The Art World

"Father?" Arthur began to look for Harold, his father, in his house. Not in the living room. "Father? Where are you?!" Not in his bedroom either. Definitely not the restrooms. Where could he possibly be?

"The studio!" Arthur exclaimed in realization. He made haste to the back of the house. The door was already opened. That's bad, he thought to himself. He entered the studio. His eyes toured it, acknowledging the various paintings that were hung on the walls and those awaiting to be hung. Some were complete, others were not. None were abstract.

The state of the old man's workspace seemed to tell something - his work was interrupted - an unfinished painting rested on the wooden easel. But by what? he asked himself. Where could he be?

Something then caught his eye, a sheet on the wall. Odd that it wasn't a canvas. It seemed familiar.

"The painting Father showed me last week," Arthur said in realization. "I could recognise that Japanese suburb easily." However, a query still lingered in his head: who tore it from the canvas, though?

He approached it. He moved it slightly. There was a doorway behind it. "This wasn't here earlier," he accounted.

He dared to proceed through, but before he did so, he closed the door to the studio. He knocked down a paint palette and a paintbrush. He picked them up, forgetting that he pocketed the dry paintbrush. He proceeded with caution.

With his phone, he turned on its flashlight, allowing its bright light to guide his strides. But the light did not just reveal the path, but also what was on the walls.

There were words, written on the walls. He took a look at them - he took a picture of them. He tried to read them. They seemed to convey a message, trying to tell him something. He paid close attention.

ART IS LIVING - IT IS AHEAD OF YOU.

THE WORLD OF IMAGINATION AND CREATIVITY HAS SEEPED OUT TO THE WORLD.

DEPRECIATE IT NO MORE...

It seemed to address Arthur specifically.

"This cannot be by Father's work, right?" Arthur began to worry, to fear.

Might it have been the old man's means to make his headstrong son accept the sentimental significance of the product of oil paint and canvas?

Yet he proceeded. I need to find Father, was his mantra. There was not much difficulty in his navigation - the path was enclosed in walls, seeming to be with no end. There was no way to get lost.

After walking for quite a distance, Arthur started to experience a tad fatigued. He then saw a light at the end of the tunnel - quite literally. He wearily walked to the light and there it was - a world which seemed peculiar. It didn't look normal - the world seemed drawn out.

"Father must be here... somewhere. But where?" He looked over at the civilisation below - an old English Town. This is evident from the style of the buildings and even the people's wardrobes.

He descended to the people. He looked around the 'otherworldly town', perplexed by its environmental uniqueness.

"Excuse me, sir," Arthur spoke to one of the passers-by, "may you mind informing me of my current location - where is this place?"

"Why, this is the Town of MacMillan," he answered. "Though, 'tis surprising thine wasn't aware."

"Umm... I'm new here. I think I got lost."

"I could tell by your confusion - but 'twat threw me off was your apparel - you look like a local, but a molatto, as well."

"What are you yapping about?"

"See for yourself," the man said as he walked away, pointing to a glass pane of a clothing shop. Arthur walked up to it. A reflection, he saw - one of himself. He gazed into the eyes of his reflection. They were different. Neither was his completion. He looked the same, but different - unreal, but rather an image of a painting. He changed. So did his clothes. The passer-by was correct - he was adorned in local attire. Despite this, he kept his African-American countenance.

"Need to find Father," he recounted. "Excuse me, sir, have you happened to...." There was no one there. The man had left.

Arthur was distressed, and this was evident in his visage. Another passer-by noticed this - a young woman, close to his age. Her completion was unlike those of the rest - she is black, Arthur accounted, a bit more than me.

"You seemed to be distressed, sir," she began, revealing her light-as-a-feather voice to him. Her tone showed concern. "May I ask, by what?"

Desperate for aid, Arthur addressed the young lady, "I call to your aid, maiden. I require assistance to track down my father."

"How does he look like? What name does he respond to?" she interrogated.

"His name is Harold Liam. I am his son, Arthur Liam."

"Nice to meet you, Arthur." She submitted her hand for a handshake. Arthur responded accordingly. "My name is Lamenta Brooks, but you can call me Lamenta."

"I will. Now, do you have any...."

She interrupted, "Looks?"

"What about them?"

"How does your father look like?"

"Well, he is... umm...."

"Take your time, I'll wait." She then looked at the small wristwatch on her left wrist. The hour was the fourteenth. "If we are to find your father, Arthur," she added, showing the prominence of her Manchester-British accent, "we must do it before the sun sets."

"Bright idea. But I fear he might not be here."

"Doth thine look like you?"

"My father?" She nodded to respond. "In a way, but older."

She called upon another passer-by and inquired for the man - "he should be an older version of his man before you."

"Oh! Unfortunately, no. I have not seen such a man."

"Oh! Umm... well, thank you anyways."

"What now?" Arthur inquired; all hope had faded.

"We will find him. It will just take some time."

And onwards they went. Lamenta showed Arthur the way, while Arthur was all eyes and ears. But when the bell tower rang for the eighteenth hour, Lamenta requested for her to depart to her abode.

