August 2010

Resurrection

by Aaron Paul Lazar

Red Cloud

He woke on a secluded grassy riverbank to the sound of water lapping the shore. Lying on his side, with his face pressed against dry grass, he tried to make sense of the strange birdsongs and chilled air.

With a growing sense of unease, he shook his head and struggled to focus. He stood, brushing bits of grass and leaves from his unfamiliar clothing. On his legs, rough woven fabric. On his feet, clumsy black shoes. His shirt billowed in the cold breeze, covered with smears of cobalt blue, sap green, and white. With a start, he realized he wore a white man’s artist smock.

With his heart now drumming a war song, he bit back the urge to cry out to the spirits.

What kind of lunacy is this?

Across the river, the setting sun gilded a riverside village. Noise from the shore drifted over the water in lazy snatches of conversation and bubbles of children’s laughter. The language was unfamiliar. French, perhaps? He’d heard some of these words in the hallways of the White House during his many visits to the Capitol when he represented his tribe and others during congressional sessions.

Chimneys puffed thick blue spirals into the air, coloring the horizon with smudges of indigo, champagne pink, and soft orange. Before him stood an easel with a partially finished painting of the river scene. Brushes lay strewn in the grass. Soft wet paint lay in globs on the palette he must have dropped when he passed out.

When I passed out?

He scrubbed at his face, closed and opened his eyes. Startled, he studied his hands. Ivory skin stretched over long sinewy fingers; blue veins stood out on the back of his hand. He turned them in the waning light.

What happened to my hand? My skin? Whose fingers are moving at my command?

A sparrow hopped toward him, aiming for contents spilled from a wooden bucket nearby. The grass beside it was matted, as if someone had lain there, resting in the winter sun for hours, maybe days. He crouched and peeled back corners of a linen napkin enclosing thick chunks of stale bread and a wedge of cheese. Black grapes nestled in a tin dipping cup.

Sudden thirst constricted his throat. He searched for a nearby well or a pump handle. Around him, colonies of trees and shrubs dotted the grassy field. In the far distance, a pink stucco house with green shutters shimmered in the late afternoon light.  Somewhere in his brain, it looked familiar, yet strange. A double sense invaded his mind. Another’s thoughts joined his, clearly merged with him, yet somehow separated by a diaphanous boundary.

Too shaken to make the trek to the house, he glanced down at the water. It ran clean and clear.

He grabbed the cup and stumbled to the riverbank, kneeling on soft black dirt. With a ragged swish, he filled it with chilled water and drank greedily as if he’d been wandering lost in the Sahara. Sweet and pure, it cleansed his parched tissues.

He jumped. What was that?

Senses highly tuned now, he heard the sudden murmur of a crowd in an enclosed space, felt the pressing of shoulders against his. Over the scent of the river and paints rose the flowery fragrance of a white woman’s perfume.

He dashed another cup of water against his face, then poured yet another over the back of his neck. His short hair dripped water on the black fuzz that grew from his chin. He stroked the long beard, fascinated by its wiry texture. Droplets ran from it and splashed into the river with impossible rhythm, mesmerizing him with flashes of light that swirled below.

He tore his glance away from the water and looked toward the island downstream, riveted by the wavy shadows barren trees cast on the surface. Consumed now, with no understanding of the obsession that filled him, he hurried back to the easel, grabbing the palette and brushes. With sure fingers, he dashed colors onto the canvas, racing to beat the sun that threatened to sink before he finished. With a flourish, he splashed transparent amber paint next to squiggles of shadows, dabbed mint green in the sky beside the trees.

Movement caught his attention. There! In the distance, two boats floated past the isle. He grabbed another brush and slashed black onto the purple-gray water. A few quick strokes mimicked their wavy shadows.

He jumped. Someone, some ghostly hand, touched his fingers. Was it a spirit from beyond? Had the spirits transported him to another realm? With a shudder, he stepped back and scanned the area. Not a soul for miles.

What’s happening to me?

The sun, vibrant orange now, approached the tops of straw roofs, tinting the sky with rosy hues. He refocused on the canvas and slashed brilliant orange in short parallel lines across the image of water to mimic the sun’s reflection.

Shivering, he watched the sun fuse with the horizon. He swore he heard ice cubes clinking in a glass, and once again jerked around, looking for the source of the noise.

Nothing. No one. A group of wild quail squawked to his left, hurrying into the underbrush with waggling tail feathers. A large male sported a feather that would have graced his headdress, had he the energy to give it chase.

His stomach rumbled. He sank to the grass, set his paints aside, and lay on the flattened grass. There would be time to untangle the mystery after he rested.

***

Claude

My head thudded hard on a marble floor. Crystal chandelier prisms swam before my eyes and people in ballroom dress thronged around me in the high-ceilinged room. Paintings lined the far hallway, hanging from gold chains secured high on red satin-covered walls. Several guests ran to my side, faces crumpled with worry.

