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November 2008

Comet Press open for submissions

Our print division, Comet Press, is currently accepting submissions for horror, suspense, and dark crime novels and novellas. Visit www.cometpress.us for details.

Available for order from Comet Press

DEADLINES: AN ANTHOLOGY OF HORROR AND DARK FICTION, will be released in November of 2008! Visit www.cometpress.us

The Storm Painter
by Townsend Walker

Michael met Maggie in Central Park. She was in jeans and a too big blue sweater; perched on a bench; sketching the cascading waters at the Loch. He bent down to glimpse her work, and was awed by the fidelity of her drawing.

“That’s remarkable,” he said.

“Thanks, I’ve been working on it all morning.” Somewhat timidly, she looked up.

Her midnight hair and carmine lips set off a porcelain complexion. Michael kept thinking “remarkable.” He introduced himself. They chatted easily. After two years of art school in San Francisco, she had decided to come to New York. She’d been there a month. Michael was living in Vermont, in a cabin, and had just published his first novel, The Pillars of Chartres. He was spending a month in New York before going back to start another book.

He looked at his watch, “It’s two o’clock. I’m hungry, you?”

“Yeah, I haven’t eaten all day,” she said.

“Starving artists should be fed. That’s something I know about. Two years after I got out of school I was a waiter, copy editor, janitor, and substitute high school teacher. Let’s try something over on the West Side,” he said.

Michael went to her studio the next evening. It was furnished with canvases, easels, her Peckinpah, Scorsese, and Tarantino DVD collection, and a mattress in the corner. They were tentative with one another at the beginning; she was shy with someone eight years her senior; he, awkward with her youth. They had conversations about what they were doing, and what they wanted to do. She wanted to be a landscape painter, to capture the essences of summer mornings and winter nights. When Michael saw her paintings he thought them finely rendered; exact, yet elegant. He explained that he was trying to capture the souls of the people he was writing about.

“I use the personalities of people I know. It’s the only way I can make historical characters come alive. History doesn’t tell us much about what people were like,” he said.

“Only promise you won’t use me, okay,” said Maggie.

“I promise.”

His last week in New York, Michael and Maggie were together day and night. For Maggie, Michael was what she wanted in a partner. He was in the arts. He had run after a vision and caught it. He was neither pedantic nor condescending about her ignorance of the world outside of art. He was understanding with her lack of experience in bed. Michael came back to the city for a week a month later, and the month after that. The last day of his visit Michael started talking about the future.

“I was wondering, do you think living in the woods would give you enough scope for your painting? he asked.

“As long as there are seasons, and the sun rises and sets, I’ve got what I need to work with,” she said. “Why? What are you thinking about?”

“Just wondering for now,” he said.

During Michael’s next visit the wondering stopped; they began to plan their future. At the end of the week, Michael went back to his cabin in the woods. It was ten miles from the nearest village, and Michael had little contact with other people save for his monthly trips to the grocery store.

He’d start writing, then he’d think about Maggie. He loved Maggie. She was beautiful, warm, and generous, though young and quiet. It bothered him that she would sink into deep depressions. That was something he didn’t understand, and didn’t know how to deal with. There were some practical things to think about, too. Most important, did he have the time for a wife when his career as a writer was taking off, and she was facing the frustrations and rejections of getting started as an artist? He stayed away from New York so he could think clearly. His letters to Maggie explained that the deadlines for some of his chapters had been moved up, and he had to stay in Vermont writing.

It was two months before Michael made a decision, and came back to New York. He wanted to be quick. He knocked on the door of Maggie’s studio. She opened; a weak smile peeked out from tousled hair. He ignored her appearance intent on giving his rehearsed speech. “Maggie, I can’t stay long. There’s something I have to tell you. I love you very much; I believe from the bottom of my heart I always will. Your sweetness and beauty have left a deep mark on me. But... but now, with my writing, I can’t make a commitment. I don’t have the time. I’m sorry, very sorry.”

“Michael, what are you saying? Everything we’ve talked about, about two artists working together? You’ve come down to the city every month. That wasn’t too much, was it?” Maggie was trembling.

