Senex Pictura, Senex Somniun
Written for Gil.
"There, finally, they lived together happily, united in the present as they had been in the past; but they never forgot their island, an island to which they had come bereft and naked, an island that for four years had met their every need, an island of which there now remained only a small slab of granite lashed by the Pacific waves..."
~The Mysterious Island, page 629
In the middle of a large, rolling space of land, covered with small, gentle hills and wide fields, surrounded on one side by a vast forest and on another by a deep lake, and built partly in the shadow of a high purple mountain, there was a tall house made of stone.
It had many rooms and many windows, and creepers and ivy climbed up the walls and snaked in through all the openings they could find. Inside, it was filled with the odds and ends men and women are somehow prone to put in their living spaces; little things that claim a house as one's own. There were pictures on the walls, although they varied dramatically, and furniture scattered about, although this tended more toward matching, and there were peculiar bibelots placed either with utmost precision or utmost carelessness upon the hall tables and the mantels. But most particularly, there was an attic in the house.
The attic was dark and small; stifling in the summer and frigid in the winter; full of clots of dust that gathered and hung from the ceiling beams like Spanish moss. In the corners, things were piled high and had fallen over, boxes spilling their contents across the floor and books rotting or being eaten away by silverfish. It must be said that the owners were only meticulous with the possessions on display in the used part of their house, and not always with those, and thusly, their attic was a scene of disrepair and clutter. The dust that had settled over everything made a thick, furry coating and it was easy to make out disturbances.
There was only one. To the right of the trapdoor in the floor that marked the entryway, there was a square impression where something had been recently removed. There were footprints in the dust, and a smear near the trapdoor where someone had pulled himself out on his arms.
The attic did not seem to notice that it had had a part of it stolen away. Likely it would never notice. It would simply cover up the empty spot with another fallen stack or a heavy coat of dust, and all would remain as it had for years.
As to the box which had been removed, however--for that, a far less peaceful fate was in store. At the moment this story takes place it was being ruthlessly pillaged by two men named Cyrus Smith and Gideon Spilett.
~~~
"The devil! What made you want to get this out of the attic?" asked Gideon, sneezing violently and fetching the handkerchief out of his pocket with an air of long-suffering.
"Surely you know that, my friend." Cyrus removed another large book from the box, and let out a soft sound of triumph as he found what he was looking for. "Here they are!" He was holding a thick sheaf of papers, and as he moved them, the silverfish dropped out from between the sheets and moths fluttered out of the box.
"Are they intact?" Gideon asked with some impatience.
"In good condition, considering the years it must have been since they were packed away." Now Cyrus was carefully thumbing through them. "Very little damage from the insects." A brief smile crossed his face. "He signed them all."
"May I see?"
"Here. This is the first."
Gideon took the wide paper that had been offered him, and looked silently at the charcoal drawing.
The picture was of a man lying in the sand. His clothes were rumpled and his eyes closed, and he looked thin and ill. It was a dark picture, and around him were some sort of walls, drawn with creases and corners. Kneeling beside him were three other men and a boy, and one of the men was further forward than the others. His head was lifted, while his hand was resting on the fallen man's shoulder, and he was evidentally telling something to the others.
A pause, and Gideon shook his head. "A fine talent. I am surprised he remembered so well."
"Ah, Gideon, you have forgotten; his memory was always admirable," said Cyrus gently. "As was his talent. I believe that last week, we buried a fellow without whom the world shall certainly be poorer. Dear Neb! How good it is that we have found his pictures. At least we can remember as well as he did, with them. But you must forgive me, my friend. Of course, I do not recollect the one you have, but I am sure you do."
"Yes, of course. That is me, telling the others that you are alive. The boy is Harbert, the black man with the anxious face Neb, and that leaves it clear that the remaining fellow is Pencroff. His ridiculous hat confirms it. But Neb has forgotten Top."
"Not so," Cyrus declared, and he pointed to the corner of the picture, where the dog's small head poked out, turned attentively to his master.
"You're right! Foolish of me. I should have known better than to presume Neb had forgotten anything." Gideon smiled. "Yes. The picture makes me remember well. I was quite frightened."