A silver-haired lady in a long black gown patted my hand. “Red Cloud? My dear! Are you all right?”

Although I spoke little English, my brain translated the words as if I’d been born in London. I stared into eyes the color of frosted cornflowers. Thin circles of white rimmed the iris. Although she acted concerned, the woman’s eyes registered no warmth.

With a shiver, I sat up. “I’m fine. I think.” For a moment, the scene around me blurred. My riverbank shone through in rippled windows, as if vying for space in my mind. Yet the sounds of birds singing, water lapping the shore, and the breeze rustling in the leaves had been replaced by gold-filigreed mirrors, marble statues, and waiters bearing silver trays with fluted glasses of bubbling champagne.

A man in a tuxedo touched my arm. “Mr. Red Cloud? May I interest you in a glass of champagne?”

With my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth like cotton batting, I reached for the glass, then pulled back when I saw the hand that stretched from me. Dark copper skin covered strong fingers. Beadwork trimmed a deerskin sleeve. A string of bear claws encircled my neck, hanging low on a tunic. I grabbed for the drink again and drained it quickly, nodding to the white-haired gentleman who held my elbow and looked with concern into my eyes.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you.”  My voice growled deep and rough. Familiar, yet unfamiliar.

What in God’s name is happening?

I shuffled toward a gold leaf mirror, afraid, yet hungry to learn more. A sharp angled face returned my gaze. High cheekbones. Long glossy black hair, falling well below my shoulders. Prominent nose. Straight, strong mouth. Eyes that bore into mine with iron grit.

With an excited breath, I stared at my reflection. God in Heaven. I’m a savage!

I turned. Pinched my arm. Real pain. I exhaled, fogging the mirror. Pride and strength flowed from my eyes.

I’d expected confusion.

“Everything okay, Red Cloud?”

With deliberately slow motions, as if I needed to concentrate on the words, I answered. “Of course, Senator.” Senator?

“Come. I wanted you to see the Monet we have on exhibit. It’s quite valuable.”

I jumped when he said my name out loud. Monet?

He led me past hordes of men in tuxedos and women draped in jewels and furs. With great ceremony, the Senator ushered me downstairs through a long narrow corridor into a room flanked by two guards who stood at attention with rifles on their shoulders.

“Here we are. It’s entitled ‘Sunset on the Seine, Winter Effect, circa 1880’.”

Circa 1880? It is precisely 1880. But I haven’t finished this yet.

My eyes locked on the canvas. Before me were the strokes I’d forced while I languished on the riverbank, praying for solace. Camille had given birth to my son, Michel, and shortly thereafter succumbed to cancer. Since her death a year ago, I’d been unable to paint. Unable to socialize. Unable to eat and barely able to breathe.

A horse-faced woman decorated in emeralds appeared around the corner. “Senator? Can you spare a moment?”

The Senator’s brow wrinkled. “One moment, please.”

The patrician touched my shoulder. “I’ll leave you with the Monet. Stay as long as you like, Chief.”

My eyes raked across the painting, taking in the bold orange of the sun’s reflections rippling on the water. The touch of green behind the trees. The pastels fogging the horizon. Pride swept through me.

***

Red Cloud

After resting, he rose and blew into his cold hands. The river had turned dark and unfriendly. Deep purple whirlpools threatened and bubbled with what could be none other than evil spirits. Lights flickered on the opposite shore. Cooking aromas drifted over the water, sending pangs of hunger through him. With a sudden shiver, he collected the paints, brushes, and easel, and was inexplicably drawn to the pink stucco house in the distance.

***

Antoine

When the Master came in the door and set his painting by the door, I sensed something amiss. I trotted from my bed near the fireplace and shoved my muzzle into his dangling hand. With a start, I backed up and growled.

He crouched and held a hand out to me. “Come, boy. It’s okay.”

Slowly, I crept toward his outstretched fingers. The scent of my master mixed with an unknown smell, that of wild prairie winds and open cooking fires. I wagged my tail, slowly at first. When my master’s hand touched my ear, I capitulated. He knew just how to scrub behind my ear where it itched. Wiggling all over now, I jumped up on him and licked his face.

“Whoa! Good boy, good dog. Get down, now.”

He picked up his painting and headed for the kitchen, from whence tantalizing smells had been tempting me all afternoon. The roast had been in the black pot, smothered in vegetables, and fresh bread baked in the Dutch oven. But something was still off—my master walked with a different gait than usual. Steady and calm, it reminded me of a wild cat padding on soft grass.

The Mistress—the new one—smiled over her shoulder at him. “Monsieur. I’ve fed the children and sent them to bed early. I know you need your quiet time after a long day of painting.”

The Master looked confused.

This woman, whom the Master called ‘Alice,’ was the mother of six young hooligans who played with me in the nearby fields and gardens, especially in the summertime. When the old Mistress passed a year ago, Alice moved in to help with the Master’s two boys. Eight children lived in our new home, and I loved each one.

The Mistress turned to my master with a frown. “Is something wrong?”

