Red House- Part Three

Take me away to the past, where memories bright and sunny
May surround me with warm laughter come from jokes told funny

Throw my heart to the future where my eyes look down the road
To all of us of older years, happily sharing our load

Don’t bind me to the present, hard and cruel and here
Nothing but this time around me is what I truly fear

~Christienne~

I first came to Stone House at the age of seven, my first visit to the place not being as lively as most seven-year-olds would have wanted. I had been ill for most of the preceding winter, and Father believed that the fresh air would liven my health. Mother however had not been so convinced that such a ‘wild’ place was good for a young lady, and braved a rare visit to the house to assure that I stayed inside at all times. At first the sentence was maddening, and I took to wandering the house aimlessly for hours without thought simply to pass the time.
But by the end of that first stay, I had grown to love Stone House, inside and out, every inch of it; since by then I knew every inch of the building. Years later it was Father’s turn to be ill, and it was his wish that we return one last time to our old house in the woods. He had said he wanted to die there; but instead died one year later in London, though he spoke everyday about Stone House.
Though Dorian was the male heir to the Parkes family, I was still the eldest child, and Father asked for me to name something of the estate that I would keep most dear to my heart. I chose Stone House. Dorian had no objections for he knew I would keep the place well, and though the property was in my name he was still to manage it as the patriarch of the family.
My first visit to the place in my adult life struck a deep chord within me that made me want to stay, and it was mostly by that one reverberating note that we all moved out to the woods. Tobias was more than willing it seemed to forsake the civilized world, since that world wasn’t exactly civil towards him. Dorian had enjoyed the place enough in his childhood that he didn’t mind living there, though he was more prone to missing the society that we grew up in. He made more trips into the village than either Tobias or myself, just to remind himself of the human race; though the small town wasn’t exactly the same as the more upscale atmosphere we were used to.
I truly believe I fell even more in love with Tobias once we moved to Stone House; for he became more himself in that clear pine air than society would have ever allowed of him, and it wasn’t until we were all settled in our rooms that I was allowed to see his soul. After almost three years’ courtship, I finally knew my fiancé.
I saw changes in my brother as well. Dorian had been a quiet child in his youth, but as he grew he became more stern; hardening with each passing year of Father’s fading health. I suppose he became this way to protect his child’s heart from fear and sorrow at the prospect of loosing Father too soon; and to prepare himself for the task of taking on the patriarchal role at too young an age. Though moving to Stone House did not lift his burden, the slower pace of our new lives gave him time to manage it; and with that time he calmed considerably. He was once again quiet, and patient, and ever watchful of the untouched world around him. Dorian became more observant and soft spoken, and I came to associate him with the cool morning mists of the forest around us.
Stone House brings out the soul of a man, since there is little in this place to suppress one’s true self. So I supposed it was only a matter of time before we saw the true Water. The worry between Dorian, Tobias and myself, was the question of whether or not we wanted Water’s true self revealed to us. I still was uncertain whether to be frightened of him or not, and tried to learn my feelings toward him by spending as much time around him as I could bear to and as he would allow.
At first, that time was very limited as Water would simply get up an walk away from me during our simple conversations. For a few days after the scene in the courtyard, we seemed to be avoiding one another; that is, Water was avoiding all of us while I was avoiding him in particular. In contrast, I stayed much closer to Tobias than I usually would, following him around or waiting for him in his office. But slowly, Water began to reemerge from his shell; and I noticed as the week went on that he was mostly opening up to me.
Tobias had been more soothing and comforting since Dorian reported that Water thought something was wrong with me, which was support I needed from my fiancé and graciously received. I knew of course that I was not perfect, but I had always thought myself sane; and for Water to suggest that I was unstable was quite a blow to my own self image. For days after receiving this news I questioned every recent decision I had made, wondering if I could find evidence of my own accused insanity.
Tobias assured me that choosing Stone House and coming to live here was not a decision made due to madness; he jested saying the craziest choice I had ever made was to agree to marrying him. There was nothing in my nature that suggested a hint of madness, he assured me, reinforcing his words by always stroking my hand or cheek or giving me gentle kisses. Slowly, his reassurances sank in, and I began stepping back to my usual distance from him, giving both of us the little bit of space that kept us from quarreling too much.
But when I stepped away from Tobias, Water decided that he would fill the gap created between me and my fiancé. He began to watch me closely, at first from a safe distance and when he assumed I was unaware of his presence. When I would enter a room he was already in, he wouldn’t get up to leave, but would watch me intently, as though expecting me to do something. I wouldn’t look at him though, nor speak to him during those times.
Then finally he spoke to me. I had just cleared away a lunch of thick tomato stew when I saw Water in the doorway; he had come down to lunch, but upon seeing the dish had turned around and left again without saying a word to anyone.
