The Painter

They always spoke to him at night. Some spoke in whispers, others in shouts. Some laughed, or cried, joked or threatened, but the end result was always the same. They would bleed into his dreams, and in turn his dreams would bleed onto the canvas, and the whole process would start anew the next day. His paintings sold, though not quickly enough for him to make a living from it. And they certainly did not sell quickly enough to give him any peace. After one particularly loud night the painter took his four noisiest pieces (he recognized them by the color of their voices) into the marketplace and walked from stand to stand offering his wares to anyone who would take them. He didn’t ask money for a single one, and before long he had discarded each one at a different stand. The next few weeks went by uneventfully for the painter. He would rise in the morning, dress, work, eat a meager meal, and when he could afford the materials he would paint. But no matter what one routine always remained the same: every night before bed the painter would carefully and quietly lock the door to the room that held his paintings. They were always quieter through a locked door.

Early one morning the painter awoke to a knocking- no, not knocking, knocking was a polite albeit persistent sound. This sound wasn’t rapping either, that was a sharp demanding noise. This sound was rough, persistent, loud, and desperate. Someone was pounding at his door. He dressed quickly and threw open his front door, expecting the worst. There on the stoop stood a man wearing the clothes of a merchant, and a haggard anxious expression. The merchant immediately poked his head past the threshold of the doorway and looked at the sparse space inside.

“Are you the painter?” The merchant demanded.

The painter could only nod in confusion and terror; he didn’t recognize this man but worried that perhaps he was one of the merchants he had given a free piece to weeks before. If the painting had tormented the merchant the way it had tormented him, he was better off hanged. The merchant shoved into his home and began looking about frantically.

“Where are they? Am I too late?”

The merchant spun on him with a look of absolute despair. More confused now than frightened the painter walked him to the room where he kept the paintings and pulled out the key to unlock it. As he did the merchant nodded sagely and said,

“Ah, I see I am not the only one to come demanding of your wares. I apologize for the intrusion, but I promise I can make this worth your time.”

The painter cocked his head at the man in bewilderment. Was he here to sell him something? Was he going to rob the painter blind? The painter nearly laughed at the thought. If this strange man wanted to steal his paintings the painter would help him carry them out. But the merchant misread his expression and clasped his hands together in pleading, “Oh sir I beg of you! Only let me see them and I promise I can pay. I’ll pay any price, I will!”

The painter shook his head, wished he had been able to wake up more before this strange encounter, and unlocked the door. Inside the room was covered in paintings. Every available wall had paintings hung from floor to ceiling, and there was only a small walking path in the room as most of the floor was covered as well. The merchant stepped through the door as a man walking into a church, and walked through quietly marveling at each painting in turn. After several minutes of reverent silence the merchant pointed to a bright and cheerful kitchen scene, his eyes alight with desire.

“This one! This here, I must have it. I sell kitchen wares you see and this will be perfect to display at my stand.”

The painter opened his mouth to reply but the man cut him off.

“Please, I know you must charge a small fortune for these and I understand that! I’ve spent the last few weeks saving to buy one of these magnificent pieces-“

“Why?” The merchant blinked hard for a moment, then opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping for water. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you so desperate to have one of these- these…”

He trailed off and the merchant shook his head in disbelief. “Your paintings are better fortune than even a saint could grant! The fish merchant with your painting of the sea has been closing up shop at midday for the last two weeks because he sells out so quickly. The spice merchant, with your painting of the star anise in bloom, was hired by the king as his own personal spice trader! The cloth merchant with your painting of the billowing gown is rumored to have purchased a castle! Must I go on?”

The merchant was gasping for air in earnest as the painter took down the kitchen scene from its’ place on the wall.

“What are you willing to pay for it?”

The merchant’s eyes shot up, filled with a hopeful light.

“Anything! Here, here is my purse take it all.”

The merchant shoved the purse at him, took the painting, and ran from the house. The painter sighed and opened the purse carefully, expecting the weight to be from rocks or some other cruel trick. When he opened it, the man dropped it in shock and screamed as though shot. The purse had ten gold pieces in it, a veritable fortune to the starving man.

The next few weeks saw a slow influx of the same types of requests. Merchants would come, one after another, with bags of gold pieces to beg for a painting that matched their profession or passion. Before long the painter was selling pieces faster than he could create them, and no longer needed to find work in town. Long gone were the days of meager meals eaten in the dark of his hovel. Merchants without gold brought him their wares: food, spices, furnishings for his home, and clothing in the richest silks. His curse had become another’s blessing, and in turn he was finally seeing the fruits of his labor. His best piece was the loudest of all, but rather than scream, it sang. The piece was of a pale, gaunt man, standing over a partially finished canvas with a tender expression of admiration on his face. The painter displayed it lovingly at the front of his new shop in the center of the city, listening to it's loving melody until he closed his shop at dusk.