Pieta

Smoke curls from the end of the man’s cigarette, grey fading against the white shore. Beneath the rowboat, the January waters of the North Sea are a dull black in the early morning light. Phineas Dredge takes another drag on his cigarette, and avoids making conversation with the fisherman giving him passage to the island. Trust a damn artist, Phineas thinks, to retire somewhere like this. 

The smoke’s warmth in his lungs makes the cold air bitterer with contrast, and Phineas adjusts the collar of his coat as stray snowflakes colonize his shoulders. 

Of all the days to be sent out to George Pound’s island. While looking over Pound’s file on train from London, Phineas had read that art students used to make a pilgrimage out to see Pound. Their numbers had dwindled in the years after Pound’s retirement from the royal court, as he faded from the public memory and would be proteges were invariably barred from his door. The artist has been retired for a decade now, and few admirers are still willing to make the trip only to be turned away. 

Well, Phineas recollects with another slow drag at his cigarette, he isn’t here as a pilgrim.

The island is coming into view now as the overcast sky gradually brightens. From here it’s still formless and grey, but even at this distance it’s set apart by a faint golden haze that hovers around its shores.

George Pound made a name for himself the day he introduced his bride to the royal court. Painters blessed with The Gift had been delighting the court for centuries, creating shining constellations to hang in the throne room, watercolored birds to trill through the gardens, a flock of oil painted lapdogs to attend the queen. There was one such dog in the queen’s lap on the day Pound introduced his wife, nuzzling its delicately painted head against her hand with all the soft candor of the real thing—only, as the artist who painted the dogs had been proud to claim, rather tidier. But no previous artist had yet crossed what some considered a limitation and the church insisted was a sacred boundary: none of even the most Gifted had succeeded with painting people. Their portraits, however lifelike and arresting, stayed on a level with the best portraits of Non-Gifted painters. They remained canvas only and did not materialize—never taking flesh and voice as Gieretto’s dogs or Branson’s peacocks had. 

And then George Pound presented the court with Galatea. At first, they did not believe in her. A servant of the king had uncomfortably tried to wipe the brush strokes from the skin of one fair arm while the painter watched with amused pride and Galatea blushed in so lifelike a way it made her legitimacy all the harder to prove. But by the day’s end the king was convinced, and the papers were in an uproar, and George Pound was appointed Master Painter of the court. 

Pound painted people for ten years, and taught the secret of it to others among the highly Gifted. The court rang with painted footsteps, the royal guard stood to attention in regiments of flesh and oils, and brushwork prima donnas appeared before theatre goers at the royal opera house. But such sudden change never comes easily. The creation of the Painteds sparked a decade of violence and unrest among the citizenry, finally leading the king to pass a law forbidding The Gifted from painting people altogether, and after a time an uneasy peace returned to England.

George Pound served the court for fifty years, during the reign of three different monarchs. He finally retired from service at seventy-five, and the Medals of Inspiration given to exceptional artists among the Gifted bear his likeness. According to Pound’s file, he’s never left his isolated island since retiring, and lives alone there with Galatea. A mythology of sorts has risen concerning Pound, fantastical stories of the wonders his island must contain. Phineas skipped the three pages of the file dedicated to speculation of that sort. 

The boat slows its progress through the icy waters and the fisherman prepares to dock on Pound’s island. The island is very small, with rocky shores and few natural trees. It was probably barren before Pound took it over. Strip the paint away and it’s barren still. Phineas pays the fisherman and steps ashore with a command to wait for his return.

Tiny cold stars, more like one of Blake’s prints than an astronomer’s diagram, hang low over the ground. All across the island, flowers bloom from the hard earth—blood-like poppies and African violets, black-trunked cherry trees blossoming with unnatural faultlessness. Phineas went to the Royal Garden of Oils once ten years ago, and there he’d seen a similar display of this kind of synthetic beauty. He’d given in to the urging of his companion and looked close enough at the petals to see the delicate brushwork on them. They had smelled of old paint.

Phineas walks through the frosted garden impassively. For all the painted beauty of the scene, the cold is as biting here as it was during the boat ride, and this opulent display is jarringly out of place with the season. He runs a hand over the stubble on his chin and sighs. Between waking at five this morning and boarding the train from London he’s forgotten to shave. Oh, well. He’s a policeman, not a diplomat. 

The artist’s house, hidden from the shore by a stand of ink wash willows, is small and grey in the midst of the ever-burgeoning gardens. Phineas knocks three times and stands in the cold wishing for the coffee he would have brewed by this time back in London. 

A woman opens the door, and for a moment Phineas’s face betrays his surprise. He’s seen many Painteds in his line of work, but never one made to look this old. She’s been painted in her mid-eighties, or even ninety, but she has a vibrancy of color and detail that betray her nature before Phineas even looks for the brushstrokes. 

Phineas gives her a nod, “I’m here to see Mr. Pound, Ms…?”

“Galatea,” her voice is smooth and musical, like a creature that’s only putting on age as a decoration. “Don’t look surprised—I don’t know why everyone looks surprised to meet me like this. Why do you want to see my husband?” 

