Desperate Remedies

To lose a part of yourself is the greatest fear mankind can have, sacrifice that which you hold so dear. But the fear is not that what you will become. It is the emptiness that accompanies it. The vacuum suddenly filling up the hollowness with a breath of new life, flowing deep inside, taking form. It becomes you.

In the waning months of the autumn, my brother, Aden, lay bedridden with failing breath. He sleeps through most of the gloomy, rainy days, waking up to eat with what little energy he can muster. Only our family physician helps him. I sit by my brother, his only family, Johnathon, watching over him. Every day I count my blessings that he breathes, and pray for the day he returns to me in full health. The physician, on the other hand, tells me I should I leave him.

“Leave him?” I cry. My oldest brother, who has given his life to work as an artist, supporting me when we were alone together in the world. Who else was there when people saw two orphans growing up together without a place in the world? No, it was Aden who found his place. I could not accept a world without him, and I left alone, stumbling my way through the darkness. We were brothers-in-arms, moving forward, looking to make this world our oyster and leave our mark.

I remember his bright face when he took me away from the orphanage, his calm, muddy brown eyes looking down at me when all seemed tumultuous. He wanted to see and explore the world beyond the grim church home from behind the rusted gates. On that day, when the doors opened, we were free into the world. Aden found his first patron, securing us in the harsh world we were meant to live in, and I…well I helped. As an artist, my brother apprenticed me in the ways of capturing moments, seeing things that few could see, revealing the secrets of a single moment that we often pass over. Such as the moments they were.

The medicine becoming less and less effective, and our physician, so certain of his condition, he went on to request the advice of the apothecary and the undertaker. The apothecary comes to me. Kneeling down, she rests her hand on my shoulder and tells me my brother must move on, as should I. The undertaker comes to me. The old man stares at me. Death comes for death. As were his words of choice.

Aden continued to look dreadful, more so each day. Our doctors doesn’t change their verdict, but I refused to believe this was the end. Bitterness towards the three came upon me, then sorrow as reality set in. With tears that stained the edge of his bed, I vowed to do everything in my power to save my brother, shouted it to the dark roof above me, in the vain hope that my voice would pierce through the wooden framing and find its way to the heavens.

But hearing my vows, shouted across the lofty room, those three doctors listened. So moved was the undertaker, that he approaches and tells me there may be a solution, but it that it was no small task. A ritual of a kind, one that is meant to trick death. The ingredients are not so easily acquired.

I accepted this task. Outside of our town, where the first signs of winter replace fall, a special root, whose stems were soft and bristle, was to be found beneath the fields of oak and poppies in the forest. I needed a small bundle. I toiled in the forest, finding the right root, learning to separate various breeds of flowers. Finding out just how rare this root and would often find a single strand, often too short for the ritual. I did this while while the nip in the air dug its way into me, a reminder of the grim reaper’s cold scythe just under my breath, the very same that now hangs itself loosely under my brothers.

During my long search, I was disturbed by a rather soothing voice from the road. A young woman, same age as I, spoke with charm and wonder, drew near me and inquired of my task. She was a stunning creature, looking at me with a softness which was enhanced by her soft green eyes. Awaking from my stupor, I told her of my task, and of my mission to save my brother. She smiled, and offered me a peach.

Sitting on a fallen tree, this fair lady became my companion for the brief hour I had and my first distraction from my task at hand. Lily. A beautiful name she carried that matched her warm smile and deep stone blue eyes. With solemn praises, I thanked her for the short time she took me away from labor and returned home, thrilled of the first companion I had met since undergoing this task.

The month passed by, and I carried my bounty to home and prepared for the next steps. The apothecary was stationed by my brother that day. The medicine she provided sustained my brother, but it did not have the properties to cure his ailment. The next item required me to mix several kinds of pigments and ingredients in order to create a base for the ritual.

I accepted this task, desperate as I was now. With fervor, I rushed out to the homes of many neighbors and picked at the weeds and concrete grass for my concoction. This was simple enough, but the right combination was needed, and I needed several of it. I returned to the apothecary many times, and she instructed me on the right mixture. My practice in this discipline was lacking, and I was the one who must do it, as her energy was spent sustaining my brother.

