The Tragedy of Osbertus Nash

Touch. Grandmother always said that was the way we activated our power. Even the slightest brush of someone in a busy street against my bare hand would be enough to awaken the inherited Sight within me. The logistics of it are simple; you touch someone briefly and you get to see everything that’s happened in their lives up until that point. It’s not through a cinematic lens or anything like that; it’s more like a really quick slide show, so it takes about two seconds at most. I used it a lot when I was younger - mostly out of curiosity, sometimes by accident. I always had an endless fascination in leafing through people’s histories whilst they had no clue, until one day all that ardour was drained out of me and replaced by a firm and irreversible terror.

It happened on a random day in autumn. The sun had just begun to slip behind the buildings as everyone’s shadows yawned and stretched behind them. I was on my way home when a flicker of red further along the street caught my eye. Squinting to get a closer look, I noticed that it was a flag billowing in a frenzy beneath grand rusting letters that spelt ‘The Town Museum’. I’d walked past this building more than a hundred times on my way back from school, but I’d never actually entered it. On this particular occasion however, I felt an impulse to go inside. And I did.

The interior of the museum radiated prestige and sophistication, with its arched ceilings joining up under a stained glass dome in the centre. There was a multitude of artefacts studded around the place, some hung from the ceiling, others in glass cases, all of them bathed in a warm glow unique to the antiquity of museums. Swathes of people mulled around, shuffling from artefact to artefact, taking the ‘proper’ amount of time to truly appreciate each one, which was approximately a painfully long two minutes. It was all so much to take in, but I decided to start with the Renaissance. Always liked the sound of the word, never knew what it meant – still don’t. I headed over to the section, passing several detailed paintings of many ancient, naked people. ‘So that’s what the Renaissance was about…’ I remember thinking, but all my thoughts were cut short by a statue that loomed over me. It was of a thin man (thankfully partially clothed) with an expression of extreme pain – anguish even. Everything, down to the hairs on his head, the curve of his nostrils, and even the gum between his teeth was…so precise. I spent a good five minutes staring up at the marble structure, speechless, until the familiar ping of my phone broke me out of my trance. A message from mum - I was expected home ten minutes ago.

With a great amount of hesitance, I pulled myself away from the structure and yanked my bag strap up my shoulder, ready to set off home. Big mistake. As I adjusted my bag, the back of my hand lightly brushed past the ankle of the marble statue. The contact between the surface and my hand was lighter than the force of a feather landing on the ground, but it was enough. Before I knew what was happening I watched a life unravel before my eyes, and it only took two seconds, but I saw everything.

***

Osbertus Nash, known as Bert to his friends, led a largely average life in 14^th century England. Far from being of noble lineage, his family spent most of their days dipping in and out of dire poverty. His father worked until he lay stiff in the very ground he used to toil on, and his mother worked on the local farm. They starved at times, and lived in squalor, but they got by. The summers were tiring, but it was one fateful winter that really brought them down.

With a quickly depleting storage of fuel and dying livestock, things were as bleak as they could be. The grey clouds rolled overhead as Bert fixed the saddle onto the family donkey. He sighed as he ran his hand through the unkempt mass of brunette curls on his head, thinking of the plight at hand. He would have been a good looking man if it wasn't for the lines of strain that poverty had marked on his face. Along with his slightly sunken cheeks, his strong jaw and fine nose made his face look altogether a little too angular. But due to constant work at the local farm, he had a strong pair of arms and legs, and that was all he really needed to get by. His heavy set eyebrows furrowed together as he went through his mother's words in his head. 'You must sell the donkey at the market today, Bertie! This is our last chance.' If all things went to plan, he would sell the old animal at the market and spend what little money that earned him on fuel reserves for the rest of the winter.

The journey was slow and the bitter wind didn’t make it any better. Bert hunched over as much as he could in a futile attempt to protect himself against the frosty gales, but his moth eaten blanket was of little use. Half an hour went on like this until he saw rows of wooden roofs emerge over the hill. He’d made it to the market. Now, his only problem was to find a buyer which would probably prove even more difficult than the journey itself.

He wandered sullenly through the market square shouting out the deal for his donkey, but unsurprisingly no one returned his call; the donkey was near the end of its lifespan after all. A deep orange sun emerged in the early evening time, but dipped back behind the clouds as quickly as it had come, leaving behind hues of red and pink bleeding across the sky. Not a penny richer and with a heavy heart, Bert gloomily decided to start back home, but was stopped in his tracks by a croaky voice.