“It’s gone then?” he asked quietly, standing at the kitchen door. I looked around from the tub where I was cleaning the just used dishes.
“I’m sorry, did you want some stew?” I said at once, thinking him hungry.
“No,” Water said quickly, overlapping the end of my question with his answer, shaking his head fiercely. He took half a step out the door at my question, clinging to the doorframe with his long pale fingers. I could see half of him when he stood like this, his blue eye just peeking out from behind his tensed knuckles.
“Very well,” I said simply, my tone soft. I turned back to the dishes and continued cleaning them, making little noise and listening for Water’s movements. For the longest while I wasn’t sure if he had slipped away silently or stood watching me. The latter  proved true when I turned to put a stack of clean dishes away and saw him still staring at me from where he clung to the door frame. “Yes?” I asked, moving to set the dishes on the counter, taking a few steps toward the door as I did.
“May I use the kitchen?” He asked, close to whispering, his voice shaking a little. I stared at him for a moment, a bit nonplused by his behavior. He didn’t want the tomato stew even though he was hungry.
It didn’t seem to be that he was picky about the food so much as he was frightened of it somehow.
“I could make you something if you wish,” I said slowly by way of answering.
“No,” he shook his head once, forcefully. “I just want to use the kitchen.”
“But you don’t know where anything is,” I persisted gently, my hands folded on the counter. We stared at each other in silence.
“I’ll learn,” was his simple response.
After another period of silence I finally nodded. “Very well,” I nodded again, letting my hands slide off the edge of the counter as I backed away from the dishes. I made my way towards the door and Water pivoted into the room as I passed him.
“Thank you,” he said softly as we nearly brushed shoulders. There was a new tone in his voice that none of us had heard before. He sounded  grateful, yet weak. Vulnerable somehow. The character of this new voice was so surprising that I paused in the doorway to look back at him.
He continued walking until he had just passed the counter before looking over his shoulder back to me. We had switched places. Both of us stood in our new positions for several long moments before he smiled warmly at me, and I him, then turned toward a cabinet and opened it. I left then, leaving him to learn of my kitchen. I could hear him opening all the cabinets as I walked across the main room toward the stairs.
I felt exiled somehow. The kitchen was one of the few places that had become truly my domain since Dorian, Tobias and I had moved here without a staff. With no cook or even maid, I was the one in charge of maintaining the household; which was fine since I did enjoy cooking as it was. Neither my brother nor my fiancé knew how to cook, and they did not care to learn much. Water seemed to know what he wanted, and how to achieve that dish, even in a foreign kitchen.
That made it less my domain, Water’s conquering of my kitchen. In a state of refuge, I sought the second place that was considered my territory more than anyone else’s. The studio.
Water’s odd arrival and behavior since had put me a bit off my artwork, perhaps stunting my creativity with worry and distraction. I realized as I entered the studio that I had not been in to truly work for the past fortnight; a thought which saddened me slightly. I could see my work already going “stale.” Two paintings, an oil and a watercolor, a sculpture and several music sheets with handwritten annotations beside a slightly dusty violin.
And yet, no current project appealed to me. I looked around at the projects I had in progress, looked over at the art supplies and musical instruments that had not been touched, and felt no motivation to move towards any object in the room. Nothing. I sighed, moving farther into the room to a stool beside the window that looked down over the front drive. I sat there for a few moments, looking down to the ground a story below. Another sigh. I turned back to see the room from this new angle. It did not appease me, nor stir within me some inspiration.
I stood and moved down the long room to the other end, taking up the chair that sat beside some brass instruments and a music stand. The room from this perspective was not at all interesting either. With a third sigh, I turned to look out the window, and saw a portion of the gazebo and pond. I stared blankly out over the view for several minutes, not thinking. It was a bright day, but soon my mind began recalling the rain.
My eyes saw sunlight, by my other senses recalled the smell, sound, even clammy feel of that stormy day. I had been in the studio that day when Dorian had found Water; immersed in my watercolors until my concentration was broken by Tobias’ calls and instructions. At first I had not known what the commotion was about, but had carried out my fiancé’s instructions nonetheless. My curiosity was of course satisfied when I had come into the main room and first set eyes on Water, half drowned at the time.
“We shall wake to sanity,” I muttered quietly, recalling then the conversation Dorian, Tobias and I had had later that night in the kitchen; during which they had told me what they had read carved onto his chest. A shiver had run up my spine then; and did so again where I sat in the studio.
I blinked, returning to the present sunny day, looking around slightly confused, as though I had awoken from a dream. I stood and made my way toward the middle of the room, away from the musical section and to the art supplies. I took a blank canvas from a selection leaning against the wall, and found a pencil to begin rough sketching.