“It was. The publisher keeps asking where the next chapters are, and I don’t write that fast. I’ve got to go now; I have a meeting with my editor.”

Maggie slumped to the floor and wept. “Michael, stop. We’re going to have a baby.”

“A what? How? You told me you were taking care of everything.”

“I did. I don’t know what happened. I found out just yesterday.”

“This is the worst possible time--for me, and for you. Don’t you see? I’ve got my writing; you haven’t sold anything. We don’t have the time or money.”

“But didn’t you get an advance for the book you’re working on?” she asked.

“Sure, but that would never support a baby,” he said. “You’ll have to get an abortion.”

Maggie hid her face in her hands. She cried, “I don’t want to. I don’t want to. It’s not right. I’m scared.”

“You have no choice Maggie. I don’t want a child. You can’t afford one. I’ll arrange it. I’ll arrange it now. I’ll call you,” he said, his voice tight. Then Michael left.

After she got a call from the doctor’s office, Maggie spent a week looking for ways to keep the baby. Finding none, she had the abortion. Michael never called.

He went back to Vermont. At the end of three years he finished a second book. Buoyed by the success of his first and early reviews of the second, “ a delicate tapestry of medieval morality, wonderfully woven, with timeless lessons, and historically accurate.” And, “the stiff statues and portraits of the period come alive with personality-- some likeable, some detestable, but all human and recognizable,” Michael’s publisher arranged a multi-city tour starting in New York. The bookstore signing was followed by a reception at the Plaza. Maggie strode into the room; heads turned. She looked around, spotted Michael talking with other people, broke into the group.

Michael was surprised. “Maggie, you look wonderful, great to see you, what are you up to? It looks like you’ve made it.”

“Yup. I paint storms. People buy storms. I get on canvas what it’s like to be in one--lightning flashing--thunder pealing--purple, green, gray skies, that sort of thing.”

“ I know what you mean, in the summer my cabin seems to be in the middle of a thunderhead every time there’s a storm. If you’re ever up that way, stop in for a Vermont storm.”

“What’s your address? I’m not sure I ever had it,” she said. “I might have used it after you left.”

* * *

A letter arrived from Maggie. She had a new commission, she couldn’t find inspiration in her usual haunts, and asked to stay in his cabin for a couple of weeks. Michael was a little taken aback at her presumption. They had talked for barely an hour, months ago; two weeks was not what he had in mind when he casually dropped the invitation. He was in the middle of his third book; the cabin was arranged; papers and books laid out all over the large room, just so. Michael thought he was a neat sprawler. But he had offered, and the new Maggie was appealing. So he wrote back that he had a fairly large spare room she could use for painting and sleeping.

A few days later a van pulled up to the cabin. The gray sky shuddered. Rain pounded the ground. Maggie got out of the van and stood, legs and arms spread wide, facing the thunderhead. She had no clothes on. He took a slicker from the peg, and went out to cover her.

She whirled. “Go away! Please.”

Michael retreated into the cabin, watching her from the window. His one-time feelings for her began to bubble. The storm began quickly, and moved on quickly. Maggie grabbed canvases from her van, tubes of paint, brushes, and opened the door. “Where’s my room?”

“There, on the right,” he said.

She went in and shut the door. Michael heard her setting up the canvases, then nothing. After an hour he opened the door. “Tea? Coffee?”

“No, leave me alone. Please.”

Michael sat down at his desk, and resumed work on his book. He had chosen a particularly fertile set of characters to work with. It was the time of King Henry I. He ruled France in the middle of the 11th Century; not an easy time to be a king. For most of his twenty-nine year reign Henry did battle with revolting vassals. Henry’s domestic life was no less troubled. After losing his first wife, he married Anne of Kiev. Henry was not a particularly faithful husband; Anne was not a particularly faithful wife. She took a fancy to Count Raoul of Crépy-en-Valois. She married him after Henry died. The Count’s wife took exception, and appealed to the pope; he excommunicated the pair.

Michael looked up from his computer screen. It was dark in the cabin. He got up to stretch. Maggie’s door opened. She ran to him, clothed, and gave him a hug. He didn’t quite know what to make of it; his return embrace was a bit late, and a bit stiff. “Guess I should explain how I work,” she said.

