Daulton's Problem
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much for the grotesque or bawdy, and he certainly didn't have a 'thing' for
gravesites, like some of his fellow artists that he could mention.
Daulton loved the grounds of Eternal Sanctuary for one reason, and one reason
only: the view.
From the cliff that dropped cleanly off only paces from the last of the
headstones, Clipper's Point could be clearly seen. The ocean crashing and
spraying up and over that singularly infamous hazard to shipping made for
a hell of an inspiration. Daulton loved painting with the boiling ocean in
the background, or even just watching the waters swell and crash, back and
forth, over and over again.
Most days, the dead would watch with him.
- * -
The first time it happened, Daulton just about threw himself over the cliff.
He was certain, 100%, that he had finally smoked too much Sandman when the
dire scraping of stone-on-stone came from just behind him. He had been
painting a small trawler off the coast, its crew frantically trying to
untangle a net, and had been certain he had been alone. And yet the noise
was unmistakeable: it had to originate from one of the graves. A spider or
three had run down Daulton's back, and he had slowly turned around.
A mouldy grey hand was emerging, dripping, from the cracked lid of the
nearest sarcophagus.
Daulton watched like a bird watching a snake as the crypt's occupant, bit
by bit, crawled from beneath the heavy stone, leaving much of its flesh
behind in the bargain. A smell came with it: the smell at the bottom of
an old pile of leaves. Daulton noted dully that there were other shambling
bodies, too; clawing up out of burial plots, peeping out from gothic ossaria,
splintering pine coffins and stones of marble and obsidian. They converged
on the stunned artist; like a quarterback trapped in the pocket, Daulton
just waited for the blow to fall.
The first pioneer, a raggedy-looking piece of maggotry, staggered up to
Daulton, his eyes devoid of light and life. His jaw swung loosely on the
bottom of his skull, and his hands were twisted into hideous claws. One of
these stabbed outwards, transfixing not Daulton (to his relief) but his
canvas.
"Niiiisshhhhe....." lisped the zombie, his rictus screwed up into a parody
of contemplation.
Daulton looked at the canvas dumbly. It showed, as it had a momemt ago, a
mostly-complete picture of a boat. He goggled at his critic as others of
the walking dead meandered up.
"Good use of pigments," commented a mostly-intact matron, her complexion a
curious shade of ivory. A sinew-draped skeleton nodded his agreement, losing
an eye in the process.
"Whush shat innuh backshground?" a well-to-do mummy wanted to know. Daulton,
stammering, replied that he always put an image representing the Behemoth in
his seascapes, to iconify the power and majesty of the ocean. The ranks of
the undead voiced their approval in dry grunts and raspings; several clapped,
their hands sounding like twigs and rattles.
- * -
It was nice at first, of course, but the undead can be pains in the butt.
"TRY A LITTLE GREEN."
"No. Shut up."
"IT'S NOT GREEN ENOUGH."
"Will you *please* shut up? I'm trying to work."
"WELL, *EXCUSE* THE HELL OUT OF ME." Vedley was quite green himself, and
all swelled up like a balloon. Touchy, too.
"Vedley, I'm trying to paint."
"WELL *I'M* TRYING TO HELP."
"You're not."
"Ffffedddleee, fffshhuttphhh uppphhhh!" Elias was such a sycophant.
"YOU SHUT UP. IT'S NOT GREEN ENOUGH."
"Itssssh ppfffine! Pffffucksh offphsh!"
"Both of you! Knock it off!...... oy, what a headache......."
It was, too.
- * -
There was a knock at the door. Daulton answered it. It was the Undead.
"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! WE'VE MISSED YOU!"
"Er....hi, guys.....uh, come on in, I guess."
"HAVE YOU BEEN AVOIDING US? BECAUSE WE'RE DEAD AND ALL?"
"Uh, no, not at all........no cause to......bad weather.......all that....."
"DON'T YOU CARE ABOUT US AT ALL?"
"Well.........of course I do!"
"WE CARE ABOUT YOU!"
"Yes. Yes, I know."
- * -
They had taken to following him into restaurants and taverns. It was getting
rather annoying. Once he had been at an unveiling at a rather exclusive
gallery when Madame Surtiss, her intestines trailing her like a bride's train,
was intercepted trying to crash the party. "So THIS is where you genius
artist types hang out!" she had cooed, as the hostess vomited on a priceless
Soutine. Daulton fled in a hurry. The Soutine eventually fetched twice its
pre-puke value.
His landlady kicked Daulton out of his loft, claiming that rotting visitors
at all hours was strictly forbidden in the lease. He lost his membership at
his club, too, due to one occasion in which Elias had snuck in as a busboy
and had lost a finger in the gaspacho.
Shivering on the beach, surrounded by groupies who hadn't drawn breath since
the last century, Daulton found himself entirely without friends, home
or happiness. There was only one thing to do.
Daulton walked out into the ocean. He floated back in.
- * -
Now, of course, Daulton hangs out for the view. His fingers are a little
puffy from the drowning, and that makes fine linework difficult, but he still
paints the odd seascape from his old perch by the cliff. The other dead
still come to watch, except on days when it's too sunny. Some days, Daulton
teaches a little how-to-draw course, and most of his fans participate, except
for the really shy ones.
His stuff sells really well now, I'm told. They snap it up off the shelves.
He has a large and devoted following.
And every day, their ranks are swelling.
--
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now, don't take that literally