And so, another month came and gone, cooped up within my home, developing many bottles worth of paint-like mixtures, while scavenging for what little life existed in the harsh snow-ridden wastes of the town.

Many times, I was visited by my neighbors, walking past me. Many of them simply scoffing as they walked on, ignorant of my struggles. Only one person came, the lady from the forest, Lily, offering her quilt to provide me with warmth. Once more, we spoke. This time inviting me to her hearth and home, where she flattered me with all her home had to give. She offered her tea, her apples, and even her treasured sketches from her childhood. A tear filled my eye, reminiscing the times my brother and I drew on grey parchments with jet, black ink. We got switched many times for wasting them on our pointless drawings instead of writing the alphabet, but through humble beginnings, we turned our imprisonment into one of an institute of creative insight, at least, before they continued to remove all our vision of the world, washed away by the righteous zeal of our overseers.

We parted once again. I left that house into the cold depths of the harsh winter, Lily’s quilt still wrapped around me. My heart pounding in my chest, aching to return to her, to her kindness and care. A bizarre realization hit me, as I stared into the dense blizzard and fog. My brother’s illness. It wasn’t there anymore, not in mind. When I thought of Aden, I didn’t think of his illness. I only thought of him and Lily together, talking, laughing, as I did, and something else. They were so alike, both in their gentle words and generous natures, while still possessing the strength to smile through hardship. They would have been great friends, and I wished for them to meet.

But another thought flashed through my mind, Lily’s hand, holding mine, pulling it towards her and resting it on her heart. A blush fell on my cheek.

When I returned home, I put down the cases of several mixtures and pigments all chattering and tingling against one other at the entrance of my brother’s room. I watched with horror at the sight of my brother. His skin so muted and wrinkling and his breath so short. The physician his hands moved mechanically while his face, stoic, watched with weariness as he kept my brother alive.

I stepped forward to touch his cold body. He calmly opened his eyes. Turning his gaze to me, and with what little strength he had, rested his hand on me, on the quilt that rested on me. A thin grin stretched across his lips as he whispered my name, Johnathon, before slipping under, back to his dark slumber.

The physician checks him. He still lives and I take a huge sigh of relief. I look over to the cases of mixtures I made and the roots, whose pungent smell fills the air with a strange odor, one of both life and death.

I turn to the physician and ask for further instruction. His face turns morbid, pale even, a stroke of fear flashing through his veins. The physician does not turn his head. But he asks a simple question. Am I willing to do anything to save my brother? I do not hesitate to answer, but I feared such a question is often answered in ignorance of the true cost. But what is it I will lose? I could not fathom what I was accomplishing as I were without the months of gathering, digging, crafting, and the ridicule I put myself through if not to finish what I started.

The physician turns to face me. He nods, mournfully, then instructs me of the final task at hand. I was meant to paint my brother, as he was. I was unsure of the meaning behind this, but the physician simply told me this. Death comes after death.

Again, I accepted this task, witnessing the invisible end. The physician explained, with careful detail, of what I had accomplished up till now. Each task was a means to this moment. The thin roots and weeds I dug for in the forest will make the brush. The pigments and mixtures, the paint. As for the painting, I must see my brother as he is, but was given no other explanation to what was meant by that. Turning to my brother, I watched his skin losing color day by day, the walls covered in jet, black paint. Only in the light of a candle and the evening, blizzard light through the window could I see the muted colors of my brother’s blanket.

The physician warned me that the task at hand must be done before the first day of spring. That was the last moment death would wait and will not wait a moment longer. I was close, all my labor will be done. And so, I painted. I painted many times over, having to step out once more to retrieve the pigments and flowers to recreate the lost mixtures and recover more roots for my brush. It was a tedious task, having to learn all that my brother has done. He was a master, while I, his apprentice, could not hope to match his skill, his talent and foresight into the blank canvas, carving it out in his mind, stretching each finger over the brush, placing blotch after line of carefully placed intent, unraveling his vision. Worse yet, I must look into his lifeless body while I perform this task.

But perform it I must, while the very thing I fear hangs closely above, mocking me of its intent.

I commit to the discipline of my brother, the very soul of him manifesting into my hands with each brush on the blank canvas, while the subject before me reveals itself, catching all that I witness. Yet, many times, what I see before me is often not what is meant to be.