Phineas pauses, and for a moment he imagines George Pound adding layers of paint to her canvas so that wrinkles and whiteness would grow on her with the passing years. He could have kept her young and beautiful, but chose—well, Pound’s reasons for editing his escort don’t affect the case at hand. And it wouldn’t exactly be true to claim that Galatea is no longer beautiful. He gives her another stiff nod and displays his badge and warrant. “Detective Inspector Phineas Dredge. Need to see your husband about an arrest we made several days ago.” Painted beings cannot legally marry. But Phineas isn’t here for an ethical dispute on conjugal status. 

A flicker of something crosses Galatea’s face, and she looks away from Phineas for a moment. Her eyes are golden brown, and the pupils don’t shift in the sunlight. Then she nods quietly and lets Phineas into the house, leading him to a small parlor thrumming with birdsong. Painted birds of many kinds perch on every available surface, their oiled wings fluttering softly. 

Phineas declines the chair Galatea offers and as she leaves the room he leans against one wall, flipping briefly through his case notes as he waits to meet the artist. 

“You’ve come about my son.” George Pound’s reedy voice interrupts Phineas’s thoughts. The painter is very old and almost entirely colorless, his bent frame supported by a mahogany cane.

“Mr. Pound.” Phineas nods to him, then pauses. “You don’t deny it?” He’d anticipated the usual rounds of questioning and evasion before Pound’s confession. Galatea helps the artist into an armchair by the fireplace, her movements as supple as the day she was painted. 

“Deny it?” Pound lays both pale hands on top of his cane. His hands don’t shake, Phineas observes passively, he’s still able to work in fine detail. “No, inspector. I don’t deny painting Lucian.” 

“Mr. Pound,” Phineas keeps his voice carefully level, “you of all people should know that the painting of human subjects has been outlawed for—”

“Forty years.” Pound cuts him off. “For forty years inspector, yes.” 

“You admit to breaking this law, Mr. Pound?” 

A long pause. The painter looks at Galatea, takes one of her hands in his own for a moment, turns his eyes back to Phineas. “I’m not going to deny my own son’s existence.”

“The existence of your son, Mr. Pound, if that is how you choose to think of him, is exactly the problem. And what he has chosen to do with that existence.”

“What has he done, inspector?” Galatea’s voice again. She speaks like she should sing instead, Phineas notes without admiration. 

Phineas sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Mr. Pound, you broke the law to create another Painted human, and he’s shown exactly why such works were outlawed in the first place. Your creation is an insurrectionist—he’s been provoking unrest among the other Painteds. Do you have any idea how bad a class war would be, Mr. Pound?” 

The old man looks down at the head of his cane for several long moments. 

“Mr. Pound?” Phineas hates this kind of job. Dealing with Gifted artists who put their creative passion ahead of everything else. “We arrested your creation—son—for assaulting a living man. He’s shown no remorse, has no papers of authenticity. He’s a dangerous individual.”

“We couldn’t have a child the normal way. You can’t mix blood and paint.” The artist’s voice is heavy, but not apologetic. “Oh, I see your look, inspector. You think I should have married a woman—a real woman—and had a child with her. But what you have to understand is, Galatea isn’t my consort. I didn’t want one wife at home and another in the studio.” His hand tightens for a moment on Galatea’s, skin pressing against delicate brushstrokes. “So, three years ago I gave Lucian to her. But you can’t keep a young man moored on an island forever. We didn’t want a child just to make ourselves happy.”

“And nine months ago you let him leave this island with forged documents and enough inheritance to make quite a stir. And make a stir he did, Mr. Pound. We had a deal of troubling bringing him in.” 

The policeman who’d taken Lucian Pound into custody the week before last had been much the worse for wear. When Phineas met the artist’s son in the holding cell reserved for Painteds, he’d looked to Phineas like Cabanel’s Fallen Angel, though his impassioned eyes were without tears. 

“Do you have children, Inspector Dredge?” Pound speaks without looking at him. 

Phineas stiffens at the question, adjusting the wrinkles of his dark jacket for a moment before speaking. “That doesn’t relate to the problem at hand, Mr. Pound. And your creation is hardly a child. We need to take his canvas into custody for this. Standard procedure to prevent further issues.” 

“You need the power to kill him to keep him in line.” 

“Yes, Mr. Pound. This is law.” After a short pause Phineas adds “that’s not to say he’ll get a Decanvasing. Even Unregistereds get a trial.”

“But there’s no way for him to be anything other than unregistered now, is there?” Galatea turns her golden brown eyes to Phineas, her tone almost accusative. 

“Legally, he’s not supposed to exist. And he’s used this existence to commit crimes against the living. If he was old enough to be Registered, that might change the shape of things a bit. But by your husband’s statement he’s only three.” 

There are what might be tears in Galatea’s eyes, too beautiful to be organic. More like a damn pieta than a woman, Phineas thinks, swiftly averting his gaze. 