Maggie paced as she talked. “My painting’s very physical. My body absorbs the storm, and I transfer that to canvas. If I don’t do it right away, I lose it. If anyone gets in the middle it doesn’t come off. I almost lost some of it when you knocked on the door.” Her look forgave him. “But it’s okay; it worked out in the end. It will be a good piece. Thanks for the welcoming storm... I’m hungry. Do you have anything?”

“How about some pasta?” he said. “It’ll be ready in fifteen.”

“Okay, I’ll get the rest of my stuff from the van.”

When they started eating, Michael asked, “How did you start doing storms?”

“Storms were an accident. One day, a couple weeks after you walked out, I was on the Staten Island ferry when a lightning storm hit. I stood out on the deck and watched the waves crash round. The sky and bay lit up with slivers of light arcing between clouds, hitting the bay. I was stunned. I’d never seen anything like it.”

“You didn’t have storms in California?” Michael asked

“Only winter rains, rarely thunder and lightning. Anyway, I went back to my apartment, and put this feeling on canvas; worked all night. I liked it. During the next storm I went out to Central Park, came back, and painted another. I was getting the color and texture of the storm on canvas. With that, my style changed too. No more faithful delicate renderings. This subject asked for drama, emotion, new colors.”

“So how long before you started selling?”

“I caught a break; I started talking about what I was doing to anyone and everyone who would listen. A friend came to look; the friend knew a gallery owner; there you have it.”

“So why come all the way up here?” Michael asked.

“You invited me, remember? Plus, I just got a commission for the lobby of a new building in mid-town. This is major, twelve large paintings.”

“So I need to order up another dozen storms in the next two weeks for my city visitor?”

“Well, it might take me more than a couple of weeks to do all of them, but I’ll stay out of your way,” she said.

There was lull in the conversation. Something else was on Michael’s mind, “Uh... Do you always stand out in the rain without any clothes on?”

Maggie’s face crinkled. “Don’t be silly. Of course not. Not in Central Park. That started when I was at the beach. I saw a cumulonimbus building up, and waited for it to move on shore. When it did, I took off my swim suit and stood there. The effect of the storm on my skin was so much more powerful; the painting so much better. I do it whenever I can; I figured here, in the middle of the woods, no one around, perfect.”

“Not precisely no one,” cautioned Michael.

“Well I didn’t mean that, but if it’s someone I know, no problem. And, you don’t have to look... I feel like going for a walk now.”

“Now? In the woods?”

“You don’t have to come,” Maggie said.

“I’d better, its easy to get lost; there aren’t any paths.”

Michael wasn’t sure what kind of guest he had. The new Maggie was forward, brazen, commanding. She worked on her own schedule; she accused him of nearly ruining one of her works. The two weeks in her letter seemed as if it would stretch through the summer. And if she absorbed storms in the nude, he was going to be a physical wreck.

They walked out the door. Michael didn’t use a flashlight because he didn’t want to disturb the animals. Maggie picked her way carefully through the trees trying to follow, but lost him, and stumbled. She pushed on, finally caught up, and grabbed his arm.

“I am going to get lost if you don’t slow down. I’m holding on to be sure I get back. You’re not leaving me alone a second time.”

Michael was about to reply when there was a crashing sound in the woods, coming towards them. She clutched him and hissed, “What’s that?”

A pair of eyes glimmered in the dark. Maggie broke loose to run. Michael reached out, and pulled her to him. Then quietly, “It’s only a wolf. I saw her yesterday. She’s well fed, and doesn’t have any cubs. You’re in danger only if you run and frighten her. She’s not a killer.”

“Not like us then,” she said. Michael didn’t know what to say in return, so said nothing. Maggie huddled in his arms for a long minute. He smelled her still damp hair; her body reawakened memories in his. “Can we go back now?”

In the morning Michael was writing when Maggie opened the door. “I want to see the woods during the day.”

“If you wait ten minutes I’ll go with you.”

