Paint

Once upon a time I fancied myself a painter.The paintings I made were good, but not comparable to one of the greats. This carried on until I lost my muse.

Let me tell you my story.

It begins with a lake, upon whose shore I first met the woman who would be my muse and my everything; though I did not know it yet. Her name is unimportant as is mine, for this is a story of love and love is blind.

We met on that lake shore one autumn night and got to talking about the world we lived in. I was a youth back then, full of vigour and energy and she was as beautiful as the sunset on a dark evening. She had violet eyes, a red mouth and perfectly shaped teeth which showed when she smiled which was quite often.

Soon we became lovers. I painted with gay abandon and dedicated each to her in all her grace. However they were still lacking that spark. I did not let this bother me.

We used to return often to the lake on whose shore we met and we used to walk along it, gazing at the black surface of the lake, as tranquil as could be.

Before too long, we had started living together and I had proposed marriage to her. We decided to get married on the shore of the lake. It was a rainy day, but we still exchanged vows on the shore of the lake.

I should have realized that the rain was an omen of dark things to come.

The two of us started our married life in sweet contentment. We had a small cottage in the village with a quaint garden where my wife grew flowers. I continued to paint but ll my critics said my drawings lacked life, that they had no soul.

One day she informed me that she was with child. I was overjoyed at this news and we embraced warmly. But once again I was reminded of the rain on our wedding day. I dismissed it as mere fancy for I did not believe in such matters of superstition. How wrong I was will be revealed shortly.

Our child never saw the light of day. The midwife tried all she could but she couldn't save it. It was a girl she said but born still.

This set us on a path which ended in misery. My wife was unable to cope with the loss of her child and she became depressed and did not come out of her room.  I tried my best to alleviate her suffering, but my companionship seemed to make her worse. She blamed herself for the loss of the child.

I suppose I should have seen it coming,but I didn't. I returned home one day to find her gone. I started to look for her. I knocked on every door in the village until finally I went to the lake. There was a boatman upon it, casting his net.  Along with the fish there came a body.

My wife had drowned herself in the lake.

I had lost my love, and my child in the space of a few months. I broke down, went away from the village to my father's estate. I found I could not stay there for the lake called to me. After spending a month there I came back to the village where my life had fallen apart and took up residence in the same cottage I had vacated. I used to go for walks on the shore of the lake, trying to recreate the moment I met my wife.

After a while, I brought my easel and paints and started painting on the shore of the lake. I painted the trees next to the lake, the lake itself and the odd boats that used to get launched from the shore.

I did not notice it at first and it took one of the art critics to tell me so, but my painting style had changed. They were technically perfect and they also had a quality to them that they had lacke previously. My paintings were alive. They had the spark they were missing all this time.

I realized this was the way to keep my wife and child alive and so I painted with all the vigour I possessed.

If you look about the shore of the lake, you will find me there, painting. It's all I do now. I sit and I paint, and as I paint, I feel more alive than I have ever felt before.

The Bilge Master