“You’ll need to testify at the trial,” Phineas shifts his weight to the other foot. “Expect notice in due course. We’ll only need you when he stands for Illegal Creation. You’ll certainly face your own charges too, Mr. Pound, but I’m not here to discuss those with you.” 

“He gave this nation fifty years, Inspector,” Galatea steps forwards slightly, “do you not think some consideration—”

“No, Mrs. Pound,” Phineas cuts her off. “I don’t deal in favors.”

The old man squeezes his creation’s hand, then brings it to his lips. “We knew this was coming” he murmurs against the oils his brush called to life. 

“I need his canvas,” Phineas clears his throat to chase away the sense of being an intruder here. “And you’re expected to stay in the country, Mr. Pound.” 

A short silence, punctuated by singing from the breathless birds and a small musical sob that Phineas chooses not to hear. 

“Get his canvas, love,” Pound releases her hand gently, “in its frame, to keep him safe on the journey.” Galatea leaves, and is gone far longer than necessary. The birdsong does not make the quiet less oppressive between the two men. Phineas turns a creased page of his notebook and double checks his information. There’s another long pause, and when Galatea still does not reappear the old man finally rises with a hint of pain and leaves Phineas alone. 

The painter and his wife return some minutes later, carrying the mahogany frame between them. On the canvas, Phineas meets the oiled stare he’d first seen behind bars in London. The painting shows Lucian Pound as he might look at peace, a young man with dark hair, leaning against the parlor wall. But a sense of storm cloud power rests in the lines of his body, in the tawny depths of the eyes that Pound matched to Galatea’s. 

Phineas holds out a hand. “And the date you completed him?” 

“Written on the back,” the painter gently separates his wife’s unwilling hands from the frame and gives it to Phineas with a slight tremor at its weight. “Three years ago, and seven months.” 

The frame is heavier than Phineas expected. He tucks it firmly under one arm, shifting his weight as if holding a child. “You’ll show in court when summoned?” 

Pound nods. Galatea does not look at either of them. 

Phineas pockets his notebook, and after a moment touches the brim of his hat to them. The painter nods again, his hands tightening for a moment on the top of the cane. The three hesitate in the shared sense that something else should be said, but when none of them offers anything Phineas takes his leave in silence.

It’s a long journey by train back to London. Phineas sits in an empty smoking compartment with the framed canvas on the seat beside him. He had a porter wrap it in brown paper at the station. 

Phineas fiddles with an unlit cigarette, unrolling and reattaching the ends of the paper without really seeing it. 

How long did it take for Lucian Pound’s eyes to turn from passionate to furious?

Phineas abruptly stops fidgeting and lights the cigarette, taking several long draws before he lets himself start thinking again.

The brightness of poppies in January, and the beauty of birds singing without breath, and the grief of a pieta. The island clings to the folds of Phineas’s clothes like so many smears of paint. 

He extinguishes the cigarette in the ashtray and reaches for the canvas, unwrapping it and letting the paper fall to the train’s floor. 

Lucian Pound’s gaze consumes the painted side of the canvas, so Phineas flips it hurriedly to look at the penciled writing on the back. Finished three years ago, forty years too late to be legal. 

Phineas has never seen a Painted birth, but it’s said to be a strange and marvelous thing. He’s heard the rumor that it’s the only moment of real pain in a Painted life.

Phineas flips the frame again, setting it on the seat across from him. 

“Ahh, Dredge.” The commissioner leans against the office doorway. He never knocks. “How was the trip?”

“Cold.”

“Get his canvas alright?

“Why don’t you take a look at the desk,” Phineas snaps, running a hand over his face. The canvas lies in its brown paper on his cluttered desk. 

“You look like hell, inspector.” The commissioner laughs and ambles into the room, carelessly disrobing the canvas to look at it. “I’ll tell Burrows to get another pot of coffee on.” He flips the canvas over, then pauses, his laughter fading. “Hey, the date’s wrong.”

“No, it’s not.” Phineas doesn’t look at the commissioner as he sorts through his case notes, choosing the pages he’ll type up for the report. “Checked it myself.” 

“But look here, Dredge,” the commissioner sets the frame back on the desk face down, “according to this, the subject’s forty-three. Legal.” 

“Forty-three,” Phineas confirms without looking up from his notes. “Same as I am. Our information was wrong.” 

“But—but then why isn’t he registered? Did Pound explain?”

“Mistakes happen. He was busy working for the court that year, and the regulations were still being written.”

The commissioner hums thoughtfully, thumping the edge of the desk a few times in his heavy handed way before nodding. “Hell of a mistake for Pound to make, of all people. Guess it’s true that thing they say about stupid genius. Well, suppose I’d best get someone to draw the lucky bastard up some papers. If you’re absolutely sure, Dredge.” He gives Phineas a long look that isn’t quite suspicion. “Sure the old man didn’t change the date and lie about it?”

“Yes,” Phineas tears several pages of notes from his book and tosses them onto his desk beside the typewriter. “I’m sure.”