Tancred said. He stepped back appearing relieved that the orb was held in the hand of a wizard. But then he was examining Platov as if he was the horse to purchase now. His eyes fell on the cloth bag tied to Platov’s belt.
Platov could see how angry Alexander was becoming and he flinched as Tancred bore down on him.
“I sense this power about you,” Tancred said. “This orb that you are hiding…”
“A Sage,” Platov said. “That is what he calls himself, a Sage.”
“A Sage…” Tancred looked perplexed. He stepped back as if now having decided his mind. Then bluntly he asked. “How do you come to have these things?”
“The Sage choses me as his friend as I rescued him from Wraith,” Platov replied meekly. “The Stone of Cuore I traded a dragon for in a bargain.”
“A bargain, one I am sure the dragon received the lesser for,” Tancred chuckled. “You are Wraith’s apprentice?”
“I escaped,” Platov gulped. “Wraith hunts me as does Scorch.”
“About the dragon…I mean painting,” Alexander stepped forward growing impatient. “I will repaint the portrait with more worthy subjects.”
“I did not say that I was not satisfied,” Tancred replied swiftly and swept Alexander away as it was Platov he was most interested in. “May I see the Sage?”
Platov wondered if he should show his treasure to the wizard. Reluctantly, he untied the cloth bag from his belt and then held the egg-shaped orb up in his hands. Its eyes blinked while Tancred stared back with piqued interest.
“What is your name?” Tancred asked the orb as Platov held it out.
“I am the Sage of Cent Fois,” Sage replied.
“I was suspicious,” Tancred said. “A great curiosity has baffled me today. The Sage of Cent Fois, a legend. You have not been seen in over a thousand years. How is it that you were found in Wraith’s possession?”
“A long tale of treachery,” Sage replied.
“Yet now you are held by Platov,” Tancred marveled.
“A brave champion, a daring rescue and escape,” Sage replied. “I have chosen Platov, he has no fear. An honest wizard that will carry me forward into the future, I foresee a bright future for Platov. He shall not be corrupted by power and greed.”
Tancred stepped back again as he sensed a repulsion from Sage. The orb was long known as unsympathetic toward wizards and as a flawed oracle of the future.
“I shall purchase your apprentice,” Tancred suddenly announced after a breathless silence.
“The purchase of an apprentice will require the purchase of both, for Platov will not be parted from his friend, Tate.” Sage replied swiftly, but dryly and matter-of-fact. Alexander looked startled as neither boy was his apprentice. But sensing an extra coin for his troubles, he remained demurely silent. A smirk crossed his lips beyond the sight of the gray wizard.
“Then I will take them both,” Tancred agreed.
“Platov has had a bad experience with the wicked wizard Wraith. What are your intentions?” Sage was negotiating the business while Platov was looking rather doubtful about being dragged off to another wizard’s cave.
“I will teach him to be a great wizard!” Tancred promised. “For already he has greatness by the things that he holds.” Then bored with arguing with the Sage, he turned and faced Alexander.
“The painting shall be redone,” Tancred decreed. “The Stone of Cuore belongs in Platov’s hand. I shall be holding my Staff. Take it away!”
“As you wish,” Alexander growled, glared angrily at Platov, and then with a clap of his hands demanded that the offending painting be recovered and removed.
“I shall be depicted as the great wizard that guided Platov! That will be my claim to fame. Bring the boys to my castle when you have completed the portrait,” Tancred announced.
Platov shook his head as he had no intentions of being consigned to another wizard. But without argument, he lifted the painting and with Tate, carried it out the door. Tancred picking up his Staff strode stiffly out the door
.
Storming into the studio, Alexander was in a temperamental rage. Once the painting had been placed on the easel, the artist destroyed it with a long iron poker. Angrily throwing the shards of splintered wood out the window, he turned to the boys.
“Go now!” Alexander howled. “Do not let me see your faces. You are traitors! I will demand a pretty coin for both of you too! And do not come crawling back either.” A copper fell on the floor as Alexander tossed it to them for their day’s effort.
“Sorry,” Platov replied meekly while Tate scooped up the copper. Together they backed out the door while Alexander charged after them, slamming the door in their faces. Inside they could hear him ripping apart the piles of junk he kept.
Chapter 8: The Masterpiece