Painter's Wish
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A tree. What a simple object of curiosty. Gray branches wreathing and forking in many directions from the center represented by a singular pillar of a rough organic mass. And on their endings, little green droplets vibrating in the breeze. A sighting which would definitely be enough for general painter. However, this particular young man wanted more.

"Oh my god, no, that's not right."

David was already looking at his canvas with an unfinished painting of an old oak tree for at least an hour which was certainly more than he wished for. And now the sky went darker and dull due to the rainclouds. That was the change of a composition, more precisely the change of the lighting.

"Whyyy!?"

He angrily raised up his head towards the sky. The local forecast was not kind to David. It will be raining for the rest of this day.

David did not belong to the sort of people who get mad easily but for quite long time now he was dissatisfied with perhaps every drawing, painting or sculpture he created. According to David, every single one of them was missing something. Something important. Perhaps, it's the feeling of looking in awe at a well made picture in a pawn shop located in an unknown narrow street. Or seeing a statue of an angel covered with moss and lichen in an old graveyard. It's the sensation of a magic conjuction between the location and the object of interest. David desired the talent to capture this connection within his works. But how to acquire such abillity?

Frustrated once again, he cleaned all brushes and put them with his palette back into his worn-out bag and with the canvas covered with a shabby rag under his arm, he left the park.

His next stop should be a small apartment where his familiar lived. Great uncle Augustýn was an old man, a great adventurer when he was young, anartist and a fearless student of an occult science, now left alone only with his old works, wisdom, red wine and a cigarette. David has borrowed a brush no. 23/0 from Augustýn. It was that one brush made from hog bristles which was the most effective when painting leaves of oaks, sycamores and alders.

Uncle Augustýn was sitting in his rocking chair near a small dusty window, smoking peacefully. David had keys to his apartment so his arrival was never noisy nor annoying to the old man's delight.

"Uncle, here is the brush. Cleaned and dried," said David without greeting as usual.

Agustýn knew about David's sorrow. Every second Sunday afternoon they met in a park and talked and talked, about life, about happiness, art, even about which spice goes the best with steamed kohlrabi. Simply anything.

"So?" Asked the elder, his voice gruff and straight. "How was the painting?"

"Same as usual, uncle."

There was that sad tone in David's words which old man's ears didn't miss.

For some time now, Augustýn's mind, slow due to an old age, had considered an idea which could help the young boy with his art problem. The solution could be found in the bizzare volumes on his wooden bookshelf. Although some people would consider it to be too dangerous, Augustýn came to a conclusion:

"David, fourteenth book from left in the second highest shelf."

"What is it?" David asked.

"In that book there you'll find something that will help you with the painting."

The young man stretched out his arm to reach for the volume. Its cover was red velvet and it smelled like autumnal leaves.

"But beware. The toll is not known until the end. I, myself, had already paid it." Augustýn coughed.

"Uncle? Are you sure it is safe?"

"No, it is not. It is a roulette. You can lose anything for obtaining what you wish for. It can be something important, like your leg or a part of your soul, or something trivial — your shirt or a tube of paint. Do you still intend to seek a way to better your work as you have dreamed for at least a whole year now?"

"Yes."

"Even under these treacherous conditions of losing something significant?"

"Yes! Uncle, I don't have anything except my own life. Say, can it kill me?"

"No. As far as I know, you cannot die because of it, same for the other people which you would consider calling your friends."

"So, I have nothing to lose."

"Take it then, David. But remember, you may have things which are dear to you and may not be even aware of it. Good luck and goodbye. I won't be here much longer, you know."

"Uncle, you're saying that every time we meet."

"I know. But it is drawing near. You don't even know how old I actually am, do you?" He smiled.

"I thought you are like seventy. No?"

"Seventy… I wish, boy, I wish… Now go and have a good night."

With those words uttered from Augustýn's lips, the young man left the apartment covering the antique volume under his coat and headed home. There, without even considering having a dinner, he proceeded to read useful information. Uncle Augustýn had never let him down in such situations.

After an hour of investigating in old yellowish pages, he found what he needed:

"So… I'm gonna need… a candle and… a cup of ink… 'kay, that shouldn't be a problem." He muttered for himself and after he finished the preparations, he seated himself in the chair behind the table and began the ritual.

The first step: Thinking about specific subject. However not as someone would assume the very thing he wished for but something totally different — two smooth stone tiles with magic symbols and common meadow-grass growing in a crack between them.

