On the Way

He walked up the stairs as each wooden plank creaked and heaved under his boots. Behind him, a well-built man carried a big wooden box and a wooden stand. He seemed out of breath as he stopped on a step with a thud caused by the wooden box resting by his feet. The man in front of him halted and turned around.

"Come on! Bastian, we need to get there quickly."

Bastian responded with a heavy sigh and lifted the wooden box as he resumed his ascent. The man in front was a brilliant painter named Timothy Reeves. Since he was a teen, his father sent him to a prestigious art school. While in school he showed the potential that developed into a skill close to a master. He was amazed as he garnered envy from his fellow students so as his lecturers. His painting ranged from all forms elements and themes. His glossy oil paintings and detailed sketches communicated such expressed ideals in a masterful fashion. The school once held an annual competition in which every artist at every level participated. Timothy painted a simple scenery of a beach with a wide cloudy blue sky, golden sand and a pair of boots placed expertly in the painting. The visitors stood fascinated as they studied the art extensively. The painting won first place and captured the attention of an aristocrat who bought it for a sum of money. It was quite a sum that when done with school at the age of 21 he travelled the world. He visited the Ancient Hindu Temples in India and climbed the Himalayan mountains. The Caribbean islands browned his skin into a golden hue that revealed his wonderful time off. In every one of those locations, he would paint and sketch such images. He sends those art pieces back home. Even when resting he would paint and sketch to no avail until he was fatigued. He returned ready to attend to his duty as a portrait artist for the rich and powerful. He started out making splendid portraits of royalty and the upper middle class. Until recently he suffered a decrease in the quality of his works. He first did not worry too much until customers and fellow painters mentioned it to him. Immediately rumours and conversations of diminished talents flooded the streets. Others claim he has finally reached his limit and now will never be that great again. 'He was just a brief shining star in a winter's night and the sun has risen' was a passage in an article by a popular critic who mercilessly slandered his work and reputation. While the general public slowly forgot his name along with his presence in high society and in the art world. Reeves grew recluse and lost his confidence as he never again grabbed a paintbrush or stared at a blank. His time was spent in his library not reading but listening to music while lying on the settee. He will read books, nap or will haunt the empty hallways of his home. At night he will escape in the dark early mornings for a long walk. He passes drunk strangers and greets hard-working prostitutes.

One early morning on his lonely walk he was returning home. He was about to unlock his front door but looked behind him. Faraway on the horizon a dilapidated Victorian hill rested on a hill. At that moment he saw something that made him feel moved as if a teaspoon stirred a wide still lake. He spent the whole day thinking of that feeling while he lay on the settee. Without thinking he rose to switch off the recorder and called his servant. He finally reached the top floor. He walked between a doorframe supported by its own weight. He walked into a bedroom that was once one but remained a watered-down room with half of the wall and roof missing. Timothy immediately placed his small satchel and set up all his equipment in order. Bastian walked further into the room and prepared the aisle. When all the preparation was complete. Timothy turned towards his servant and asked for his departure. The servant hesitated for a moment left as he saw a look in his master's eyes. He stood facing the rested aisle in a still moment as the chilly wind blew and whirled under the starry dome. He waited like a poised monk for a sign to act like a warrior rushing into battle. The black was dimmed by a weak blue as a bright yellow crawled from below the hills. His paintbrush dipped into the palette as the first horn for battle echoed across the field. He first moved with a light unease as his movements were slow and uncertain. After a minute he dropped his brush by his side and took a gulp of air. AHHHHHH. His chest loosened in an instant and his mind became blank in a retarded rage. He began again as joints were once rusty and slowly moved with lucidity as the rust slowly cracked off. His arms curved and bent like a master of martial arts as they attacked the canvas in a quick and light fashion. His eyes darted between his canvas and the landscape. His legs stood still but slight tremors would shake his legs that travelled from his upper body. He could not understand this feeling that raged like an infectious virus. From his heart, it passed through his vessels and made it through his body and brain. His body felt weak from sensations of the world but violent energies from in and out of the pores of his body. He screamed in a maniac manner as if of a powerful tiger overpowering its greatest foe. The sun rose signalling a new morning to the waking folks. He was on his knees. The moment he gave his final stroke his body grew heavy with fatigue and his knees buckled. He took short shallow breaths as a tear wetted his left cheek. The painting rested in front of his master as a masterpiece.