“I see you’re struggling to sell, young man.”

Bert broke his gaze from the floor and noticed an old woman cloaked in dark rags crouched into a recess.

“Uh, yes. I’m having real trouble selling. This was my last chance to secure fuel for the winter.” He scratched the back of his head, his eyes beginning to sting. “I don’t know what mother and I will do now.” He mumbled, returning his gaze to the ground.

“Aww, dear.” The old woman sighed. “I’m close friends with poverty too.” She sighed again, but this time more loudly. Bert nodded, and was about to walk off before she raised her hand to stop him.

“Wait! I’m trying to make money too you see. I’m an artist, and I’m hoping to sell my work to some very rich people. Maybe…we could help each other?”

Bert frowned, before shrugging. “I don’t know anything about art.”

The old woman laughed shrilly, her hoarse voice echoing across the largely empty market. “Oh you would just have to be my…muse.” Noticing that Bert looked unconvinced, she pressed on, bringing out a crumpled piece of paper with a signature on it. “If you sit for me, I’ll give you half the profits. It’s all here, look!” She grinned, revealing a set of brown and black stubs which Bert realised were once her teeth. “And trust me, it’s a handsome sum.” she added. The young boy’s eyes widened as he looked at the three-figure number on the paper. It was certainly a large amount – even a quarter of it would be enough to settle him and his mother for life, let alone half.

Bert shifted on the spot, unsure whether to trust the old stranger. She did look suspicious, and could be a lunatic for all he knew. But he shook his head as he took a glance the ancient donkey that stood next to him. “Don’t really have much choice.” He muttered.

“What was that?” the old lady chirped.

“I’ll do it. How long will it take?”

The woman cackled with glee. “Oh, thank you! It will only take one sitting, and it won’t take more than a day, I promise. Just meet me at this exact spot tomorrow.” She winked, making Bert shiver.

“Okay, I’ll be here. But half of the profits, okay?” He said, raising his eyebrows at her.

The grey-haired woman nodded and smiled up at him. Bert returned the smile but at the same time felt the presence of a little voice from deep within telling him that there was something…sinister about the woman. He smothered his doubts and set off on his way home. He decided not to tell his mother, preferring to surprise her with the good news afterwards. For the entire journey home, and for the rest of his day, Bert’s thoughts were tied to ideas of luxury and opulence. When asked about the donkey, he mumbled a promise to try selling again tomorrow, but in reality his mind was stuck in fantasises of a future fortune.

The next day, Bert woke up at the crack of dawn and slipped out of the house as quietly as he could, making his way to the market. The journey down there was nothing like the day before; the air was still apart from the occasional light breeze and the sun had made everything a few shades happier. 

The market was filled with the cries of the morning fruit and egg sellers mixed in with the odd sound of a chicken clucking. Bert made his way through the crowd to where he had spoken to the old woman last. A feeling of dread began to build up in his chest when he couldn’t see any sign of her as he made his way over, but this vanished when he caught sight of her small form curled up in a corner. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“I didn’t think you would actually come!” she grinned, standing up as she motioned for him to follow her.

Bert stayed close behind her as she slithered through the cracks of the crowd. “Well I told you I’d be here, didn’t I?” he cried over the chatter of the merchants and their buyers.

After taking a few turns down many deserted alleyways they arrived at the underside of a rundown bridge. Bert looked around at the damp and filthy surroundings, raising an eyebrow. “This is where you want to-“

He was cut off by the sharp sound of grinding metal. He whipped round to the source of the noise and saw the old woman twisting a circular metal handle attached to a lid on the ground. Once she’d done three turns clockwise, the vent became loose enough for her to pull open. It revealed a black hole with a ladder leading down it. He couldn’t see the bottom. The woman started to climb in, but Bert took a few steps back.

“Uhm..I don’t know about this.” He said doubtfully.

“Oh don’t worry, this is just where I hide my studio. Away from prying eyes who want to copy my work.” She said reassuringly climbing further down. “Nothing to worry about!” she called out.

The small voice in Bert’s head grew louder now, screaming at him to run away, but he steeled himself and remembered why he was doing this. “Money. I need the money.” he whispered to himself, before following the old woman down the hole.

