Frederick, an artist, attempts to escape the memory of his wife’s tragic death by moving to the mountain village of Halo. There he transforms a century old barn into a gallery and studio. He resumes painting, only now, all of the female images he creates are in the likeness of his departed wife. One rendering having an overwhelming resemblance to her is of a half-human lioness.

He pays little attention to stories of slaughtered animals and livestock, until on a hot summer night, while sleeping outside on the front stoop, he awakens to find himself face to face with the beast of his painting, and he soon discovers the tie binding them together is far stronger than mere paint and canvas.

Introduction

‘The Familiar’ is a variation of the beauty and the beast theme. The characters created for this story are designed to awaken the reader to the similarities in otherwise unrelated events we sometimes encounter on our life journey. One such occurrence took place in my youth.

Even from my earliest memories, my father had always been sickly. He had a friend whose hair was snow white, and I remember him saying on several occasions that he hoped his hair would turn the same color before he passed on. His hope was never realized.

On September 1, 1963, nineteen days before his birthday, my father passed away after a long struggle with cancer and heart disease. I was eleven years old and devastated. In late November, my mother encountered a person that bred Chihuahua’s. Looking over a recent litter, it was love at first sight, and managing to scrape together the money, several weeks later she bought one. The puppy she chose, we discovered, was born pure white on September nineteenth, my father’s birthday, and for many years thereafter, served as her protector and loyal companion.

Reincarnation or coincidence? On whatever side of the discussion one finds oneself, it is difficult to ignore the relationships between some of the episodes of the human experience. Such is the inspiration behind this story. In addition to being a variation of the beauty and the beast theme, ‘The Familiar’ is an experiment in role reversal, for in this story, beauty is the beast.Regards,
H. J. Courtright

The Loft

Rays of dawn scatter and diffuse through a prevailing shroud of humidity as the sun breaks free of the horizon. Shadows soft and undefined obscure contours of the modest skyline as another day flush with oppressive summer heat is borne unto the isolated streets of Halo.

