The Final Tale of Andrew Lahr | Part 3 | Read It For Free Today
- Adrian Vladimir
- Oct 26, 2023
- 6 min read
THE FINAL TALE OF ANDREW LAHR
Copyright 2023 by Adrian Vladimir
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system of any kind, without prior written permission of the author.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I'd like to thank the authors and editors who helped me bring this story to life: Stacey Longo, David Daniel, Ursula Wong, and Rob Smales. Most of all, I'd like to thank my wife, Jordana, who never complains no matter how many times she has to go over a manuscript with her savage red pen.
THREE
The significance of the amulet was not immediately apparent. Indeed, it was many months before I discovered its use. The excitement of my inheritance and my uncle’s love for me had ebbed by then, and my tales remained hollow.
I burned them.
I traveled to Boston, seeking a change from the crumbling old halls of my home. I had taken to wearing the amulet around my neck, believing I would discover its value eventually. Chance played a part in my revelation.
Or was it more than chance?
Having indulged in several drams of absinthe, my mind was pleasantly warmed as I wandered the misty streets of the city night, until a scene through a window caught my eye.
A woman stood before a canvas in a modest room, her paintbrush dipping and stroking, blending magic into form. She was enrapt, never perceiving that I loomed outside behind her. She wove the darkest blues of a mountaintop beneath a full moon, a young girl striving to ascend the peak with a torch in hand, flames writhing in the wind, her nightgown scant protection against the onslaught, bare feet bloodied from the rocky climb.
The girl had not yet glimpsed the vast and treacherous darkness beyond the crest, but her eyes were bright and her face so relentless my heart wept to see this visage on one so young. I smelled the pitch from her torch, felt the cold wind across her skin, felt stones bite her feet. There was a sad honesty about the painting, about this youthful girl so determined to peer beyond the light, despite what she might see.
Or not see.
What an artist this painter was! This woman in a poor and shriveled part of the city possessing talent seldom seen, the light of her imagination veiled by the limits of her station and her sex … yet for a moment she blazed like a pyre on a hilltop.
I was so entranced by the beauty of her work and driven by a deep desire to possess her mastery, that I did not immediately feel the amulet growing warm against my chest. I peered down, shocked: a yellow glow was burning through the threads of my coat. Then the rumbling of a steam locomotive vibrated through my bones, tickling my body.
The painter’s brush tumbled from her hand, and she sank to her knees as if the breath had been punched from her lungs. I clutched my chest, nearly crying out, but a vision overcame me. I fled from her window, shocked with fright and glee and returned to my hotel. In the safety of my room, I removed the amulet and beheld it with awe, for within its modest center of glass now floated a tiny mote of light, like a firefly trapped in ice.
In a burst of brilliance, I penned “The Moonlit Girl” before imagination could escape me. I read the draft of my tale as the morning sun crested the eastern horizon with a growing sense of pride, for in the nuances between my words, I perceived, at last, talent!
~ ~ * * ~ ~
I thought about the painter in the weeks thereafter, agonizing over her well-being. Guilt consumed me, for the torture of impotent creation was an all-too-familiar feeling. I couldn’t sleep and did not consume much food or drink.
Had she recovered from my secret theft? Who was she? Most of all, had she finished her most astounding work?
She faded from my memory shortly after submitting “The Moonlit Girl,” for I received a generous offer for publication in the most prestigious Old Story Literati. They loved my tale so much I received a personal letter, albeit short, from the owner himself, expediting payment as he was in search of a leading story, and sought to publish my tale immediately.
I rejoiced, visiting my uncle’s favorite place—the henge whose stone monuments were etched with markings he had meant to translate for me one day. The monument aligned to the summer solstice—my uncle’s birthday—was his favorite. I carried on deep into the night, telling my tales to the shadows and paying him his due respect with whiskey.
Pride and greed are bedfellows that cover the stains of impropriety with soiled sheets, but soon I received letters … from readers, no less! A few enterprising souls had determined that I resided in Monson, writing to tell me of their love for “The Moonlit Girl.”
This news brought no little ecstasy, and the painter slipped from my mind.
A private invitation arrived, requesting me to pen a tale for another most prestigious magazine. I set to work with a fury. For long nights I toiled, and when I set my pen aside and read my tale, my heart fell. I tried again, but the result was an even quicker step toward mediocrity. I knew then what I must do and set out at once.
The streets of Boston turned up no worthy soul, and I despaired; I knew then that chance had favored me with the discovery of the painter. I sat within a café, brooding over a tasteless brew of coffee, when the tittering of two ladies caught my ear. I rose suddenly and apologized for startling them.
“This poet you speak of, are his words truly divine?” I asked.
They assured me they were, and as we discussed the merits of his craft, one lady took it upon herself to recite a passage that I found most intriguing: “I toiled long ’til weary, my heart upon my brow. My soul the sea unyielding. My pen a broken crown.”
I rather liked this passage, and soon determined this poet lived in the fishing region of Cumberland. I thanked them profusely and left as if pursued by the hounds of hell.
The poet was a seafarer, so I was forced to bide my time in Cumberland, a pungent backwater yearning to become a city. The man emerged from the azure at last, broad-shouldered, his rough hands scarred by knife and net. He possessed an unrelenting hardness in manner and movement, and I must admit I found him intimidating.
It took several drinks in a local pub and much cajoling before he admitted that he was, in fact, the man I sought. I bought him another and another, and through our conversation learned that he believed his creativity was born from the waves, and that he only scribed his words once ashore.
I kept my distance thereafter, stalking him through the salted streets of Cumberland, until he stole away to a distant bluff overlooking the mighty Atlantic. I crept up behind him through the grass as he sat upon a rock, summoning his visions forth to paper. My footsteps were masked by the crashing of the waves below. I thought of only him and his greatness … and how I yearned to possess them.
The amulet warmed against my chest. The very world seemed to vibrate as it had before. The poet bent over his paper, scribbling madly; a divine heat flowed through me and into the amulet, and the poet dropped his pen before he tumbled off the rock to the ground.
Another vision overtook me!
I am unworthy of salvation. I am vile and deserve punishment. I know this now all too well, but right then, with the fires of imagination burning in my mind, I could not resist the cursed grin that spread across my face. At that moment I knew joy. I trembled, peering into the amulet, for another mote of light had joined the first, as azure as the sea.
I had become a hunter.
I fled to the pub, where I frantically created my next great tale: “Lost in the Mariner’s Eye.” I left Cumberland at dawn, much relieved to see the poet shuffling down the walk. He seemed perplexed and distraught, but none the worse for wear. My heart lifted at this revelation; my guilt had been misplaced all along!
Andrew has become a hunter of imaginations, and he's about to meet the greatest of them all in The Final Tale of Andrew Lahr - Part 4!
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