Santiago's Model

Santiago wrinkled his nose at his work in progress. The oil pigment stank to high heaven. But that wasn’t what bothered him, as that linseed smell was something every painter grew accustomed to, and the window was open to air out the atelier. No. Something about this painting wasn’t right.

He had painted a technically flawless landscape, which took painstaking amounts of work. The client demanded him to paint the L’Parasia seaside, and was told to capture it down to the letter with little room for deviation. Santiago spent hours, even days, drawing every single rock, every reflection of light on the crashing waves, every crevice on the surrounding cliffs in the coast. And yet…

What did this painting communicate? Was it a sunny scene? A downcast scene? Somewhere in between? The lighting suggested neither. What was it about it that personally spoke to him? Nothing. Real life was such a drab thing to try and capture. It lacked soul. Yet this was what the client demanded, to recall it as if from a Daguerreotype where everything was completely still. This was to be displayed in their manor, where it would be treated with the same attention as their wallpaper.

Then again, this was what paid his meagre living, as none of his regular works sufficed.

Santiago threw his paintbrush across the room. He took a moment to catch his breath and take in the sight of his studio. There were many finished canvases collecting dust in there, so many that they created a maze around his painting spot. It took up so much space, yet he couldn’t bear to part with them. Then there was his mess of paintbrushes, pigments, reference sketches, and other materials stuffing every spot on his shelves. All this work, and what did he have to show for it?

No, he was running in circles. He needed a break.

Santiago coaxed his old body to stand up with his cane as support, and weaved through the labyrinthine gallery to get to the kitchen. There was a well-used wood stove, black and orange with rust; an odd assortment of preserves and ingredients such as flour and different types of jams on the unlevelled shelves; and unwashed plates in a basin. Santiago needed to get more water from the well at some point so he could properly wash them.

By the counter, there was a single wicker chair positioned next to a small maple table. Stuck in the middle of the table was a puddle of wax from what used to be a candle.

The pantry was similarly a paltry affair, with only a half-eaten wheel of cheese and a loaf of stale bread to its name. Santiago sighed as he grabbed a knife to cut out the spots of mould that had grown on the—

Something crashed from far away. Santiago dropped the knife — it fell just a few centimetres from his big toe. By the gods. He skidded to the kitchen as fast as he could with such brittle legs, then stopped. No signs of disturbance in this room. What about the studio? But what if there was a thief? There was nothing in here worth taking, but Santiago wasn’t thick enough to not defend himself if need be. He picked up a butcher’s knife and crept to the studio. What he found there made his blood curdle.

A monster lay panting atop a bed of canvases. A Writh, to be exact. It was a creature that had three canine legs, yet bore a human torso with arms, topped with the head of an emaciated canine. In its current state, convulsing on the floor, it looked like a tangle of limbs and different animal parts stitched together. Most striking of all, its skin was tar black on the surface, but it shimmered like a sapphire beneath, glittering in the daylight from the open window.

Right, the window. That was how it sneaked in. Wriths resided in the woods, were seldom seen, and whatever accounts of them existed were characterised by stories of brutality as Wriths stripped prey down to the bone. And there it was, in his home, painting the old canvases cobalt blue with wild strokes of blood.

Santiago froze in place. How did this happen? What caused those injuries? Would the culprit follow the Writh into the atelier? And most importantly, what would become of Santiago? He gripped his knife for comfort, bracing himself for whatever happened. He stood still for minutes, like a traveller caught in a bear’s gaze. The Writh’s breaths steaded, and the claw-like wounds gradually closed over, and its body calmed down, until it rested silently in its impromptu bed.

Santiago didn’t move. He watched closely, expecting it to wake up and gore him on the spot. The part that wasn’t fearful was simply curious. He had never seen such a specimen before. Humans seldom saw Wriths. And none of them had ever been captured on paper before. What if he was the first? That would’ve been a lucky break for him if he wasn’t scared out of his wits.

The oddest thing about it all was how the easel and canvas stayed upright despite all this commotion. At least those survived the invasion. Why he thought about this in a matter of life and death, of all times, was a mystery.

The Writh awoke. Santiago tightened his grip on the blade. It positioned its hands and legs like an easel’s supports, shakily rising only to fall to the ground. It was in no condition to stand. It saw Santiago, its pupils dilating like a cat, and tried to scuttle across the floor with its arms.