My nerves would not calm, my fear choking the vision away from me, my brother’s very breath would cut abruptly, stealing my attention. I held my breath, waiting for many long moments in silence until I heard a sign of life still present within him.

Few distractions kept me away for extended times. Lily came to me, and I welcomed her inside of our grim home, but her presence filled it with a life and warmness I had forgotten since the day my brother fell ill. The longer we spoke, the more the memory of my brother became a blur. There was Lily, and I listened to her stories and hardships with far more attentiveness than I had give before. She was a painting herself, how I would have wished to capture her in all her beauty within the frame of a canvas.

Then the idea crossed my mind. I should have her meet my brother. She was hesitant, but I assured all will be well. The warm smile slipped away, and within her, the face of fear itself, beholding that sight of death. Running to the guest room, she wept in freight, tears pouring down her beautiful face, while the moment of my brother, that glimpse of his body, burned into her memory.

She did not come again, but I was lost for many days. My hand unmoved before the blank canvas. I did not think of Aden. I thought of her. Lily. Of every moment we held together, brief as they were. They brought a new kinship that I wanted more than anything. It was there, warm and tender, kind and soft, beautiful and alluring. All lost. Because of my unsightly brother. No. Death was itself unsightly.

I closed my eyes, to a familiar time and familiar sensation in my heart since our time at the orphanage. I looked up into the eyes of our headmaster, as they took away all we had envisioned, washed away in their righteousness. But how could they feel so in the right, when I felt I earned my right to leave my mark in that home. I felt the fire in my heart, burning away the cold harsh winter that crept into our home.

I opened my eyes to see, not my dear Aden, but of Death itself, and I painted him over my brother, just as I saw him, working with dedication and zeal, working myself to hunger every day again, until his image loomed over my brother.

Another long month had come and gone. The cold days of winter finally submitted to first signs of spring, the early bloomers rising from their hibernation, and dotted the streets with their freshly dawned hues and colors. When the physician, the apothecary, and the undertaker arrived, they too, witnessed what I saw: Passion, and my burning hatred towards death.

In the twilight of the first day of spring, I thought myself victorious. To perform the ritual should be nothing after the trials I had gone through. The three doctors simply looked at each other.

The undertaker came to me, kneeled down, and told me of one final step that must be done before the dawn of this day. A sacrifice, must take the place of my brother, that which matched my brother. His kindness. His warmth. His love for me. Someone whom I cared for. And once more, I was cast into the darkness, for only one came to mind.

I told of them of one person. Lily, and they set out to retrieve her. Looking into the woeful eyes of my brother, I could not bare to think of what may come from this. It was Aden or Lily. How I cursed her name for ever having learned who she was. How I cursed fate for pulling me close to her, just so it could toy with me.

Within minutes, the three doctors brought her in. She was asleep. My brother was moved away. All that mattered now, was that the ritual needed to be done now. The coming dawn over the horizon marked the times end. If my brother was to live, she must take my brother’s place into the next world.

I looked into the sleeping eyes of Lily as she now lay in the very spot of my brother. She was not meant for this. She could not be. The undertaker sat me behind the painting, Lily now unseen, as my brother’s image under death stole my view. The undertaker held a blade. I was expected to say the word. I was the one who must say to do it. Death must think it is my brother who will pass. And I close my eyes, pretending my brother will move on. I take in breath, preparing myself to answer the deed…

With the heat of summer now approaching, I was ready to take on new designs and creative liberties for the town.

Knocking on the door, a familiar face peeked into to the bright sun-filled room of mine. Aden’s face shown, warning me of my tardiness would get me dismissed from the institute. I only smiled.

I walked into my studio and retrieved my supplies, surrounded by old canvases and wooden frame, paint boxes, and gelatin spilled everywhere. Standing in the corner was a portrait of my brother, his husk of a body lying on the bed of a dark room while death stood above him. A layer of paint that was unfamiliar to me was the inclusion of a dagger planted deep into his chest. The worn and muted blanket resting on him shown a visible red stain at the source of the dagger. In his eyes however, were not his usual dark brown eyes that I recalled painting, instead, the deep blue eyes of someone I once knew.