Inspiration can usually strike at odd times, and its source can come from odd places. Water, I was surprised to learn, seemed to be one of those sources.
Though I was rather fair at painting, my main weakness was how slowly I worked, and how many attempts I went through before a final result was actually painted. Today however, I was motivated beyond reason and drew quite swiftly. I tend to fall into a sort of trance and loose track of time, but even I noticed how quickly I moved from basic sketching to detailing. I set up a back and fore ground, and the frame of a subject standing slightly off center, and began refining the lines to all but that main character. For that, I needed help.
Water was still moving about the kitchen when I came back down, timidly peeking around the door frame to see what he was up to. It turned out he was putting things away, including the dishes I had left clean on the counter. A large bowl of rich smelling brother sat alone apart from the clean dishes. It must have been his meal, for every now and then Water would pause in his clearing and pick up the bowl to his lips, taking a long deep drink from it. There were also times when he would fish something out of the broth with a spoon sitting beside the bowl.
“Did you need something?” he asked rather casually after a time, not pausing in his movements of cleaning the kitchen. I jumped slightly when he addressed me, unaware that I had been noticed at all. My face was hardly looking round the edge of the frame after all.
“Oh,” I stuttered a bit, straightening up stiffly and moving into the room properly, “yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spy on you like that,” I apologized, resisting the reflex to curtsey.
My words made Water stop in the middle of the kitchen and stare at me, a stack of plates heavy in his arms. “No one can spy in their own house, you’d have to go to a foreign place to do that.” It was an odd thing to say I thought, odder still was that he didn’t seem to take offense to my lack of a response. Indeed, I simply stared at the gentleman, confused and a bit nervous about what to say next. Water carried the conversation downstream. “You said you needed something?” he repeated, his tone sounded the most casual, and indeed the most sane, that I had heard from him during the whole of his visit.
“Yes,” I repeated, “you see, I was up in the studio, sketching.” I paused, fumbling for words. “It has sort of become a picture of, well, you.” Again Water paused in his movements, his bowl halfway to his lips as he looked up through its steam at me.
“You’re painting?” he asked carefully, not blinking as he inspected my face.
“It will eventually come to that,” I nodded slightly, hands pressed together at my waist hopefully. “Right now I need help with sketching the details,” I explained carefully.
“I’m not artist,” Water replied, blocking his view of me as he tipped the bowl up and took a deep drink from it.
I waited until he was looking at me again before I went on. “Well I wasn’t exactly asking for your artistic input,” I said as politely as possible, not wanting to insult Water. It was hard to tell what set him off exactly. “But I was hoping you could sit for me.”
“Model?” Water rephrased the sentiments questioningly, tilting his head back and narrowing his eyes sleepily.
“In a way, yes,” I nodded again, clasping my hands behind my back and hoping he didn’t notice my tensed shoulders.
“Where are the others?” he asked quietly.
“Both in their studies,” I answered a bit awkwardly, not seeing the significance of this question. “Dorian is taking care of family matters and Toby is reading.”
Water let this report sink in for a moment as he thoughtfully sipped at his soup. Finally he set the bowl down on the counter, mostly empty, and nodded, striding across the room to me. I wasn’t sure that this was a nod in my favor until Water paused just outside the kitchen, waiting for me to precede him. I did so, and he followed me back up to studio.
He stood just inside the doorway, his arms crossed behind his back, inspecting the room as I set up a chair. His eyes darted around as though he were fearful of something within, but after a moment of searching, he did not find that which he feared and moved farther into the room.
“Just sit there, face that wall,” I instructed, pointing to my left, “turn your head towards me, not so much. There. Now, move your chin up, a bit more, yes. That’s perfect, Water, just sit like that for a few moments and then you can relax.” I sketched quickly to ensure that my subject did not become too stiff in his frozen position of almost looking over his shoulder at me. “Focus your eyes here,” I instructed, holding up the tip of my pencil for him to stare at. Once I felt I had enough detail to suffice I released Water from his pose, thanking him for his patience and telling him he was free to go if he wished.
But he stayed. He turned on the stool to face me properly, tilting his head one way or another as he watched me work. I was used to such attention from Tobias or Dorian, as they had done the uncomfortable thing of looking over my shoulder as I drew, and though I had grown to ignore the feel of their eyes, there was something in Water’s gaze that I could not shake. I kept glancing over to him as I worked, taking advantage of his constant staring by further perfecting the look in his eye.
“You call him Toby,” Water said into the dusty silence. I looked up to him, then back to my work.
“I do,” I replied casually, “and so does Dorian.”
“They call you Chris,” Water went on simply, as though he saw some deep meaning to these facts. Perhaps he did.
“This is true,” I nodded slightly, keeping my eyes on the canvas.