He set his still wet painting on the sideboard and dropped into a chair, rubbing his eyes. “No. Thank you. Just tired.”

She sat beside him and took his hand. Lately, her ministrations seemed more loving, and less sisterly. “My dear Claude.” She stroked the back of his hand and looked into his eyes. “How did it go?”

He stared at his painting, and refocused on her face. “Strange. I feel as if I’ve never been in this body before, as if I don’t know where or who I am. Yet, I was consumed by the river scene. The reflections on the water, glistening green behind the stark trees, the wavy silhouettes of the dark tree shadows…” His eyes gazed into the distance. I moved closer to him, nudging him with my snout.

She looked at the painting as if a lustrous silver angel perched on the shelf, blessing her with soft-feathered wings. “Oh, my.” She moved closer. “My dear man. You’re back.”

My tail thumped on the stone floor. Something wonderful had happened.

He looked at his hands. “I’m… not certain. Something’s wrong with me. Very wrong.”

“It will take time, Monsieur. The loss of our dear Camille will pain you for a long time. Perhaps your entire life.” Her voice cracked, swelling with emotion. “But look at what you’ve done!” She pointed to the painting, her eyes misting over.

He looked at her as if he didn’t understand, then sighed and pulled his chair up to the table. I drew close to him and lay my head on his lap. He stroked my ears with gentle hands. “Thank you. But now, let’s eat. That much I remember.”

***

Red Cloud

He woke in his own bed, a straw mat on the floor of his crude hut, covered in colorful woven blankets and serenaded by birdsongs. The thoughts that crossed his mind were instantaneous. I have returned!

Had the cold riverside been a dream guided by the spirits? Had Alice been real? And what about Antoine, the dog?

He stood and stretched, his long silky black hair tickling the bare skin on his back. Running a hand across his smooth chin, his lips spread in a wide grin. Yes. Only a dream. 

His hut perched a short distance away from the village, on a sandy stream bank, very unlike the river in his vision. The wide clear creek sparkled turquoise in the prairie sun, shallow in its deepest section and pure as spring rain. Orange, yellow, and red slate rippled beneath the water, reflecting the new day’s energy.

He stood over the water, drinking in the morning, and finally stripped and knelt on one knee to wash and quench his unbearable thirst. With eyes closed and hands cupped, he scooped cool fresh water into his mouth and over his face, hands, and body, scrubbing away the strangeness of the delusion. Letting the strong sun dry the droplets, he stood and examined his coppery skin.

With a start, he turned his hands over to stare. There, a patch of mint green. On his thumb, a smudge of vermillion. And on his wrist, streaks of pure white. He threw back his arms and raised them to the sky, asking the Great Spirit for understanding. A warm breeze stirred over the streambed, lifting his long hair from his shoulders. When he received no further counsel, he redressed and headed back to his campfire to cook quail eggs for breakfast, with a sudden strong urge rattling in his head.

Maybe I will get a dog.

***

Claude

I came awake at the breakfast table, surrounded by eight noisy children and Alice. While the exchange of my life with the Red Cloud was a puzzle, I knew it couldn’t have been a dream. I had suddenly reappeared chewing a bite of strawberry peach marmalade on a warm croissant, at my own table, in my own home. I sipped at my dark hot chocolate and beamed at my new extended family, who squabbled and stuffed their faces with equal enthusiasm.

The doubts I’d suffered over my ability to produce a worthwhile painting during the last year vanished. I’d seen my work hung in a fine home with guards protecting it. It had been revered, coveted.

On the sideboard, the river scene beckoned. I studied it, realizing the green behind the trees was too faint; the black of the riverboats needed emphasis. There was work yet to be done to match the version I’d seen hanging on the red satin walls of the Senator’s palatial home.

Alice smiled at me from the stove. A tingle ran through my previously dead body. Could she? Would she? Am I as attractive to her as the bastard who deserted her?

She rarely said an unkind word about the rogue, although my blood ran cold at the thought of him. Leaving six children and his wife behind to escape the hot flush of embarrassment due to bankruptcy…there could be no greater evil.

Alice approached me, slid a fresh hot croissant onto my plate, and her clear eyes connected with mine. We held the glance for a few luscious seconds, and in minutes I was filled with the urge to paint. To paint, to never stop, to splash gorgeous colors on canvas that mimicked and flattered reality. To paint for the memory of my Camille, of loves lost, and loves yet to flourish.

Ah, yes. I was back.

I thought of the Chief, and wondered in what year he’d been transported from the gilded halls of Washington, DC. Had it been next year? Twenty years in my future? How long would it take my work to be known and beloved?

With a mental bow, I gestured to his fine spirit, wishing him clear vision and a long life.

I pecked a surprised Alice on the cheek, squeezed and hugged my eight children, scrubbed behind Antoine’s ears and received an enthusiastic tongue bath in return, then grabbed my easel. The early morning light was fading, and I needed to catch it before it disappeared forever.