"Certainly," Arthur said, reluctantly. But before she could leave, she was halted. "Herk! Gaze." He pointed at a door in the open, black in colour - the top of it covered in vines. Arthur and Lamenta proceeded to it with caution. The sun was setting and dark began to settle. They both entered. Both were plunged into darkness. They closed the door behind them. They could not open it again after it closed. They panicked. Lamenta began to cry.

"It is okay," Arthur reassured. He took out his phone and activated the flashlight. She was puzzled - what was the strange device, and how was light emanating from it?

"What is that?" she chose to inquire.

"A phone."

"Doesn't look like any phone I've ever seen before."

"That is because this is a mobile phone, not one only usable in some booths."

She laughed. "But its shape is alien to that I know."

"Well...." Arthur cut himself short upon seeing a door in front of him. "Look. He might be through there."

"Are you certain?"

"Actually, no. But it is worth a try."

"You think it is safe?"

"Positive," Arthur said as he opened the door. The door was that of a building. The door was different. The door was wooden - it had an old design. He closed the door behind him, Lamenta beside him. Just as he turned around an arrow was shot and hit the wall, scratching his cheek a little before getting jammed into the wall. In fear, he opened the door and rushed Lamenta in. They were no longer in the dark. They entered into the inside of the house.

The design of the interior spoke volumes. "We're at the Battle of Waterloo," Lamenta remarked.

"The battle of what?"

"Waterloo. It's a place, in England."

"Odd name. But why are they conflicting?"

"The battle took place in Waterloo in the Netherlands. It was a final push by Napoleon Bonaparte for European dominance after his exile. However, his opposers had the atheupper hand and attained victory. The battle marked the end of the Napoleonic Wars."

Surprised by her vast knowledge of the topic, Arthur inquired, "How do you know this?"

"Never mind that. It just seemed obvious."

Not really, Arthur thought. "How do you know what battle this is?"

"The interior design of this house is Dutch. Plus, I can clearly see the Red Coats at a distance."

"Red coats?"

"The English soldiers, that is. We could go out and see it yourself."

"In the middle of fire? We will get killed out there."

"I have an idea," she said. She pointed to a wardrobe in the room. Arthur opened it. It had various clothing for war, including, "war medic's clothing."

They entered the battlefield, their face covered. Their race would expose them as slaves - the dark servants, they would say. All that was visible were their eyes. They were able to go through the battle without any bullet being fired at them - such tradition is to be respected by all.

A small cabin was in the distance. The two could see it. They went towards it. However, when a wounded soldier called for them, Arthur went to him, to aid. If he denied it, the wounded soldier would have suspected them as soldiers in disguise. Lamenta went to the cabin - to investigate - to see if the door was there. She got the attention of a Red Coat.

She entered the cabin. She searched the room. She could see the door behind the curtain. She put aside her medical bag, on a stool beside the entrance. She unmasked herself. She wiped the sweat from her brows.

The door opened behind her. "Arthur, done already?" She turned around to look - it was not Arthur, she observed. It is a Red Coat.

The Red Coat closed the door behind him. "What are you doing here?" he said, throwing his gun down to the floor. "What would a darling damsel like you do here, in the blood-stained battlefield."

"What do you want?" Lamenta asked, worry in her voice.

Her Manchester-British accent was highly evident. The Red Coat took note. "You are of my kind, but different." He approached her, his hand touching her face, as he took her arm and led her to the couch. She sat. She worried.

"What do you want," she echoed.

"Your maidenhead!" the Red Coat answered.

The Red Coat started to undress her, fiddling with the buttons of her shirt. She resisted, trying to prevent his action to fruit. She pushed him to the floor. This only gave him a reason to exert more force - he seemed more thirsty. He pounced on her, inappropriately touching her. She tried to get rid of him, but his grip on her was too firm. She had to break free.

She noticed a dagger kept on the Red Coat's waist. She grabbed it and stabbed him in the shoulder.

He sprawled on the ground, blood slowly oozing from his shoulder. "What the heck is wrong with you?"

"I cannot accept my maidenhead to be cut off too early."

She took the rifle the Red Coat had left on the ground. Her hand, blood-stained, pulled the trigger. She shot him in the chest.

Arthur had finished taking care of the wounded soldier when this unfolded.

He saw that the shots from the cabin caught the attention of some soldiers. Worried, he ran to the cabin, unarmed. He kicked the door open. She aimed at him. He saw this. He also saw a soldier, the Red Coat, lifeless on the floorboards. Seeing him, she dropped the rifle. She started to cry.

"He... He tried to...." Her happening left her as speechless as a stone.

"No time. Explain later," Arthur said, worryingly. "Some soldiers from the trenches are marching this way. You found the door?"

