Rapture

Everything was poised perfectly. A cornucopia of inspiration surrounded Cassidy Flemming, and yet he stood, seized, with the sharp tingling smell of white spirits burning his nose, the bright white canvas burning his eyes, and the warm reassuring weight of the paintbrush burning his heart with its betrayal. Cassidy threw the brush down with disgust, rocking the small table beside the easel. He hadn't been able to paint anything in months so here he was surrounded by all the required elements for the ritual with the Conduit. He looked over the edge of a sheer ruddy brown cliff corralling the bay below, kissed by the golden highlights of the sinking sun and contrasted vividly by dark creases leering dangerously all over. The proud jutting pinnacle of an aether beacon pierced the cerulean sea serenading him from below. Cassidy relished getting away from the city for the pristine view, absent of arcano-tech common even in his own artful city. This was his favorite place to paint.

He paced around the pop-up gallery he had constructed on the cliff side. His furious steps pounding a trail nearly rivaling the well-worn hiking path meandering its way along. Where was the Conduit? The man was new to the post, and because of his rigid and cold demeanor, an unusual result of the Election Ceremony. Historically in their picturesque region on the coast, with stark, noble mountains guarding the valley on one side, and the endless beauty of the ocean caressing the other, the Conduit was most often a painter, sculptor, or writer, representing the spirit of the region. Most of the People here were artists or craftsmen- even those driven to start businesses were inspired by the creation of it, the pure joy of making something they could call their own. They wanted their mark on the world to be beautiful.

Cassidy examined one of his paintings, Me and Mom, acrylic on eight and half by eleven printer paper. It was a boy and his mother holding hands on green grass with a brilliant yellow sun in the sky with rather impressive clouds It was his first painting, a self-portrait, and even then his talent appeared in his confident strokes and the form of the clouds. He was lucky his mother still had it. He ran his finger gently around the slightly curled edges of the paper, closing his eyes. He enjoyed the moment, absorbing the smell of brine and the warm glow hugging his skin.

He frowned and rolled his shoulders, then sent his fingers through their exercises to stay nimble and cramp free even after long hours of holding a fine pointed liner. The ritual needed to start soon and the Conduit needed to be here for it. The Conduit was an austere man, usually wearing a business suit in stately grays or dusky blues. He was a business man. He was certainly passionate, and a powerful speaker but Cassidy was still surprised someone more connected, more tuned to the heart and soul of their region wasn’t chosen instead. He was more connected. Well, he had been until the Election Ceremony when the new Conduit was chosen. He'd felt severed since then, a canvas unfastened and sagging on its frame; he hadn't been able to paint since.

He moved around the ritual space, past carefully staged fruit on a roman plinth, evocative red Apples and lush green pears gorgeous against the backdrop of the sea. He passed articulated manikins, full bodies in scale, and hands. He passed piles of books and records artfully stacked on vibrant blankets. He stopped and considered another painting, Pillars of Dreams, oil on canvas, his first sold piece, and the aftermath of a trip to an industrial region. The skyscrapers that felt larger than even the mountains from home, rising from the land as powerful monuments to that region’s soul. A proclamation of “Our dreams will take us higher.” It had cost him much more than what he’d been paid for it originally.

His most profitable work was propped next, The Muse, gouache on canvas, captured a stunning woman presenting a freshly plucked apple to an artist before a canvas, enraptured. Critics had called it the “essence of being an artist, the essence of art itself.” The Muse was why Dreams to Pillars was worth so much now. The Muse was why he was here now, she apparently left him, and he needed her back. He felt so full of ideas but they were trapped, unable to be expressed.

Finally, as the sun was just starting to touch the horizon, setting the darkening surface of the ocean aflame with vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows, the sounds of crunching gravel and rumbling engine overwhelmed the calming wash of the sea and the smell of burning diesel overwhelmed the crisp salty breeze and the Conduit arrived. He was a tall, narrow man with slicked hair. He adjusted his jacket and tie before retrieving a small brown case from the truck bed. A clockwork creature with six legs emerged from the other side of the truck and heeled to the Conduit.