Amid the solitude of the Green Mountains the lonely village has only ski resorts to sustain a precarious seasonal existence. Many residents, themselves seasonal, return only when conditions are prime to carry on with the business of winter trade. The rest hold fast to their homes having nowhere to run from torrid August heat that carves a valley into the soul as deep as by any frigid winter. The thirteenth day of this month will mark the founding of the village one hundred years past. The day will expire without a hint of remembrance, for nostalgia is dead, decimated by those who carry on, desecrated by each rusty nail, rotted beam, creaky floorboard, untended grave. No one remains who recalls tales of how street lamps, automobiles, and running water finally came to Halo. No one remains to recall tales of when the last corner stone was laid, when the last shingle was fixed in place, or when the last door was hung. No one remains to recall that the barn at the end of Main Street is the loyal sentinel of a forgotten age. Disturbed only by the occasional footsteps of curious children, it is largely forsaken, yet is the single most structure in Halo with the distinction of changing the least in one hundred years and the most in less than one. Frederick shudders, awakened by a sudden chill. His shirt, laden with perspiration, slowly peels from the rigid slats of the Adirondack chair as he leans forward. The leading edge of the seat stabs hard into the back of his knees and fierce tingling from lost circulation quickly mounts. As the feeling wanes, he rises to a throbbing, uncomfortable stance, and stretches the remaining stiffness from dormant muscles. Rubbing his forehead, he restores a measure of life into his drawn, weary features. Sweat old and new rolls onto his fingertips briefly freeing him from the discomfort destined to return with the heat of the new day. The jagged wound of his left forefinger, a cut inflicted by the rippled edge of a can of shredded beef opened last evening, stings from the salt of his perspiration. The pangs of morning hunger are severed by the vivid memory of the meager meal that lingers upon his lips as unsavory grease and steely taste of a fork. Gazing into the hazy sunrise, he sees the heaviness of sultry air already settling among the mountain peaks, and for the third day Halo will not be measured by the blessing of solitude, but, by the curse of oppressive heat. Besieged by the second evening thunderstorm in as many days, the village is again purified, as seen through the newness of pavement, sidewalks, and dull glow of a once dusty old Buick, though the deluge has failed in straining the persistent humid thickness from the air. Last evening, Halo was plunged into darkness as on other nights, in other storms, and he was again forbid a fan to stir and churn the fumes of paint and thinner. On such nights his hand is guided by soft candlelight, though the candles, pliable from insufferable heat, dwindle quickly to muted puddles with charred blackened stems. He cries in a silent lament at resuming work in a studio with no relief from idle sweltering air. He walks to the corner of the building nearest the forest where the ground falls away in a twenty-foot drop to a shifting base of shale and dirt. The debris of the slope tapers toward the forest in full sweeping reach of brush, bramble, and cellar door. Now, as on that first day, he feels the weight of a foreign gaze examining his moves. It feeds his fears and mocks his loneliness. It is a gaze which has no face, no name, and enslaves him within the most unsurmountable of all prisons, himself. He looks back across the front stoop and recalls the first time he set foot upon the sun bleached floorboards branded by nails brittle with rust. The aged boards are gone, replaced by new ones yet untainted by the scars of time. An overhang still shades the building’s entire front, and he recalls the delivery of the first vibrant shake to a supporting pillar, and how it awakened boards loosened by weather and rot. The mournful creak broke the stillness as a desperate plea for restoration that lived beyond when the light rain of debris finally settled. He recalls stepping to the carriage door and pondering over why a grand entrance for horse and carriage would be reduced to a ragged discard. Carefully, he squeezed through the narrow opening between the two large door panels held in precarious balance by tattered hinges. Inside, the remnant of a carriage lay as silent reminder to when dirt roads yielded beneath wooden wheels and nervous hooves. A rotted spoked wheel lay propped against the wall in abandoned harmony adjacent to dried strips of reins and artifacts of sickle and pitchfork. The heavy acrid scent of mouldy hay wafted down from the loft, the altar upon which the structure pleaded for rescue from the grasp of rot and disuse. A ladder served as sole link from where his gallery now stands to where the black widow once lived and hunted. He walks to the single glass door of the gallery standing between the large display windows that span the breadth of the building. As he passes through the main entrance, the doorbell tinkles, awakening the forest of painted canvases to the arrival of its creator. Crossing the threshold into his world, he beholds the morning light shining loudly onto the yellow-orange mirror of hardwood flooring. The luminance shouts throughout the wilderness of paintings that rest so prominently upon their display easels, dwarfed only by the simplicity of windowless side walls and the symmetry of art placed upon them. He takes pause in the grandeur of the gallery and how it seems to glow with inner light. At the right, along the north wall, is a polished wooden banister, handrail to the sweeping staircase connecting gallery to studio, where unfinished canvases and sketches faded by time, nonconforming to reason or structure, stand where they are cast. It is the studio where one dimensional white is transformed to hues of depth, form, and grace, where random thoughts unify, blend, and contort, where reality ends and all other things begin. However, of late, he has neglected his work in lieu of a project that will bring him neither fame nor money. Such as words or musical notes are composed for generations to ponder, delight and savor, he, as artist, bound to the curse of inspiration, has been driven to create a most wondrous thing. He stands in the doorway looking upward into the studio straining to see images upon the west wall with eyes that have weakened before their time. A blurry forest skyline is all to be seen from here, but, closing his eyes, he sees the clear lasting vision fixed firmly in his imagination, the story board of his mind and soul, the mural. The contrasts between light and dark, good and evil, reality and illusion are set deep within the fibers of the cedar panels. Two mountain peaks comprising the left background are sentinels that guard the horizon so no one may enter, so not even he may leave. They are insurmountable, unmoveable, unknowable, drowned by the endless tears of rain that strain through the darkened clouds of his loneliness and sorrow. A waterfall flows from where the peaks converge, falling as a sheer misty curtain, giving life to a flowering grassland that is the foundation of his utopia. Amid the void of sky between the mountains and murals edge, winged horses are suspended in a myriad of stances. They are guardians of his creative prowess. They are his endurance, his motivation, his only strength. Further right, a medieval castle looms high above a rocky shore where, in the tower window, a forsaken princess gazes across a savage sea of memories in wait for her shining prince, as he, Frederick, waits for one who can never return. Far below, perched atop the jagged rocks, a mermaid combs her hair in long sensuous strokes, and with each pass strains away his lasting peace. Briny surges churn and crash wetting her in tears of ocean spray, gathered droplets that conjure restless dreams of hate and hopelessness, only to be washed down the rocky face and consumed by the vengeful sea.