"You, frightened? You, who have written your articles and stories in the midst of battle, with the bullets flying all about you and men dying at your feet, and never flinched?" A smile was also playing on Cyrus' lips, although he was making a valiant effort not to be amused.
"I admit it without concern," said Gideon. "Should I not have been frightened? Tell me, my dear Cyrus, if you had found any of our admirable companions lying silently on the sand, would you not have been frightened? I thought you dead, although I never said as much to myself. I likely believed I could pretend it was untrue if I never said the words, and that seemed to me the only thing to do. One tends to fool oneself that way.
"But I was frightened. I must have been shaking, as I remember very well that my hands were clumsy and I kept getting my fingers tangled in your shirt. And your body was so cold! I must say, I've seen enough men die to know the pallour and the coldness of death, and you certainly seemed it. Poor Neb! He was so realistic and cynical at times, and he was convinced you had already died, and saw no reason to pretend anything, as I was.
"At any rate, I folded back your shirt and listened for your heartbeat. It was terribly difficult to hear, Cyrus, and it really did seem impossible to deny your death." Here Gideon paused.
"Indeed?" Cyrus' white eyebrows went up. "And why didn't you bury me then and there, if it seemed so impossible to deny?"
"Well, of course, that was when I heard your heartbeat."
"And then you turned to the others?"
"Yes."
"And stated calmly that I was alive."
"So I did, though I wanted to shout it. I am sure when Neb truly believed it, he would have turned somersaults, if he were not so exhausted. You shocked us all with your ability to pull through the most incredible of situations."
"You are forgetting our protector."
"That I am. You are quite right. Even so, it was certainly more than half a miracle, and we had such luck. Such luck, Cyrus..."
"Luck which we still have, my dear friend." Cyrus took Gideon's hand and pressed it. "Here, take the next one."
This drawing was of a fire, around which all five men from the first picture were standing. Pencroff held a large dead something in one hand and a staff in the other, and Harbert, also with a staff, was gazing up at the figure of Cyrus, now well and on his feet. Neb, lanky and oddly lithe, was leaning back on the rock of a cave wall, smiling, and Gideon was looking proudly at the fire.
Cyrus laughed lightly. "I, too, remember this one. The fire I built with the crystals of our watches."
"Pencroff's face when he saw it...! Ah, and see how short Harbert is. Why, he hardly comes to your shoulder."
"And now he towers over me. Yes, yes, Gideon, there's no need to remind me. Shameless boy. Pencroff would like this one, however; we should put it aside for him."
"Of course."
"It was the first warm night, and we had that rodent of Pencroff's roasted. By Neb, of course--who else would have been entrusted with it?"
"Certainly not me."
"No, not you," said Cyrus warmly. Nevertheless, it was with a bit of a sigh that he took the next picture off the top of the pile. "Ah. This is only a view of Lake Grant. The next five are all of places we named. The seventh is of the pottery kiln, and the eighth and ninth are of bird colonies. The tenth--is Top."
"One way of putting it," Gideon said, looking wryly at the picture he held. It was the five of them again, staring in astonishment at Top, who was upside-down and in midair. The second-most noticeable thing was Pencroff's staff, held over his head like a club that he planned to bring down on whatever had flung Top into the air. "Good heavens. Pencroff looks quite mad. We ought to set that one aside for him, too."
"We shall."
"But that one--that is Granite House."
"Yes," Cyrus nodded. "The first Granite House, and as we first saw it."
"It looks remarkably barren."
"It looks cold."
"Certainly it does. It was cold. I recall quite clearly that there were drops of water falling down my neck. We stopped in some small cavern and I asked you why we had, as we certainly couldn't live there, and you let Pencroff argue with me for a bit and then moved us on without ever giving me an answer. Why did you?"
"Oh, my dear Gideon! I wanted to see all of it! A cave is both magic and science, and the engineer in me was as desirous of stopping as was the dreamer I have tried to crush all these years, and I couldn't resist them both. A man could hardly resist all of himself."