During their walk Michael pointed out the good plants and the not so good, including nightshade. It was about three feet tall, dullish green leaves, and a trumpet-like purplish flower. “In the late summer the berries become midnight violet, like your hair. They’re quite sweet, also quite poisonous.”

“What does nightshade do?” Maggie asked.

“It’s famous. Alexander the Great is thought to have died from it. His death was reportedly preceded by a dullness of mind, drowsiness and inability to speak.”

They made their way deep into the woods and were turning back as it started to rain. The warm summer shower turned quickly to a thunderstorm. Thunder cracked on top of them, and a bright bolt split a tree twenty feet in front of them. “Leave me Michael.” Maggie began to take her clothes off.

“You won’t find your way back,” he shouted over the storm.

“I will. Leave, I said! Now! Please.”

Michael went back to the cabin, and tried to work. Anne of Kiev was giving him problems. He was finding it difficult giving her traits readers would empathize with.

Maggie came in, carrying her clothes, and went to her room. He heard the brush scraping against canvas, then crashing smashing sounds. Michael opened the door. He saw a new canvas quarter-covered with paint, a brush through it, Maggie’s nude paint splattered body, and paint tubes flying against the walls. One had gone through a window.

“Maggie, what is it?”

“This damn painting isn’t working. I’m going out,” she said, and pulled on jeans and a top.

At sunset she hadn’t returned. An hour went by, two; it was dark, and there was no moon. Michael was annoyed at his role as Maggie’s guardian. Eccentricity was one thing; being lost in these woods at night was another. There were animals larger than wolves--black bears and bob cats. He found her sitting in front of the stricken tree, head in hands, sobbing softly. “Maggie, I’ve come to take you back.”

She looked so abject and sorrowful his earlier annoyance faded. He picked her up, and carried her back to the cabin. He opened the door to her room, and laid her down on the bed. She pulled him down to her. “Stay with me tonight Michael.” He started to unbutton his shirt.

“No, not that way; just stay, and hold me. I’m feeling vulnerable, like that tree,” she said.

Just before daybreak Michael felt Maggie turn toward him. She unbuttoned his shirt. “Cheer me up Michael.” He succeeded, judging by her sweet laughter.

* * *

Michael forgot to be concerned about the length of Maggie’s stay. At night they were together in her room. When they had first met in New York, Michael was the teacher; now he was learning. Maggie was up for anything, and wanted to try everything. She was still intensely private, but fierce in her enthusiasms. Such a difference from the Maggie he knew before.

For breakfast, Maggie gathered the fruits and herbs, claiming she knew enough about plants, and certainly more about cooking. After eating, they walked in the woods. He showed her what he had learned; what to look at; what rocks and logs to look under. To watch a butterfly driving a bumblebee from the blue lupine, then later, a bumblebee defending red columbine against a hummingbird. During the day he wrote; she painted.

But when a storm hit Maggie went out; then shut herself up in her room. In the morning, sometimes breakfast was ready; other times she was still painting. In the afternoon, if she finished a painting, she wanted to play. At night, if she hadn’t finished, she didn’t go to bed. Michael got some work done, but the schedule with his publisher was slipping.

* * *

Michael woke to sounds coming from his bedroom; got up; opened the door; found it in disarray. Maggie had moved all of her canvases in. Furniture was piled in the corner. Paint was everywhere: walls, floor, bed. Michael shouted, “What are you doing? My room! You’ve trashed it!”

Maggie said, “I’m really sorry Michael, I didn’t have a choice.”

Michael marched up to her. “You didn’t have a choice?! Of course you did.”

“Don’t you understand? I had an inspiration in the middle of the night about how the whole storm series would look, how the paintings would tie together in the space. I had to work, and you were sleeping.”

“No excuse. And this? This!” His face was bright red, his body twitching.

“You’re mad, aren’t you Michael. You’d like to kill me, wouldn’t you? End this,” Maggie said, pushing her face closer to his.

He paused and stepped back. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Look, calm down, I’ll pay for it,” Maggie said.

“And in the meantime I’m supposed to... ?”

Maggie finished his sentence, “Sleep in my room, like you’ve been doing.”