Imbedded within the foreground of the left are serpentine vines entwined in an eerie maze of light and dark. Deep in the forest of pine and oak, partially obscured in shadow, the figure of a lioness gazes outward with eyes that span the void between rendering and reality. The visage touches him with loneliness that severs his soul, contorts his heart with love and lust, and confines him within his prison of fear. He walks through the forest of finished works, ascends the stairway to the loft, and stands before the image of the lioness. Her countenance is of the untamed beast, her rendered stare, the eyes that he perceives to follow him as he leaves and enters the gallery. Her long flowing mane falls across her shoulders and along her womanly form arousing faraway memories of a time when virgin hearts merged to one, a time when his face lay gently upon a naked breast and the love shared with another caused creation to kneel at their feet. But this image, conceived as solace, causes only incurable loneliness, and stands as the reason he will never venture beyond the safety of his self-made boundaries. In the far left corner, a hunter is cast into the primeval existence of the hunt. With steady, unblinking eyes, he watches the lioness, waiting for the moment to bring forth his weapon in taking down the elusive quarry. He is the essence of the forest, his weathered countenance carved by the blade of the wild. Frederick turns away from his artful achievement to sip the remains of cold black coffee. The taste is stark, strong, forcing him to re-examine the work in a fresh gaze. Driven through purpose undefined, unknowable, he chooses to extract the visage of the lioness he has cast upon the cedar panel and render it to the canvas. Crossing the studio to consider the dimensions the portrait will take, he stands among frames stacked in lazy columns along the wall. The choice made, he returns to the easel to prime the canvas for the articulate stroke of the brush. Sitting upon the simple stool of wood, he contemplates, formulates in his mind how the first strokes will be, and by reflex switches on the light that hangs loosely overhead from the end an age stiffened cord. The studio washes in momentary brilliance and in the same instant he is thankful that sometime in the night, the electric was restored. Slave to his aspiration, he embarks upon the arduous journey of rendering a new image. Studying a vision of his subject in the forefront of his thoughts, the brush is dabbed into the primary colour of the palette, the stroke of silken hue is delivered onto the canvas, and in the same moment he is interrupted with the tinkle of the doorbell. The spell of inspiration dampened, he peers over the studio handrail. “Good morning, Rankin,” he called flatly, mildly aggravated by the intrusion. “Mornin’, Mr. Frederick,” Rankin replied, in the respectful way he addressed everyone, “hope I didn’t disturb ya.” “Nonsense, Rankin, come up,” Frederick assured the hunter, annoyed at the disruption, but gaining nothing in displaying displeasure at the kindhearted man. Rankin steps across the threshold into the gallery neatly propping his crossbow and quiver by the umbrella stand. As a doe to its fawn, he never strays far from the high-powered weapon fashioned from the leaf of an old buckboard spring and stock of an otherwise useless shotgun. It is his strength, his endurance, and arrows that issue forth are his blood. A legend to the locals, he is said to be capable of trailing his prey across barren land on a frigid wind blown night. By his own account he has spent a lifetime in the wilderness, adding credence to the belief that he and the forest are one. His red plaid hat and jacket are in sharp contrast to the pristine appearance of the gallery, and as he ascends the long sweeping stairway to the studio, Frederick ponders why the man, known also through his good deeds, is referred to only by his last name. In slow deliberate strides Rankin pauses upon the upper landing casting a surveying glance about the studio, then approaches the easel to where the artist is working. “Bin quite a time since last I bin here in the loft, Mr. Frederick. As I r’member, I was givin’ help floorin’ and railin’, didn’t know ya painted the west wall as such,” and catching sight of the lioness, he hesitates, bringing an uneasy pause to his manner. “What can I do for you, Rankin?” the artist asked, turning toward the hunter to address the abrupt stillness, giving little credence to the man’s fascination with the mural. He takes a mental assessment of bramble torn trousers, jacket, and hat, and the hunter’s deep set wrinkles to that of the painting, and silently admits to not yet having mastered imitating his power upon the canvas. “Mr. Frederick, some time now, I bin seein’ strange tracks,” the hunter began, as he continued to examine the mural. “Probably some animal that came down from the higher ups, it’s of no concern to me,” the artist replied, returning his attention to the palette and foundation coat upon the canvas, “anything the matter?” “Past spring, found a buck up passed Harper’s Glade, throat crushed, neck broke, heart ripped out. Every couple o’ weeks bin findin’ some such animal thet met the same fate. Mr. Johnny had a prize heffer killed t’other day. Wh’tever it is gotta bite ‘bout tha same as a man, ‘n I ‘magine ten times tha disposition to take down nigh unto ton o’ beef,” and the hunter withdraws his uneasy gaze from the mural. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.” “‘T only comes out at night. Bin trackin’ it nigh onto four months. I can tell tales that’d make people think I’m crazy, cuz wh’t’s out there ain’t like nothin’ nobody’s ever seen. Ain’t no hero, guess that makes me a fool. Ain’t like you ‘n most others that bin ‘ere only a handful o’ years. Well, kids and grandkids come back for a time, but anyhow, it’s summer now ‘n some nights ya sit out on yer stoop. Jest neighborly advice, need ta be careful is’ll.” His gaze returns to the mural. “Thanks, Rankin, but I really don’t think there is anything to worry about.” “Like I said, jest neighborly advice, ‘specially didn’t want that tore up heffer ta play on yer mind, means wh’tever it is has a taste for livestock, a man can be next.” “Real fine likeness of me, Mr. Frederick, makes a man proud to be in one o’ yer pitchers,” then withdrawing his gaze from the mural a second time, poses the question, “by the way, where ya git the idea fer that lion?” “I just had a few ideas I wanted to work on, and then the inspiration hit. I’m the fool. I spent three weeks working this mural when I should have been working the canvas. You know, things I can sell when the season starts up. What do you think?” “I best not say, Mr. Frederick, I best not say,” and with no further exchange, he descends the loft stairway, gathers his quiver and crossbow, and exits the gallery. Frederick delivers a thoughtful sigh as the hunter’s steps track to the edge of the stoop. Gazing upon the image of the lioness, he ponders why he first put the concept to the brush, and quickly pushing the thought away, directs his attention toward his new work.