"Surely you are made of more than an engineer and a dreamer."
"You expect more of me than I have, Gideon."
"I've never done such a thing in my life. Show me the next."
Cyrus reached for it, and immediately stopped. "Merciful heavens..." he whispered, touching the surface lightly.
"What on earth is it?" Gideon demanded. "What has he drawn?"
"Only us, my friend. Only us."
Gideon took the picture somewhat impatiently. "That doesn't sound dreadful, Cyrus--Oh, now I see." He remained unfazed as he gazed at the picture interestedly. "I wonder when he drew that one." The charcoal of the picture was slightly smeared, but the lines were still quite clear, and it was easy to make out the drawn Cyrus standing at the end of Longview Plateau and the drawn Gideon Spilett, with one hand resting on his arm, kissing his hair. They both looked windswept, and indeed the edges of their coats were raised a little in a breeze Gideon had no trouble imagining. "I don't see that there is anything really wrong with it. The condition is unfortunate, but it is quite well done."
"But it is us." Cyrus' forehead was slightly creased, and he raised his hand to his eyes. "I thought that was the best-kept secret on the Island."
"Evidentally not. It doesn't matter, Cyrus."
"I do not see how he could respect us, Gideon. How could he have seen us together and still believed in us? Knowing that his former master was a sodomite?"
"Ah, now, we've spoken of this." Gideon took Cyrus' hand. "It is the only thing I have ever seen discompose you, and it shouldn't. We live with three of the best companions men could have, and they will not forsake us should they find out. Isn't Neb proof of that? He knew from early on, and he loved you anyway. Isn't it clear, Cyrus, that our friends will look past your only sin? Come now; we shall see the rest of his drawings, and you won't think of this unhappily."
"Perhaps. But still, Gideon, how could he know? Were we not careful?"
"Not enough, that is all. Come, show me what's next."
Cyrus presented him with twelve more pictures, all of Granite House is various stages of habitation. The last one showed the five men again, four of them standing around Harbert, who was holding a tiny thing between his forefinger and thumb, which Cyrus immediately identified.
"It is the grain of wheat."
"So it is! How splendid. And we should never have attached any importance to it at all were it not for you, Cyrus. We should never have had bread, and I daresay Pencroff would have expired soon after."
"He would have managed, no doubt."
"So you say. Who knows? Ah! And here we are, crossing the Mercy in the winter--and that one is of Pencroff, losing his tooth." Gideon laughed. "One could hardly forget that. Neb has his expression perfectly."
"He had a remarkable talent for Pencroff, didn't he?" Cyrus agreed quietly. "He drew everything well, but Pencroff especially he caught to a gesture."
"Indeed he did. I believe Pencroff will want to see all of these. Perhaps it will comfort him, and heaven knows he needs the comfort. The poor man has been terribly hurt at losing Neb. We all are! but Pencroff most of all."
"Yes."
And they continued on, Gideon pointing out with amusement the carefully-drawn pictures of the five of them discovering the crate, and of Joop, and Cyrus drew out the ones of the balloon wreckage and the bridge over the Mercy, as well as a smeared self-portrait. Neb's white kerchief caught his attention and he wondered aloud if it might not be a picture to have framed.
"Ad memoriam," he said firmly, laying it aside.
They were about halfway through the stack, and Gideon would have suggested pausing, but they suddenly came on another picture of the two of them.
"Another," Gideon said, raising his eyebrows.
"Another!" Cyrus cried, taking it.
They wore the new clothes they had constructed with the needles from the crate and the canvas from the balloon, and Cyrus' crisp white sleeves were tucked neatly into one another as he folded his arms in his lap. Gideon's chin was propped on one hand, and with the free hand, he was touching Cyrus' hair absently. Cyrus himself looked as though he were trying not to smile.
Gideon took the picture from Cyrus, and glanced at it fondly, saying, "He did you excellently."
"Perhaps," Cyrus murmured.
"Of a certainty. I believe I shall keep it."
"Very well."
"Do you want to pause here for a while?"
"No," he said with conviction. "We will finish these now and clear them away before Ayrton returns from his boat trip. What is the next?"
