The Painter

‘So, can you? Can you do it?’ 

The young girl stands on my doorstep, I squint at her through the crack in my door. She twists a lacy handkerchief in her thin hands and stares at me beseechingly, her watery eyes shiny and quivering. Christ. She’s actually doing puppy dog eyes.  

‘It’s just, I had heard...’ she continues, barely audible, voice quaking. 

‘You had heard?’ I demand, my voice coming out crackly and old. It startles her, the poor, sweet thing.  

‘Yes, I... well I had heard from a dear friend that you might... that that sort of thing might be possible.’ She gulps. ‘Is it?’ 

‘And what dear friend might that have been?’ 

‘Hubert. The blacksmith’s son.’ 

The blacksmith’s son! Now, him I remember. Spiteful thing, lots of fun. The object of his affection had found a better offer and turned down his proposal, he was fuming. He’d wanted her miserable, destitute, delirious, if possible. Fun. I can’t help letting out a little chuckle.  

‘So it’s true!’ The girl gasps. ‘You did it, it can be done?’ 

My chuckle turns into a choke and then a raspy cough that goes on a bit too long and makes my eyes water. I clutch the old, wooden doorframe to keep from keeling over.  

I don't need to be doing this anymore, entertaining these fancies, I’m not a circus act. I’m better than that. I’m an old woman, in the twilight of my life. Is this how I should be spending my last years? No. I need to make changes, I need to turn these people away, let them sort out their own problems.  

When I catch my breath she says, ‘I have gold.’ 

Well. 

Beggars can’t be choosers. 

I grunt and go back inside, leaving the door open for her. I don't watch, because I’m old and I’ve seen this a thousand times, but if I did, I would see her step tentatively over the threshold, I’d see her trying not to touch anything, trying not to breathe. I’d see her eyes go wide as she adjusted to the dark, I’d see them dart back toward the door wondering if she should make an escape. I’d see her internal battle as her safety and her deepest desire fight it out in her mind, tumbling over each other like flotsam and jetsam. I’d see the desire win. It wins every time.  

She sits down where I point her, a rickety, three-legged stool in the middle of the hearth. It’s short enough that her knees are raised, pressed together tightly in modesty, and rickety enough that she must spread her small feet at the bottom to keep her balance. It gives the impression that she’s going to the toilet, which makes me chuckle. Even the rich have to poop. She tries to keep my gaze as long as she can, but eventually she gives in, they always do. Curiosity gets the better of her and her eyes roam her surroundings. 

My hut in the forest is just that; a hut. Not grand or beautiful, but cosy and mostly waterproof. It has a warm fire glowing in the stone fireplace, an old, moss green armchair with more repairs than original fabric, a short tree stump as a footrest. There are shelves over the walls that hold my treasures, a feather collection, gnarled, knotted driftwood, tiny, stark skeletons of unknown little beasts, each as intricate as cathedral architecture.  

I let my own eyes roam and take this young girl in. “A dear friend” my backside. This girl has no more to do with the blacksmith's son than the kettle I pour out of now. Hot, amber liquid splashes into a small cup, fine sediment collecting at the bottom, turning the amber to red, and a tiny, cut section of some sprig floats to the top. No, her type doesn't mix with the working people. She would have heard this through village gossip.  

‘Drink,’ I say, setting the cup down on the thick kitchen table. 

‘A potion? Oh, no. I mustn’t.’ 

I stare at her. ‘You must. You want this to work?’ 

She nods. 

‘Drink.’ 

She thinks about it for a split second, but again the desire wins. She scrambles off the stool and grabs the cup.  

They think I’m a witch because I live in a hut in the forest. The truth is, I live in a hut in the forest because they think I'm a witch. I was labelled a witch many years ago, and once stamped with a label it’s quite irrelevant what you actually are. I never hurt anyone, I never caused problems, no more than the average person. Yet here I am, cast out, living in solitary. Until someone needs something, of course. 

I watch her take a sip. Her face screws up, her hand grabs her throat. She makes a perfect theatre of taking down the whole cup, gasping, tears, the whole works. 

The “potion” is nettle tea. Simple, harmless nettle- good for the urinary system, you know, and at my age you can't take any chances- with a touch of chamomile. That’s just because I like the taste. Of course, it’s just tea, it’s all for the show, it sells the final product. 

But anything’s a potion if you think it is. 

The girl tells me everything. I listen, more out of interest than diagnosis, I already know what’s wrong with her; spotted it soon as she turned up at my door. Slouched shoulders, stuttering speak, hands drawn in close to her body. But I listen all the same, make all the right noises, nod solemnly in the right places. He doesn't notice you? Oh dear. Your sisters are much prettier than you? Shame. Before long, it’s time to start. The real magic begins. 

I get out my brushes, my paints, a fresh canvas. I paint her, but the real her. Not the shrivelled, stooped mess that sits on the rickety stool, I paint the her that she is, but is afraid to embody. Tall, proud, an unflinching glare, chin tilted up ever so slightly. She accepts your attention, she does not require it. There’s a difference. Drives the men crazy. 

At the end she holds the canvas in both hands, angling it toward the light. 

‘And this painting... this will make me... I will become her?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

I know this because she already has. As her eyes roll over it, her back straightens, her chins lifts. A small smile traces over her lips. My work is already done. The rest will follow. 

I’m just a painter. 

They can call me whatever they want, they can shun me, cast me out of the village, but when push comes to shove, they will come and find me when they need my expertise. The very expertise I was exiled for. 

I think about that later as I travel the forest looking for treasures. I’ve picked the form of a fox tonight. I roam the wilderness as his sleek, red form, revelling in his excellent night vision, his powerful nose, his silent paws. 

I know what you’re thinking. But so what if I can change forms at will? So what if I can make myself invisible, find magic in what the forest provides, read people, get them to change their fate? So what?  

I’m just a painter. 

And as for Hubert’s lost love? Well, she did turn out miserable and delirious, but she contracted rabies which tends to have that effect on a person. Coincidence, probably.