Cassidy fought past his interest in the machine and looked to the Conduit as he set the case on a small folding table near the fire. Cassidy had prepared both for the ritual. Cassidy glanced over the ocean to see the sun was no longer circular- it was beginning to set. “Please hurry! If we miss this equinox I won’t be reconnected to the Land! I’ll remain in this hell, bursting with unreleased ideas!” He couldn't contain his impatience.

The Conduit looked at him coolly and continued setting implements around the table. He set a large dark gray pestle on a red and black runner. It looked like the ceremony pestle used during the Election Ceremony. The Conduit created four piles of white salt at the cardinal points of the table, the sand trickling through his closed fist like grains through an hourglass. Cassidy tapped his foot and looked up as the blue edges of the sky were mixed with the deepening reds of the sunset. The Conduit carefully removed some dried mushrooms from a baggie and placed them into the pestle. He started grinding. He looked at Cassidy and smiled weakly, “There is still time.”

Cassidy scrubbed his hand over his face and paced a circuit around his rut as the Conduit added some liquid from a shiny metal flask to the pestle and began to grind the contents together. The sun was halfway. Cassidy looked around at all his possessions and works of art. It had taken him months to gather them and hours to set them up to recreate his most artistic moments. Cassidy kept pacing and started chewing on his thumb nail, unimpeded by the oil paint that should've been stuck underneath and around the edges of the nail bed. The Conduit was working his way around the ritual space with his clockwork pet. He'd hand the machine a spike tooled with ornate patterns, and the six legged creature would drive it in place using its body like some sort of press, its six feet digging into the rocky ground, anchors. Cassidy watched the purple wash over the sky, chasing the warmer tones further and further towards the horizon. The second half of a sunset always went faster than the first.

“Come on!” Cassidy nearly bellowed.

“Come.” The Conduit said in sync, gesturing sharply. Cassidy lunged towards the fire, shivering with anticipation. The Conduit tapped the top of his pet and scooped runny paste from the pestle, smearing it across first his own brow and then across Cassidy's. The clockwork began to thrum and boom a rhythmic beat that Cassidy felt in his bones and stirred his spirit. The Conduit then forced his thumb into Cassidy's mouth and smeared the paste over his gums and then down his throat making him gag. He inverted the maneuver and ate some himself. The effects of the hallucinogen hit quickly as twilight rapidly approached.

The Conduit grabbed Cassidy by his biceps, their arms joining them into a circle, and started to sway and bounce to the brassy beat emanating from his machine, so similar to the wooden and leather drums used at the Election Ceremony. Cassidy fleetingly thought that more people playing real drums would've been inspirational, and probably preferred.

His mind began to swirl with the psychedelic overlay that fell over the world. He was able to see lines of magic racing their way through the sky, enveloping and twining with the last amber and violet rays of sunlight. The stakes around the fire began to pulse with the rhythm, five glowing orbs of purplish black light surrounding each. Cassidy began to feel his energy merge with the Land and magic around him, mixing vibrant colors he hoped to recreate when he was able to paint again, to release the beauty inside of himself back to the world. Perhaps they had made it in time after all.

Cassidy felt the glorious joy and pride wash over him, repeating each moment of creation he had experienced in his life. He was enraptured.

He went rigid as the swirl of vibrant colors pulsing into him halted and desaturated into a sickly grayish glow, an absence of color and life, a void. Then it was all ripped away. The void of light arced out of Cassidy and into the Conduit, coalescing in his chest. The Conduit threw back his head, still swaying with the thunderous beat, and consumed the stolen magic.

The Conduit dropped the husk to the ground in the darkness as the ritual faded. The gallery was a crumbled ruin in the darkness, stripped of magic along with the artist. The Conduit straightened his jacket and tie and said, “Thanks for your years of hard work and passion. It will serve me well.”