"Nothing threatening. The dauw foal. The five of us at Easter. The whale. Pencroff upon receiving his tobacco. Here are Joop and Top, and here is the Bonadventure. There are things missing which I saw with Pencroff and Harbert when we went to Tabor Island, and things I haven't seen, which you must have done while we were gone. And here is Ayrton!"
"Yes! Ayrton!" said Cyrus softly.
"There are quite a few of those: here he is with you, and here looking at the ocean, and here he is weeping."
"'Ah'," Cyrus whispered, "'you can weep! Now you are a man again'."
"We shall stop by all means, Cyrus, if you wish it. We can always continue later."
"We shall continue now, Gideon. Here is the next."
"The windmill."
"The windmill!" said Cyrus, and a look of pride flashed across his face. "Of course!"
"And Ayrton, having saved Harbert. The telegraph wires. Here is Joop, sitting for his photograph. Here is you, taking that photograph of the sea when we saw the ship. Some sketches of battle, and quite a few ordinary ones, of the House and of us. Of course, we left Neb behind during that long time after Harbert was shot, but here, we have come back, because there are pictures of Harbert. Many of them."
Cyrus went through them all carefully, studying each one. He paused longer at some of them, and some he put aside quickly. After Harbert, both dying and recovering, there were suddenly a very few of the island. Then a new torrent of drawings came, of Captain Nemo and Dakkar Crypt and the inside of the Nautilus. There were many of those; Gideon counted thirty.
After that, Neb seemed to have gone into a frenzy. There were countless drawings of the Island, from every angle, of every feature, and then, abruptly, the pictures stopped. There were only three left in the pile.
The first was of the new Granite House; the second of Pencroff, a neat, well-done portrait; and the last of Cyrus and Gideon, looking far older than they had in any of the previous pictures, walking arm in arm by Grant Lake. This was the only picture that wasn't dusty or slightly crackled with age. Cyrus shook his head.
"That was the Tuesday before he died. I suppose you remember. I wanted to look at the stone in the shallow part of the Lake, and you accompanied me."
"I remember. Our good Neb! He's left a legacy and then some."
"Take the three of us, and do something with them. I do not wish the others to see those."
"All right. But Cyrus--" Gideon caught Cyrus' hand and pressed it, smiling a little. "--aren't you glad we looked?"
There was a pause.
Then-- "Yes, my friend. I am very glad we looked." Cyrus Smith glanced wistfully at his companion for a moment, and then said, "They are better than photographs. One can feel Neb in them. Please show them to the others, and let us look at them, too, from time to time. And keep them safe. Time wants to hide us from ourselves."
"Of course." With a quick movement, Gideon kissed Cyrus' cheek. "And now you will oblige me and stop sulking."
Cyrus raised his eyebrows, drew them together, and smiled again.
~~~
In the middle of a large, rolling space of land, covered with small, gentle hills and wide fields, surrounded on one side by a vast forest and on another by a deep lake, and built partly in the shadow of a high purple mountain, there was a tall house made of stone.
It had many rooms and many windows, and creepers and ivy climbed up the walls and snaked in through all the openings they could find. Inside, it was filled with the odds and ends. There were pictures on the walls, and peculiar bibelots placed either with utmost precision or utmost carelessness upon the hall tables and the mantels. But most particularly, there was an attic in the house.
To the wooden ceiling beams of the attic, carefully tacked, were three charcoal pictures. They were old and covered in films of dust, and no one had been up to look at them in many years. There was only one man living in the house now, and he never needed to go up to the attic and search for memories in the dust. He had his memories in a box of pictures kept clean and neat in the parlour in a carved sea chest.
The hole where the box had been removed some time in the past was now filled in, and the footprints on the floor had vanished.
The attic had never noticed that it had had a part of it stolen away. It had simply covered up the empty spot with another fallen stack of books and a heavy coat of dust, and all would remain as it had for years.
And among the collection of things that sat inside it, disintegrating and not minding, were the three pictures, which had been welcomed years ago. They were only snapshots of something that had happened too long ago to remember.
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