The second step: Repeating a magic formula. Similar to the first step, the spell was written not in some obscure ancient language of creatures long gone and forgotten but modern english — odd modern english:

"The destiny forms a cluesome trust, contemptive clutches beg in a howling peace."

The third step: While doing the previous two steps, one shall pour an ink onto a white candle and then lit it up. David was a painter, it was not a bother for him to smear the table, considering the perpetual mess all around his atelier. But it took a while for the flame to settle down on the inked wick.

According to the book, something should happen around this time. Though David couldn't feel anything that would remotely resemble what the book promised, so he went on to the last step.

The fourth one was meant to terminate the process. David was not sure if he should do as the instruction here said now or after the effect begins. Other information in the book regarding this topic were written exactly for things that should already come but they didn't. At least he tried, and as the manual dictated, he rang a bell. It was small decorative tinny bell which he succeeded to find at his place. And after a moment of waiting, nothing happened.

David sighed and tried it again. And again. Every time with the same result. So with a feeling of failure he let it be and went to do somethig else. However before sleep, he reminded himself of the ritual:

Imagine two old smooth stone tiles with grass between. There they were appearing from the darkness of closed eyes. David remembered the magic words and whispered them… just because:

"The destiny forms a cluesome trust, contemptive clutches beg in a howling peace."

He trembled as the freezing ink flooded his mind. He managed to raise and emerge his hand above the surface of that ink sea. Then he snapped his fingers resembling the sound of a lighter. David breathed out slowly and softly floated beyond the walls of dreams. There was some weak flickering light like a little flame in a midnight wind. The symptomatic sound was accompanying the sight. Suddenly, David registered that tips of his fingers were touching a smooth cold surface. The awakening into the dream was fluid, yet as tumultuous as small bubbles whirling in a glass of beer when pouring.

The visual resembled a small mildly-descending gorge of rectangular shape. David noticed stone bricks and blocks in various shapes covered in diverse symbols. He watched the lit candle slowly burning behind his head without even turning back. Simultaneously, he followed a path he instantly noticed it in a brief sight of his eye. It lead him in up and down, left and right as if the way itself was some sort of actively moving worm or a snake, till he reached its end.

There was a hole in a shape of forgotten desires from which a whisper could be heard but not understood. He was so close, just in a reach of a hand. He wanted it so much despite the scary looking opening in the wall full of an impenetrable shadow. Now, the rational part in his head manifested as other version of David but in a good looking cowboy hat and high boots and asked the dreamer a really simple but appropriate question:

"Are you sure this is a good idea? Do you trust every hole you meet in your dreams?"

But then the rational version answered itself: "Yeah, duh, it's just a dream. Go ahead."

And so, the young painter who desired unearthly talent in art reached his hand into the darkness. Going slow and deep. After his whole arm was inside, his middle finger touched a small item which David recognized as the small tinny bell after a short pause.

He rang it.

David woke up laying on his belly and with his head hanging down from the edge of the bed. It was early morning. David collected and found himself unusually blissful as after a really good meal. When he tried to recall dreams of this night he felt as something new accrued in his soul. And after a while of thinking he came to joyful conclusion that the spell in the book worked.

Like a person who got a gift for Christmas but knew what was inside and how to use it even before opening the box and really seeing how it looks, but just after getting the present in their hands and no before.

With this new learned reality he rushed out of his bed to the empty canvas in another room. Eagerly pouring water into a cup, picking the brushes, he felt the promised energy pulsating in his veins. Instinctively, he soaked the brush in the water, moistening the blue color and preparing to make a first move on a white surface. David positioned his right arm into the left corner of the canvas. However he didn't touch it and moved his hand a little lower instead. But he changed the mind in this step and moved into the center. Painter lingered in this pose for several heavy seconds. Putting the brush aside. And looked on his paints for a few minutes. He opened a book of art which was laying on a chair near him. Flipping through pages he recollected what Augustýn said yesterday:

"You can lose anything for obtaining what you wish for…"

He put the book back and took a handful of last year photos of nature. Little by little realising what he had just lost, he couldn't make himself paint anything. He had no idea what to draw nor what sculpture to mold. Nothing that came into his mind was not good enough. His skills so powerful yet so useless against this state of mind. God knows if it will come back but considering that he lost it by magic means, it won't last short. David heard a sad silence in his mind. When Augustýn said that David can lose something important without even knowing what is its cost, this was what he meant.

How to make art without any inspiration?

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