Art of Defiance

Isaac tightened his grip on the billy club. This was his first raid, and he felt like he might throw up. His superior, Laney, hopped from foot to foot and stretched. Carriages and pedestrians passed by them, giving them wary looks. Their uniforms, black and gray, marked them as Witch Hunters. They wouldn’t be walking the streets if they weren’t on a hunt, and everyone knew witches came in all colors. 

The brick building looked like any other, dirty and a little misshapen. They had received word of a man who lived here. According to the accounts, he always wore paint-splattered clothing, and strange sounds came from the building at night. 

“Nothing to see here,” Laney said to a woman who had stopped to eye them. He turned to Isaac. “Remember, if you see anything, avert your eyes. We don’t need any of those insidious lies worming their way into your brain.”

Inside, the dark building smelled faintly of mold and something underneath, the unmistakable scent of turpentine. Laney climbed a rickety staircase, Isaac on his heel. He prayed there would be no conflict. He signed up for this job because it paid well, not because he enjoyed knocking people unconscious. 

They encountered a locked door at the top of the stairs. Laney gestured with his head, and Isaac stepped forward. He knocked on the door. 

“Witch Hunters, open up. There has been word of an artist living here.” Shuffling came from within. Isaac looked at Laney. Laney nodded. 

Isaac took a step back and charged forward, his shoulder hitting the heavy door. He cursed, as the door didn’t budge. Isaac stepped back again and rammed the door. The hinge broke along with the latch, and the door swung open. They stepped into a long rectangular room with a skylight, allowing ample light into the room. 

Many objects filled the filthy room, from books and paper to life-sized articulated dolls, like the kind the medical academy kept. Easels sat equally distant apart, stretching toward the back of the long room, their contents covered by thick, black cloth. 

Laney whistled. “The reports were accurate. We got a witch on our hands and a prolific one at that. Come out, you little rat. We heard you moving around in here.” 

Isaac went right and Laney went left. Isaac couldn’t help but glance at the dozen or so paintings, his curiosity getting the better of him. He had only ever seen art approved by the King, usually depicting him on many of his exploits. He wondered what was so dangerous about these paintings that they would kill over it. 

“Focus,” Laney shouted. 

A door on the right side of the room sat partially ajar. Isaac opened it. Clothes hung from rungs inside, rolled up canvasses leaning against the wall. Isaac spotted two wide eyes staring at him from the back of the closet. A naked man with long curly hair shook his head. Isaac looked back. Laney checked under a massive desk. Isaac cursed under his breath and took a step back. This man didn’t seem like a threat. All he seemed was afraid. The naked man darted out of the closet and shoved Isaac over, making a beeline for the door. The man stopped at the last second and ran to a nearby easel which was covered in a black cloth. 

“Stop him,” Laney shouted. Isaac dashed to intercept the man, but he was too slow. The artist yanked the cloth off, revealing an oil painting of a knight in heavy armor. The brush strokes rose from the surface, making the thing seem real. Then the knight moved. A hand reached forward, rising even further from the canvas. The metal hand grabbed one side of the golden frame, then another. The knight hoisted himself up and out of the painting, his heavy feet landing on the wooden floor. 

“Shit,” Isaac said, taking a step back. Why had he let the man go? Now they would both die. All he had was his club, but the knight held a sword in his hand. Though the sword’s colors were shades of blue and green, he knew it was as sharp as a real sword. The knight advanced on him, and Isaac backpedaled. He didn’t want to lose his life. If he ran, he would survive. 

“Don’t be chickenshit,” Laney screamed. “Destroy the painting and the knight will go with it.” Laney intercepted the naked man as he rushed to uncover another painting, the two of them wrestling on the floor. 

A candelabra sat on a desk at the other end of the room, two of the candles lit. Isaac made a break for them, narrowly avoiding the knight’s sword. He ran, not daring to look behind him, until he got to the candelabra. He grabbed a candle, ignoring the hot wax falling onto his hand. The knight stood between him and the painting, looking at the painting and its creator being thrashed, unable to decide which was more important. In the end, it squared up in front of its painting. 

If Isaac got close to that thing, his head would roll. Isaac spotted a bottle of turpentine nearby and grabbed it. The yellow liquid sloshed about. The artist noticed him and screamed. 

“No, don’t,” the man said. Laney punched him in the face. They rolled about, knocking over one easel, the cloth falling off it, revealing a painting of the King’s head atop the body of a pig. Isaac gritted his teeth and threw the bottle of turpentine at the painting of the knight. It shattered on the floor. The knight charged him. Isaac threw the candle. 