Maggie walked slowly towards Michael, put her arms around him, and like an anaconda, held him tight. “I’m sorry. I’m about finished. Can we... til I’m done here?” Michael reflected about needing to learn boundaries, in his own cabin.

A storm built up during the night; not one, but a squall line with thunderheads, one following the other. Hail clattered on the roof, thunder deafened all sound in the cabin, lightning scorched the clearing. Other parts of the storm were further in the woods, and Michael saw only a lightened sky and soft rain. Maggie’s moods matched the storms’. She came back after each cannonade, flung herself into her canvas, painted frenetically until the sky exploded again, raced outside, exposed herself to the storm, came back, painted, went out. When it ended around dusk, she came in and closed the door to her new studio.

Michael tried to work during all of this activity, but Anne of Kiev’s character kept slipping away from him. Anne was becoming more and more like Maggie. He was transferring his mixed emotions about Maggie to Henry’s feelings about Anne. Exhausted, he went to bed.

When he got up she was still painting. Now, trying to work, he became preoccupied with when she would emerge. Night fell; Michael went for a walk. That night the woods were alive; he saw black bears, coyote, and moose, not in their usual places. The storm had rearranged life in the woods, as the storm painter had rearranged his life. He heard a rustle behind him. “There you are,” Maggie said.

“Have you been following me?”

“No, I heard your footsteps. You’re writing about me aren’t you?”

Michael replied, “What do you mean?”

“I’m Anne of Kiev.”

Michael was angry. “You read my story? How dare you?”

Maggie replied, “It was lying right there on the table. Why wouldn’t I read it? You hiding something?”

“Of course not,” he said.

Maggie accused him. “You don’t remember your promises very well, do you?”

“What promise was that?” he asked.

“The one about not using any part of me for your characters. You think Anne is not recognizable?” Maggie asked.

“I tried to disguise her.”

“Michael, you’re a liar! You lie about lots of things.”

“Look Maggie, this is a first draft--lots of things happen between the first draft, and what gets published. This is not how I see you. This just happened.”

“Happened? Things like that don’t happen.”

Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, look, I’m tired, can we go back now? I’m not going to convince you about anything out here.”

“Back there either,” she said. I finished tonight. I’m leaving in the morning. I’ll fix the last breakfast. Go back. I’m want to walk some more.”

Michael returned slowly. He got in bed, and fell asleep. When he opened his eyes it was still dark, heavy clouds at dawn, but he could hear Maggie moving things around in the large room. “Where’d you sleep last night?” he asked.

“I didn’t. I walked, thinking about things, us, you, ...then I put the canvases in the van.”

“You’re serious about leaving?” Michael asked.

“Yes, but, I fixed breakfast like I promised,” she replied.

Michael was hungry. The pancakes were especially good; his appetite was helped by the fact that Maggie seemed nearly cheerful. Nothing like Madame La Farge the night before. She lingered, making a second pot of coffee. He was grateful for the liquid; his throat was dry this morning.

Maggie leaned toward him, “Michael, I have a modern story to tell you. A young innocent artist met a promising historical novelist in New York some years ago. She fell in love with the writer; he said he was in love with her; they talked of a life together. One day, without warning, he announced, ‘I will always remember my sweet quiet girl, but it wouldn’t be fair to you to make a commitment; my writing takes up so much of my time.’ And when she told him she was going to have a baby, he blamed her, and insisted she have an abortion. He demanded she destroy the fruit of their love. She never forgave that.”

Michael sputtered, “What are you saying?”

“We were going to have a boy.”

Michael was confused, wasn’t it best for everyone? The coffee was not clearing his head; he couldn’t connect his thoughts. Maggie’s voice was gradually getting lower, as if someone was turning the volume down on the radio.

The sun broke through the windows in the cabin. Michael opened his mouth. “Look! It’s day.” But nothing came out.

“No Michael, it’s not day, it’s night, time to pull down the shade. Every boy needs a father; very soon ours will have his with him. Goodnight.”

As Michael rose, he fell. Maggie wiped the mixing bowl, spoon, spatula and coffee pot; placed Michael’s limp hand around them, arranged the objects on the counter, went out, and drove off.