When he reached the bottom, a stick had already been lit, giving off a soft orange glow. He could barely see a rough outline of the woman, but followed her down the tunnel guided by the orange orb. The only sounds that could be heard were their footsteps reverberating off the wall, accompanied by the occasional sound of dripping water.

After a few minutes of walking, they reached what Bert assumed must be a large room as the echoes of their footsteps grew louder. The woman ordered him to stay put as she began lighting up the room in several places. “Don’t want you tripping over my equipment” she mumbled to herself. Bit by bit, the yellow tinted room was revealed. It was around seven metres on each side and filled with random equipment that Bert had never seen before. There were pots the size of horses, wooden boxes, and metal hooks and pulleys scattered all over the place. There was not a single canvas in sight.

“I thought you were going to do a painting.” Bert called out, growing increasingly certain that the little voice inside his head was right all along. The woman was climbing up some wooden planks clumsily hammered against the wall to a higher level.

“Oh yes I am, just up here! There are a lot more lamps up here. Don’t ask me why –must be the way this place was built. Come on up, then.”

Bert looked up, suspicion lining his features, but decided that he could always push her off the ledge if she tried anything untoward. He cautiously made his way up the rickety steps and was relieved to see a canvas and a set of brushes waiting for him.

“Now just sit down over there like a good boy while I prepare my canvas.” She said as she rifled through a box of equipment. He obeyed and walked over to a bench near the ledge with a well-worn cushion on it.

“How many of these paintings have you done then?” Bert asked.

“Oh a few, but this is the first time I’m trying out something new. Something experimental.” she answered.

Bert nodded, taking a glance over the ledge. He could see that the huge containers were filled with a white mixture. “What’s that?” he asked pointing to an enormous cylinder directly below him.

The old woman looked up from her box of equipment and waved a hand in the air. “Oh that - a special kind of plaster. You wouldn’t understand – in short, it’s what I use to prep the canvas.”

A simple “Ah.” was Bert’s response. He was so entranced by the pure white mixture that he almost didn’t notice the old woman approach behind him.

“This piece is going to be good. I know it.” She said loudly.

“How do you know?” asked her muse.

“Because I’ve got such a good muse!” she grinned, again revealing those rotten remains of teeth, sending a shiver up his spine.

Bert began to smile, but before he could reply, the old woman jabbed him sharply in the back, making him lose his balance. He cried out as he began to topple over the edge, but managed to force enough momentum to lean his body the other way. The doubt in his head was confirmed; she was a psychopath. He lunged at her, but she grabbed his arm, sinking her rotten nails into his skin and pushed him again so that he fell backwards against the bench. The amount of strength she had in her bony arms was terrifying. She cackled as she picked up a metal pallet knife, watching her victim squirm. He quickly scrambled up, taking cautious steps backwards, looking desperately for a weapon to strike her with. A few brushes, but nothing to cause any serious damage. He was trapped between the crazy old woman and the edge. This could be it. She lunged at him like a cobra with her knife and he successfully dodged, but in doing so he tripped on a loose floor board and fell backwards. In the few seconds as he felt himself lose his foothold he knew he would never see the light of day again. He extended his arm out as he tumbled backwards, but his fingers were just out of reach of the woman, so he only managed to brush past the loose frays of her sleeve.

Bert felt himself falling, and even though it only lasted for a few seconds, an overwhelming fear seized him, which morphed into despair as he thought of his mother. Her beloved, tired face was the last thing he saw before he was consumed by the viscous white liquid he fell into.

***

The blurry outline of the fiendish hag was the last thing I saw before everything fell into complete darkness. I was so horrified that I jerked away from the marble tragedy. My watery eyes fell onto the label beneath the statue, and the name that was written on it is burned into my brain even to this day. Madame Payne. I felt myself shaking as my eyes darted around to every statue in the room; all of them with the same name beneath them. Every single one had the same expression; it was all slowly coming together but I didn’t want it to. I didn’t want to understand, so I stuffed my hands into my pockets and ran straight out of there, not looking back for a single second. I didn’t want to think about what it all meant or the possibility that humans could still be encased within the statues. I didn’t want to think about any of it. The image of the monstrous woman still haunts me to this day, and I haven’t used my Sight on anyone - or anything, since.