“Why don’t I have a nickname?” he asked, his tone reminding me of a small child asking why the sky was blue.
“But you do,” I reasoned with him, “Water is not your true name.”
“It is here,” he proclaimed, “men have no use for names in the woods, merely the elements.”
“You may have noticed that Dorian doesn’t have a nickname either,” I pointed out, carrying on the conversation even as I tried to make sense of the meaning of his last words.
“That’s because he’s an angel,” Water said simply, as though this were something we both knew. I paused in my sketching, lowering my pencil slowly and leaning to see Water completely around the canvas. He was looking up at nothing with a sweet expression on his face, again like an innocent child. “You have a pet name, but that’s not the same,” he shook his head slightly, still looking off, “female angels may have a pet name, but not the males.”
I stared at Water, greatly confused as to where this assumption of angles had come from. “We’re not angels, Water,” I said quietly, calmly.
“You won’t be if you stay in this place much longer. With him.” Water’s eyes flashed with anger, and then worry. “Your souls are being eaten by him, by those eyes.”
“Do you think Tobias is evil of some sort, Water?” I asked reasonably, my tone as even as possible, trying to understand him.
“He is,” Water nodded slowly, “you can’t see it though. All you can see is the light. I can tell though.”
“Because you’re human?” I asked carefully, trying to play along.
“No,” he shook his head, one swift motion. “Because I’m water. I am a wild element and have seen such evils before in my travels from snowfall to mountain stream to river then ocean. My journey was long and never ending, until I came to the solid earth. To this place.” He was staring off at nothing again, his tone thoughtful and philosophical, yet somehow very sure. Like he believed it to be true.
“I was once such a man,” he continued in a whisper, looking back at me, “but I didn’t want to be anymore. So I stopped.”
“Stopped what?” I asked, almost breathlessly, now somewhat frightened of this new episode that seemed to be forming. Instead of responding to my question, Water stood, moving fluidly from the stool to his feet and forward to pace the room. I watched him as he inspected the things around him, his fingers trailing over some things, but shying away from others. I sat still as he wandered into the portion of the room at my back, feeling his slow measured footsteps rather than hearing them.
Then I felt his eyes on me, and his presence grew closer. “It’s beautiful,” he said over my shoulder. I looked up to him and saw that he was staring at the beginnings of my painting. “Those should be ravens,” he added listlessly, pointing to the flying birds that framed the subject. I had meant for them to be doves.
Slowly, I lifted my eraser to the markings and smudged the outlines of the birds, then drew more solid lines of larger, more menacing looking birds. “Light source from there, I think,” he added, pointing to a central point of the picture. I simply nodded, and drew a small circle to indicate where the light would be coming from. Then I sat, like an apprentice waiting for corrections from their master, waiting for more instructions from my subject. But none came.
Water had fallen back to wandering around the room, inspecting things carefully. He plucked an out of tune harp in the corner, and a mournful note rang sadly into the still air of the room, before killing itself in a slow fading moan. I tried to focus on the picture, refining some details here and there with my pencil, but mostly sitting back and inspecting it, sighing as though I still had so much to do. It did still need to be painted.
But painting would have to wait as I tried to decide on what colors to use. The background would have to come first, since it would cast a tinged light on the ravens and the Water in the picture. I was tempted to ask the real Water what color he would prefer, but decided against it as my mind landed on a color. Before I could start painting however, I set my pencil and eraser down and hopped off my stool. Water had begun pacing, and his quickening steps were too much of a distraction to bear for very long.
“What is wrong, Water?” I asked, coming near to him and leaning against the wall so as not to get in the way of his pacing.
“The wind,” Water replied, distractedly listening, “it’s not blowing right.”
“Wind is not your element,” I reminded him, almost playfully, deciding that this whole episode would be better if treated like a game.
“But I can hear it,” Water went on, pausing only long enough to consider my words. “It drives me in circles when it should move me straight on. Something is wrong with the wind.”
“Perhaps the sun is just overpowering it,” I suggested, wondering how safe I was alone in this room with Water, should he have a full fit.
“I can’t hear the sun through the glass,” Water motioned impatiently toward the front window, his path changing as he marched down to the other end of the room. “The glass isn’t right either,” he explained, “that’s why only the wind gets through, but not the warmth of the sun.” I thought about this for a moment, finding his words a reverse of the truth. The room was pleasantly warm thanks to the streaming sunlight, and there was hardly a breeze to be heard outside, let alone coming through the windows. The thought of pointing this out to Water crossed my mind, but I let it fade in the on-setting silence.
After those long moments in which we both stood still, me looking at Water and Water looking out the window, I heard him sigh. “Oh my,” he said in a very different and more serious tone, “something wicked this way comes.”