Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [27]
The cultist regarded him acutely. “And where would an island boy get hold of a coin like that?”
“It was given to me once by one of your lot,” Randur explained. “Said her name was Papus.”
“She’s not,” the man replied firmly, “one of my lot, as you put it.” Something about the way he said it suggested that these cultists weren’t so much the close bunch everyone made out.
“You’re not a cultist, then?” Randur inquired.
“Oh, yes, but she isn’t a part of my sect.” He took another bite.
“Right.” Randur stretched his hand forward to take back the coin.
The cultist stared at his recent wound. “Been in a fight?”
“Wasn’t my choice,” Randur muttered, bringing his arm off the table.
“Country boy ought to watch himself in this city,” the cultist said.
“I can look after myself.”
“Everyone says that. But, no one really can. What’s your name, kid?”
“Randur Estevu.”
“Well, Randur Estevu, I’ll tell you something for free.” The cultist rose from his seat. “There’s a temple at the end of this road with a double door made of quercus wood. Knock hard on that, show them your little coin, and you may find you’re in luck.”
Randur stood up, offered his hand to shake. “Thanks, um … Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell you.” The cultist slung on his cloak and stepped out of the bistro.
With a free hour ahead, her last appointment having not shown up, Tuya sat down to paint. Inspired by the current mood of the city, she was starting afresh. She wanted to paint something fantastical that spoke about the people of the city feeling trapped in their homes. Perhaps she would paint a caged bird of sorts.
She was wearing no clothes because, that way, there would be nothing to spill paint on except her unprotected skin. Similarly, she pinned her thick red hair up. Sitting herself on a stool, she tilted the easel so that she could look out of her window, across the architecture of the city, and she carefully noted the spires, the bridges, the pterodettes arcing across the sky. Water fizzed off the rooftops and suddenly the bell tower rang. She felt serene—all these pieces of the city coming together in a comforting collusion.
She applied blue paste to the small canvas using a knife and a wide brush. The paint was her own concoction. Using local pigments, she blended this paste with an ingredient that only she knew of—in Villjamur, at least. A cultist had given the secret to her before he died, having been a client of hers, when he fancied someone normal. The substance was grainy, opaque, and he had instructed her carefully on its qualities as rare as any other ancient relic the cultists used, perhaps originally ground by the Dawnir themselves. Or so the myth went. And myths went rather further than they should have in Villjamur.
From time to time she closed her eyes, let the cold breeze tickle against her body until it aroused her again. She concentrated hard, took her mind away from what she was drawing in order to perceive it in a different way. Life was all about perception, and art was important to her. Maybe it wasn’t to the people who walked past her window or used her sexually, but for her the least chance to express herself became simply wondrous.
The creature she envisaged began to take form.
It was something like a pterodette—same scales and batlike wings—but it possessed a noticeably mammalian body. It was blue simply because that was the pigment she had chosen today. Though it stood no higher than a child, she’d built a strong musculature into its physique, so much so that it could probably break down a door.
It wasn’t until the bell had struck again that she felt satisfied that she had finished for the moment. It wasn’t meant to be precise yet, but would eventually take true form.
She stood up from her stool, stepped closer to the window. Sunlight was reflecting wildly off the astronomer’s glass tower.
Turning, with the breeze at her back, she regarded her painting again. It was definitely coming to life. The blue creature was almost pulsing, as if drawing real