The candle landed on the turpentine; the liquid sparking. Fire grew uncontrollably, the easel catching, then the painting. Just as the knight reared back to cut him, his form melted, the colors blending into a uniform brown. 

“What have you done?” the artist screamed. 

Laney had the man pinned to the ground. “Our jobs. You’re a criminal. There will be no more painting for you. They’ll either take your hands or your life. You better hope it’s the latter.”

They ushered the man into a carriage waiting outside. Laney shoved a rag into the man’s mouth to keep him from cursing. Isaac tried to avoid eye contact with the man, grateful for the gag. What if he told Laney Isaac had looked the other way? If he hadn’t known the man’s ability, he would have thought he was like anyone else. What marked him for death besides his inclination toward color?

“Don’t sympathize with this cretin,” Laney said. Despite the man’s crassness, he had a knack for reading Isaac’s mind. “The King has a good reason for hunting artists down. They threaten everything he has built. You’ve heard the stories of the Color Crimes. I don’t need to tell you that these people, if you can call them that, are dangerous. We’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

“I know,” Isaac said. “It’s just…is this how it always is? I thought I would feel proud or happy. Instead, I feel…defeated.”

“I’d keep those thoughts to yourself. Not all Witch Hunters are as open-minded as I am. You will see in time the threat they pose.”

They arrived at the Royal Dungeons, a building that was unassuming on the surface, like an anthill that only hints at the labyrinth beneath. They half-carried, half-walked the artist down the stone stairs into a large room filled with iron cages. Torches lined the walls, revealing prisoners in various states of disarray. From political prisoners in their fancy garb to beggars in their tattered rags, the dungeon was fit to bursting. Isaac was not a lawman, but he thought there wasn’t much in this world that wasn’t punishable. The King had no shortage of enemies and this is where they came to rot.

They shoved the artist into a cell near the back, one that had not been cleaned recently, if at all. Laney locked the gate and handed Isaac the key. 

“He’ll be on a diet of gruel,” Laney said. “The witch must absolutely not come into contact with any color. Do not speak to him unless it is to give a command. It is not just his hands you should fear, but his mouth too. Lies are a kind of art themselves and this man will try to convince you what we are doing is wrong. Stand strong in your convictions. He will face the chopping block. I want you to watch him until then. If you see him trying to make art, you will beat him within an inch of his life. Is that understood?”  

Isaac nodded. 

“Good,” Laney said. “Now I’m gonna go collect the bounty and visit a brothel. If you’re lucky, I’ll save some of it for you.”

Laney left them, and Isaac found a chair and sat outside the cell. 

“Hey boy,” the artist said, his voice hoarse. 

Isaac ignored him.

“Hey boy, I know you can hear me. You seem reasonable enough, unlike your superior. You tried to save me. Why?”

“I…I thought you looked scared,” Isaac said. “I’ve been that scared before when I lived on the street. No one should feel that way.”

“Your King would beg to differ. Have you ever wondered why they spend so much time and resources trying to wipe out those like me? I’m not dangerous.”

Isaac snorted. “Not dangerous? Your knight nearly took my head off.”

“He was trying to protect me and himself. Would you do any differently if someone broke into your home and set fire to your life’s work? What have I done to you?”

“You threaten the Crown,” Isaac said. “Your art is heretical. It gives people ideas.”

It was the artist’s turn to snort. “Wouldn’t want them to have those, would we?”

“Shut up,” Isaac said, banging his club against the bars. “I’m not even supposed to be talking to you.”

“And yet, here we are,” the artist said. “Something tells me you know this isn’t right. I’m a human, just like you. My name is Myram. They don’t want you to know that. It’s much easier to kill and take from someone you do not view as a person. I eat, sleep, and breathe. I hurt, and most importantly, I love.” 

Myram walked up to the gate and pulled his shirt off. The man turned around, showing a tattoo etched into his flesh. A woman’s face, young and full of beauty, stared back at Isaac. She winked at him, her hair flowing in a wind that did not exist. 

“This was my Daisy. She was like me, a ‘witch’, as you call it. In reality, she was a dancer. She could move like the wind, and like the wind, she was impossible to pin down. Her art drew me to her, but it was also what killed her. They took her from me and now this is all I have left of her, a pale imitation of the real thing. What was her crime?”