She pointed beyond the curtain, her face down. Arthur helped her up. They needed to move. They made for the door. They opened it and went into the dark void beyond it. Nothing but a dim light was present, and another door beyond them. The door to the cabin opened. They closed theirs, Lamenta leaving only a slit, to observe. The soldiers found no soul in the building. They found nothing but the corpse of an ally. He was an army flank commander. Their conclusion: the enemy attempted treachery. Napoleon shall not succeed in such a way, they declared. We speak not of this, they added.

As Lamenta closed the door, it started to disappear, in the form of a dark static.

"Before we proceed through," Arthur began, "what occurred to you with that soldier?"

"I panicked."

"He found you out?"

"He didn't regard me as a black servant but treated me as a harlot of sorts. He attempted to 'cut off my maidenhead', his words."

"Maidenhead? What does that mean?"

"He wanted to rape me, simply."

"So, you shot him?"

She hesitated. "I tell you, I panicked. I had to... protect myself, stand up." She collapsed on the ground, breaking down in tears. Arthur took a knee. He held her shoulder.

"You did no wrong," he assured Lamenta. "There is no wrong you perpetrated, but it was him. You are safe now."

She kept on crying.

He added, "Do you wish to proceed, or take time to recuperate?"

She wiped her tears and got up. "Let us go. I am ready... sort of."

Arthur opened the door. There it was—a Greek town. The roads were Roman. The buildings were simple. The amphitheatre was nearby, teaming with multitudes, mumbling before a show started.

"A Greek play. I bet that will cheer you up," Arthur suggested.

Lamenta only nodded. They waltzed to the amphitheatre. They settled. The play resumed in the third act. The play being held was that by the Greek playwright, Sophocles - Philoctetes.

"We can leave now," Lamenta said after seeing through a part of the play.

"Already. Don't you wish to finish this?"

"We need to find your father. Was not that your initial priority?"

"Indeed. Let us depart." They woke up and left. "Though I was looking forward to throwing some rotten tomatoes at the actors."

"They don't deserve those," Lamenta commented. "They deserved roses, bouquets of them."

They walked through the town. Something fell from Arthur's sleeves. A paintbrush - his father's paintbrush from his father's initials written on the handle: HRT.

"What is that?" Lamenta inquired.

"A paint brush. Father's paintbrush"

"How will it help us, now?"

"I am unsure." He held the brush firmly in his hand. They ventured into he town until the door was unearthed. They went through. Onwards the next, to... Italy, during the Renaissance period. They went on further. They met and artist on their an. Arthur still had the brush at hand.

The artist started to stress out. He lost his brush. He saw Arthur's. "Excuse me, sir," he asked, "but may I use your paintbrush a little? I just need to finish this painting real quick. I won't take long."

Though Italian, they could understand him. "Odd. At this time, English was not widespread," Arthur noted.

"Maybe that is the other change. We change by changing the theme of our dressing, but we keep our appearance; they change their language, but keep their accent, their culture," Lamenta reasoned.

"Sure, but we are in a hurry to find someone," Arthur said as he gave the artist the brush. The artist took note of the brush.

"It seems familiar," he said, looking at the brush. He started putting the final touches on the painting. Arthur recognized the art style.

"Interesting," Arthur noted, "for my father has the same paint style."

"You look a lot like him, as well," said the artist.

"You have seen him?" Arthur was both stunned and excited. They are finally going somewhere with their search.

Lamenta found a stool to sit on, beyond the easel and canvas. And there she sat. She faced to her side, looking beyond to the town, her gaze fixed.

"I have done more than seen him. Arthur, is it?" The artist was focused on finishing adding the final detail to his painting. He added more details - shadings, elements....

"How do you...?"

The artist interrupted. "My name is Giovanni. Your father has informed me about you, and how you are blind-sighted."

"Blind-sighted? How so?"

"You see art as a waste of time, energy. You see it being a purposeless and pointless activity, giving no valuable reward."

"Is it untrue?"

"Very untrue, indeed," Giovanni began, about to complete his painting now. "Art tells a story...."

"Not this lecture again."

Giovanni could easily identify Arthur's stubbornness.

"Look here," Giovanni said just as he had signed his piece of art. "What do you see in this painting?"

"A busy market," Arthur noted. "What about it?"

"You know when I said art tells a story. This represents the flaws in society. Could you identify some?"

Arthur took his time. "Theft being one. That man is taking objects and hiding them in his satchel." Giovanni remained silent, leaving him time to continue. "Vandalism, in a way - he is about to burn the wooden stall with a lit candle."

The time in the painting was day.

"You see. The vices are clear. Its art style is also pleasing to the eye, and its contents stimulate one's mind to think creatively. It is also a way for the artist to express creativity. Not only that, but they also are able to release stress and disturbing thoughts."

"Wait, what?"

"Your father did not care for your opinion in art, but how you judge it negatively. He told me that he supported everything you did, but such was never replicated vice versa. This was a way of releasing himself of that. Now that you discouraged that as well... here we are."

Giovanni replaced his painting with a blank canvas. He dipped the brush in black ink and gave it to Arthur. "Draw the door. Your father is beyond it."

And thus, Arthur did, and he went through, with Lamenta still beside him. She had proven herself as a good companion.