“I…” Santiago stammered, hiding the knife behind his back. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Truthfully, he didn’t stand a chance against the Writh. An old codger like him would’ve been ripped apart like paper before such a beast. Did his words even matter — did it understand human speech?

It stopped. It must’ve understood something, thankfully. It turned around, gazing at him with its tongue hanging out of its maw. It didn’t display its fangs.

“What happened to you anyway? You must’ve been within an inch of death before you found my place.”

The Writh tilted its head. Perhaps it didn’t understand him, not as if Santiago expected much. Yet something must’ve worked before. What was a universal conflict that transcended the language barrier? The Writh salivated, mixing even more bodily fluids into his old paintings, and let out a low growl.

The beast was hungry. It sunk in then how defenceless Santiago was in this situation. It could heal itself. His knife would temper it for a moment. And then he would be its next meal. All he could do was placate it. And then what? How would he get the creature to bugger off? Lure it out with more food? That wasn’t going to happen. Wait until it fully healed and let itself out? That might be too long, and by then, only the gods knew what would happen to him.

Was there someone in town specifically equipped to deal with monstrous affairs? He could send a message via carrier pigeon. He had some bird seed left over.

Santiago formed a plan. He would lead the Writh to the kitchen and feed it whatever he had left. Meanwhile, he would find some bird seed, plant it outside the window, then try to survive until it took his message and help came.

“I see you’re hungry.” He held out his wrinkled palm. “Come, I’ll give you some food. It won’t be much, but I hope it helps.”

It stood on its hinds, head swaying left to right. He didn’t know if it nodded or shook its head, but it was some sort of affirmation. Santiago walked backwards into the kitchen and the Writh followed. He managed to slip the butcher knife into a cabinet drawer before the Writh knew it was there.

The Writh sniffed at the air and salivated. It was definitely hungry, but this kitchen wasn’t fit for a beast, let alone a man. What did Wriths like aside from fresh meat?

“Now, wait here while I try to find something, and don’t touch anything—”

The Writh lamely dragged itself across the kitchen floor, tripped over its own feet and crashed into the table. It took all of Santiago’s mental willpower to not shout at it. If Writh’s were capable of feeling guilt, it certainly looked like it, the way it lowered its eyes at him.

“Don’t worry,” Santiago cooed, “it’ll be fine.”

The Writh swayed its head again, no longer looking like a scolded puppy. As it waited, sitting on its rump, Santiago returned to the pantry where he presented the cheese and bread. The Writh seemed to like that as it sniffed up a storm. Despite Santiago’s singing stomach, he offered it all to the Writh.

Despite its monstrous set of teeth, the Writh merely pecked at the cheese, sampling each morsel. He expected a creature of that stature to instantly devour it, but today was full of surprises. Either it was a polite eater, or it didn’t like it that much and was waiting for Santiago to offer himself up instead.

For now, this bought Santiago time to rummage through his drawers for the bag of bird feed. He kept one eye on the task and another on the Writh, aware of how quickly the monster could sneak up on him. He scrambled until he reached the bottom of the cabinet. His back prevented him from stretching down, so he got on his knees and opened the last drawer. The bag was in there! He snatched it and rose as quickly as his body allowed, but when he came to, the Writh had disappeared along with the cheese.

Damnation. Santiago clambered across the kitchen, using the counter as a support. Something shuffled inside the studio. Not this again. He rushed into the other room.

As he caught his breath, he observed the Writh, whose claws hovered over Santiago’s work in progress. No, not that! His client would be furious! Santiago raised his cane, as if to strike, then lowered it. The Writh sat down, leaning into the canvas, face inches away from the painting. It spent a minute or so inspecting it, as did Santiago. His gaze drifted to a clay bust of St. Rebus, which he had used for one of his still lifes before. Was it possible to knock the Writh out with it and call one of the guards over?

The Writh grabbed one of the paintbrushes. The dried blue paint stuck the bristles together. The Writh dabbed at a spot in the unfinished corner of the painting, leaving a splotch there. It turned, then opened its mouth. All that escaped its maw were choked noises, like that of a croaking frog. Only the gods knew what to make of that.

“Like what you see, eh?” Santiago said, dabbing at his moist forehead.

The Writh pointed the paintbrush at him, then back to the painting. Was it trying to ask if he painted that? Santiago nodded back, for all the good it did. The Writh narrowed its eyes.