Isaac had no answer. The man’s eyes filled with tears and Isaac felt some rising in his as well. He blinked them away. This is what Laney said would happen. He couldn’t sympathize with this monster.  

“I’ll tell you what her crime was. Creation. Art gives voice to the voiceless and oppressed. They would not fear it if it did not have the power to change the world. That makes it dangerous. It is more than splotches of color on fabric. Art is the very stuff rebellions are built on. I spit in the face of your so-called king. He cannot stop me from creating.” 

Myram walked to the corner of the cell where a bucket sat. He reached his hand into it and pulled it out, now covered in shit. He slathered it on the wall, painting with waste. 

“Stop,” Isaac screamed. Myram kept going, an image of a bear coalescing on the wall. “Guards!” 

Two burly men came running down the hall. Isaac opened the cell, and they rushed in. They grabbed Myram and threw him to the ground. The men kicked him until they were sure he wouldn’t get back up. They wiped the shit off the wall and cursed the artist. The men left, and Isaac locked the cell again.

“You knew the punishment,” Isaac said. “Why continue?”

Myram touched a hand to his face, which bled profusely. “Red is such a lovely color. I did it because I had to. There was no other option.” He held up his hands. “Why have these if they cannot create? It is who I am.”

“Why are you telling me all this? You’ll be dead in the morning.”

“Because I see myself in you. I see the way your hands itch to have more than a club to hold and your sympathy for those they would have you condemn. I’ve never had an apprentice, never passed the skill to another. Would you like to know the secret?”

Isaac looked around, but they were alone. This was treason, but he couldn’t help himself. He nodded, his palms sweating. 

The artist leaned close to the bars. “Your belief must be stronger than their disbelief. Breathe life into the work. It is not just the hands and mind that make something beautiful or meaningful. It starts with the heart. Imagine the piece as it would be if it were real. Imagine it so hard it has no choice but to be real. Keep the image burning in your mind until you open your eyes and it is still there.” 

Myram laid down on the stone floor and was soon asleep. Isaac leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. His mind raced. He always thought an artist was something you were born as, but Myram just told him how to do it. They would beat Isaac if they found out he had listened. The weight of the secret wasn’t enough to keep him from sleeping, though. As he slept, he dreamed of a colorful world where no one used their hands for violence, only creation.

When Isaac woke up, the cell door was open, absent its inhabitant. His heart sped up, and he raced down the dungeon hall. They would have interrogated the man here, which could mean only one thing. Outside, the sun was setting, and a crowd gathered in the courtyard in the middle of the dungeon. A raised platform held a hooded executioner and Myram, his bruised face unrecognizable. 

“Do you have any last words?” the executioner asked. 

Myram’s eyes flitted around as though searching for something. Finally, they landed on Isaac’s and the man gave him a subtle nod.

“Aye,” Myram said. “I would do it all again.” He reached up with his manacled hands and pulled off his shirt. Emblazoned on his chest was an image in red, formed from dried blood. The image depicted a fire blazing with a man within. The image lifted off his skin, coming to life. Myram screamed as the flame consumed him. He ran forward and jumped into the crowd. The crowd gasped and took a collective step back. 

Isaac watched on in horror. He pushed his way through the crowd, trying to get as far away from this nightmare as possible. By the time night fell, he had made his way deep into the city, without realizing where he was going. He stared up at the building he had raided less than twelve hours ago. 

Isaac stepped into the brick building and climbed the stairs. They had cleared the studio of all paintings. The fire spread, but they contained it ultimately, leaving a pile of ash and charcoal in the center of the room. The witch hunters confiscated the paint, but they left everything else untouched. Isaac reached into the remnants of the fire he had created and pulled out a piece of charcoal. 

Isaac grabbed a piece of paper and moved the charcoal across it, making broad strokes, drawing on his memory of Myram, before the fire had taken him. By the end, he had a rough approximation of the man, from his hooked nose to his long, curly hair. Isaac closed his eyes and imagined with all his might the face moving. He could see it as though it were real. 

Isaac opened his eyes. The image stayed still. Then Myram winked at him. Isaac took a step back. Perhaps he imagined it. 

“The shading could use a little work,” Myram said, “but not bad for a first try.”

Isaac wept, not just for the man’s death, but for what this meant. There would be no going back. How could he run from something so powerful? What was dangerous about the ability to give life? 

“But you’re dead,” Isaac said. “How can you be talking to me?”

“You’re only truly dead when there is no one left to remember you,” Myram said. “Now it’s time to get to work. We have a rebellion to paint.”