Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

The artist is still holding a sienna and titanium white brush in his hand, the specks of the rainbow covering his hands, as he gazes up at his gift. He has used his own mouth to clean the brushes and his lips are dyed an indeterminable gray. He has absent-mindedly moved strands of hair from his face, causing several streaks of red, blue and yellow butter yellow, as well as a few finger marks of green and blue on his cheeks. His pants, where he dried the brushes or wiped off excess paint, look like an abstract impressionist painting unto themselves. He is not pleased with the outcome, but does not know how to improve it. He stares at it, moves forward and touches up a line between the eternal night and the Chagall hills behind the gates, the stars are twinkling like child-hood crayon drawings but are supplemented with the shapes of fables, dancing cows, fiddling pigs, starving wolves, and spoons attacking saucers. The morning star, his birthright, is the brightest, and within it, a perfect satyr sits musing on the woman with delicious eyes.

He has done this as a gift for her, to make her happy. She was not home when he climbed through the window, nor was she when he returned two hours later. He wandered through her house, not touching a thing and laid in her bed for a while. Perhaps she would not notice him if he stayed there. Perhaps she would just think he was a ghost. He could sleep in her bed, beside her body. He would have to let her know that he was there though. Joseph could not allow her to not know. He would never touch her things; he just wanted to visit her from time to time. She would understand.

In the end, he got off the bed, and found the paint in her closet, probably for her designs, as the tubes were very small, he had used four blacks and three whites on his mural. He cleaned up so that there was no evidence of him, save the painting. He stepped out onto the ledge and went to sleep on the rooftops.

* * *

Elisa has decided to spend the morning on the roof of her building, still aching from the day before, the remnants of it still lingering, got to watch what she says, despite his subordination, pettiness, he’s still dangerous. The mural, simply appearing, from him… never knew he was aware of her home. A gift, she was surprised, a little concerned — how could she explain it? Elisa spent all night staring at it, running her fingers over the tacky surface, the brush strokes where he had touched, her portrait, probably his, and a third: a pixie, patron, medium, she wasn’t sure. He had been in her apartment, snuck in just like the Wolf, but for this and nothing else. She was grateful, only wished she had caught him, not gone with Vincent to the country, not wasted her time, she would have been home. She wandered her familiar flat, guessing where else he had been, in her bed, her wardrobe, her favorite chair, her studio… she’d say she commissioned it, try it out on Miss Hanley, keep it. Finally, Elisa had fallen asleep in her chair, after moving it in front of the painting, and not been revived until the following morning.

Perhaps she’d contact Arthur, give him an update… she has no information, he does not bring his briefcase anymore, there’s nothing in it ever anyways, just more paperwork, bureaucratic forms, field notes… he’s an investigator for Section 6 after all, not 9, women’s services. They have been quiet since the man went missing, no new operations, only a few spontaneous appearances, he’s not chanced coming around, running into Vincent. She doesn’t really miss it, a little more intriguing, inventive, but finally comes down to the same thing… one of them underneath the other, penetration of some orifice… she’s growing tired of the whole thing… she hasn’t made any progress with Vincent, knows nothing more than she did before.

She lets herself doze a little… her assistant will let her know if anything comes up — just can’t seem to concentrate on a book or be bothered with her designs, in limbo… just like him, still in her thoughts, although carefully, he knows when to hide. She feels that comforting commencement of sleep, just when consciousness gives way, thoughts trickle into abstractions, the eyes turn inward towards interpretations, memories, dreamscapes…

Shudders, flows back towards… jolted, eyes open, pale blue sky just starting to roast, some fear, resonance of it… invading her sleep, she heard something, sits up, concentrating on the sound of the city, distant traffic like water over sand, the noise of bodies and voices too far away collecting into a background buzz, darkly ascending into space, one noise, flexing towards it, hear it this time…

She reaches over for her two-way: “everything okay?” No response. “Maija? Everything okay?” Maybe she left it somewhere, off shopping or on the phone. Elisa stands up and throws on her robe.

Down the stairs with naked feet, smudges on the walls where housecleaners did too good of a job, three flights, the agitation growing, every set: “Maija, are you there?” No answer, she was just there, brought up a tray of juice and a few books, said something about organizing her files.

Elisa opens the fire door on her floor (only apartment on it) just as she’s being led out, the backs of two men in all black, helmets, vests, 9 in white lettering, she retreats for a second, stops, they’ve come… Maija already being led towards the elevator by two of them, four out in the hall, they’ve come, she can’t move — do they think she’s me? She can hear more inside her apartment, run, she can’t convince herself that its real, just sleeping, wake up, he’s turning slowly, they’ll see me, he sees me, looks concerned, reading her horror, she can’t move, slowly retreats back as he stomps towards her, he’s said her name, twice, he’s said her name specifically, fourth time, he’s moving quickly, she should get out, poor Maija, by association, should run, another one right after him, they’ll be on her in a second or two, she sees Maija at the elevator, waiting, her face hung down, weeping, she still steps back, turn and go, its unreal, they’ve finally come, Vincent, she collides with the wall, trips over her own back leg, they’re running, ceiling, hands on her, lifting her up, they’ve come, her heart is striking her ribcage — where will they take her? Elisa feels them lifting her, tries to struggle, barely hears them, what are they saying? Where are they taking her? She can’t say it, never fainted before, wake up at the facility, plead for Maija’s forgiveness, they’ve set her down, familiar, corduroy, feels like her couch, her eyes are open, he’s bent down, saying:

“… more information as we are informed by the department…” a captain, mustached, feels his breath on her face “…tried contact…” there are twenty or more of them, no chance of escape “…rebrand deemed necessary…” they’re combing the apartment “…Ms. Greene?” can see them in her studio, the bedroom, “…Maija Hanley, case no. 543-87-HAN3Y…” six of them surrounding her, on the couch, “…Action Request No. 90143, initiated by Section 6 investigation…” she rouses herself, sitting up, “…and documentation supporting violation of citizen regulations 8.7, 19.4, 65.3, 98.25, and 107.38…” Elisa cups her face in her hands, they’ve finally come, “…cooperation appreciated…” waiting for him to say the words, “…Ms. Greene?” they’ve finally come, “…can be quite frightening…” not much time left, “…apologize for the intrusion…” she lifts her head, looks him in the face, “Are you all right Ms. Greene?”

“No,” she trembles, pulls arms in close to her chest.

“These operations can be quite unsettling,” he places his hand on her knee as if comforting her. “Just relax…”

“What happens next?” barely whispering, fortifying herself…