“No, no, wait!” Santiago exclaimed. “Yes, I did paint it. Er, how do I put this?” He swayed his head back and forth, like the Writh did before. If he was right about his gut instinct…

The Writh lolled its tongue, making more garbled noises. If Santiago wasn’t mistaken, it sounded more excited than it did last time. Then it mimed making a rectangle with its arms, and pointed the paintbrush at itself again, grunting all the while.

Santiago blinked. This creature, one of such infamy at that, just communicated with him. No, this was just a fluke. An act of mimicry. Yet, how on this big blue plate did it connect the painter with the painting? Against all common sense, Santiago approached the Writh, tiptoeing across the messy floor. It handed him the paintbrush and squeaked. He took it. In turn, he mimed painting at the canvas, then pointed at the Writh. It swayed left to right. Yes.

By the gods. The Writh wasn’t merely imitating Santiago, it was making a conscious effort to talk to him. No monster he’d heard of did such a thing. But this was extraordinary. 

Santiago had painted many an odd picture in his lifetime. One client, a noble from a disgraced family, requested Santiago to paint him naked on a chaise-longue with his pet bear standing behind him. Another client, a socialite who was trying to woo the heiress of an oil baron, paid him to paint him riding a horse, pointing a sabre at the sun. However, being told to paint by such a magnificent creature was a once in a lifetime experience, and not for coin either.

Santiago made haste. He dug up an untouched canvas. The Writh sat down, as if it had taken up a job as a gesture drawing model. Santiago primed the canvas with gesso. Before he laid the first stroke, he took a moment to fully take in the Writh’s appearance.

Such beautiful skin, like an opal honeycomb. Such wide eyes, such big teeth, such an odd body — he could’ve spent days trying to accurately capture its anatomy. So terrifying in its alien qualities, yet sublime. Although Santiago knew his first piece would not immediately capture its essence, it would be a good start.

Santiago didn’t bother pre-painting any background. He would’ve taken time to sketch the Writh in other circumstances, but he wanted to get a natural feel for how to paint the basic shape of the figure by making wide strokes, using his arm rather than his wrist. What mattered was that he captured the personality of the model. The details would come after.

Despite how much Santiago fine tuned his work, adding definition to the shapes, then the body parts, then the muscles, the Writh sat still. Dare say, it was better behaved than some professional models Santiago had hired in the past. Occasionally, Santiago’s gaze drifted to the open window as a draft blew through it, and footsteps echoed from far away, but still, none came for the Writh.

When Santiago was done, he took a moment to reflect on his work. He looked at his commission, then back to the painting of the Writh. He had outdone himself. The colour choices were much bolder, not only painting the Writh in its local colours of blue and black, but also incorporating greens, violets and oranges. The brushwork was also more expressive, like calligraphy almost. It was freeing to paint it in that state without abandoning his craftsmanship entirely. He managed to harness this magnificent creature’s wild essence.

The Writh tilted its head. Perhaps it was rude to not show it his work. He turned the canvas around. Its tongue lolled, its eyes widened, and its clawed hands splayed, reaching towards the painting. It turned to Santiago. It approached him. It got close. Too close. Its snout touched his chest. Its hot breath licked his chin.

Santiago sucked in a deep breath. He scrunched his eyes shut, expecting the worst. Yet, the worst never came. Something wet dragged across his forehead. It was the Writh’s tongue, which felt sand-papery like a cat’s.

An image flashed in his mind of Umber, his old cat, who used to lick his face.

He was speechless. When was the last time anybody appreciated his work and didn’t just use it as space filler? A long time ago. When was the last time someone seemed moved by it? Even longer. He worried so much, and for so long, about how his work would pay off, that he forgot something important, something that started it all: the feeling of looking at a painting for the first time and staring in awe at it. Was that what the Writh felt?

If that wasn’t proof enough, it took Santiago in his arms and let out a guttural growl, like a purr but not quite. Umber used to do that too. Santiago eased into it, throwing all caution to the wind. Not once did he sense that the Writh had other intentions in mind. Pressing against the Writh’s skin felt like sinking into a bed filled with warm water.

Santiago blinked away tears. He stayed there with the Writh, feeling uncertain about the course of the rest of the day, or his days onward, but just for this moment, a little moment, his work had purpose again.