Here's another jem dug out of its electronic grave. circa 2001
The Portrait
She found it at an ordinary old yard sale. It was one of those kinds of
sales where the mom sets out all her old 'vintage' garbs from yester year
and there's plenty of junk that really should be dropped off in the
nearest recycle bin but the dad still thinks he can make a buck or two off
of them. She told her friends she had no idea why such small time sales
caught her eye. But inwardly she knew exactly what made her stop at every
front yard she pasted Saturday mornings.
She was a seeker of lost treasures, secretly of course. Her friends would mock
her relentlessly if they knew that she hoped to find the hope diamond under
someone's old pile of shoes (pun intended). Her favorite finds were the boxes
of used paper and hard back books everyone seemed to collect over time. She
loved to read good books and believed that the most beaten up dog eared copies
would contain the best stories. She considered their tattered appearance
to be a better recommendation on the author's work than any literary
critic's citation. Those books that looked crisp and fresh were never
given a second glance; they had been so unappealing to the first owners
that she wasn't about to waste time and money giving them a second look.
When she picked up the leather bound book stuffed in a dusty box at the
end of the trash table (you know, the table that has all the 'as is'
merchandise) her heart almost did the tango. Not only was it a copy of
Oscar Wilde's The Portrait of Dorian Gray but it was hand monogramed. The
inside cover has a personal message from an Olivia to her friend Marcus.
The message read:
To my dearest friend and brother Marcus,
You have inspired my work in no less fashion than Dorian did for
Basil. I can never thank you enough for sharing your courage and passion
for life with me. Please treasure this book as a momento of our friendship
as long as you walk upon this earth.
Olivia
Her mind immediately began to conjure up a adjoining tale to explain the
affect this Marcus had on his friend. As she dazedly walked over to the
homemaker manning the money box her right hand caressed the soft fabric
covering her paper jewel.
"Ahhh, I was wondering when someone would find great aunt Olivia's book.
That one's been waiting for a new home for years."
"Why would you sale such a gem stone?" she asked, "not that I want you to
change your mind about ridding yourself of it." She dramatically clutched
the book tighter to demonstrate her desire to own it.
"Oh its been a bone of contention in my family for years. Apparently my
great aunt Olivia intended to give it as a surprise gift to a friend of
hers only to be devastated by news of his death the day before he
was suppose to return. Olivia had been a struggling painter back during
the turn of the twentieth century. Whoever this Marcus character was
inspired her to send her work off to Europe. Olivia made quite a fortune
in overseas commissions although she never enjoyed the money."
Her curiosity was heavily peaked now. "What happened?"
"Well, when she received the news of Marcus' death, according to my
grandmom she just curled up into a ball and stopped existing. Her family
was forced to put her away in one of those asylums for the rich and crazy.
Most of her earnings went to pay for her upkeep and therefore nothing was
left to save or invest. My grandmother's family had to care for her the
rest of her life as if she were an infant. Of course, Olivia never painted
anything else after that, ... except for the picture"
"What picture?" she was almost breathless with anticipation wanting to
hear more of the tragic story.
"Look at the last page of the book." She complied quickly with the woman's
request and turned to the back of the book. She gasped when she saw the
portrait.
The image had an almost life like quality to it; the details were so complete
and clear she almost though it was a color photograph of the man. It was a
picture of a young man, probably in his mid to late twenties. He had jet black
hair perfectly styled and groomed. His countenance was incredible distinct; he
had the aquiline nose of an aristocrat but the mischievous sneer of a barbarian.
His checks were flushed pink with vigor yet were caramelized by sun golden rays.
His jaw was strong and pointed; he looked like someone whose very presence
exuded authority. But it was his eyes, his eyes that made her gasp. They were
simultaneously emerald green like jade and rust brown like a warm sandy
beach. They reminded her of her pet kitten's eyes that seemed to shift in
color with both her mode and the lighting. His eyes conveyed so much
passion; they looked like the eyes a man who had seen countless wars and
sorrows while twinkling happily with glee. In fact, even on such a two
dimensional surface his eyes had the depths of the ocean. She could swear
that they were sparkling.
"Oh my, she WAS good. I have never seen anyone capture the human eye with
such accuracy. You can even see the man's soul in this."
"yes," said the woman with disdain. "My great aunt had such a wonderful
talent. Yet she threw it all away. My grandmother inherited the book and
kept it buried away in the antic for many years. She hated that man in the
picture, she blamed him for what happen to her sister."
"How could she blame someone who was dead?"
"She would say that her sister had wanted to make that man eternal like
Dorian Grey and convinced herself that she could make it happen. That's
why she painted that portrait, in a vain effort to bring him back to life."
"Oh that's so sad. So why did your family keep it all these years?"
"It served as a testimony to foolishness and wottonness. My own father
would slap that book on the table in front of any of us who misbehaved
and point to it and say, 'daydreams and mischief will turning you into you
great aunt Olivia. Boy, would we straighten up after that lecture,.. at
least for a moment or two."
"So why are you selling it now?"
"My brother's family said they didn't want the old relic and since it
comes with such a tragic tale I didn't want to make a lot of money off of
it. You know, its distasteful to profit off someone else's misery."
"Yeah, I understand. So, uhmmm,... how much do you want for it?"
"Are you planning on buying that bag of clothes over there?"
"I can"
"Good, then I let you have the whole lot for thirty dollars."
"Thirty dollars, why that's robbery. I can't let you give this away so
cheaply."
"Honey, like I said, I couldn't live with myself if I made a profit off
that book. Go ahead and take it, enjoy."
She walked back to her car with mixed feelings. On one hand, the bargain
huntress in her was dancing with glee over getting such a steal. But her
wing bearing voice of conscious was shaking her finger at her saying 'how
could you?' Oh well, I'll just enjoy it and then put it to good use
ten months later....
"Methos, why did you drag me all the way down hear to Sacramento just to
see some old art exhibit? There's plenty of art back up in Cascade."
"Joe, I didn't drag you. You said.. you begged me to share some more of my
'mysterious' past with you for your twisted voyeuristic pleasure and now
that I'm giving you an opportunity..."
"Okay, okay ...your right man. I'm sorry. I didn't know that this show had
some historical signifance to you. But just the though of MacLeod being
left watcherless for a couple of days gives me the hives."
"Yeah right, your just nervous about leaving him in charge of the bar in
your absence. What do ya think you'll find when you return, electric burns
in the ceiling?"
"Now you know Macleod.."
"Yep, trouble knocks on his door early in the morning."
"So did you know this lady whose work they're showing?"
"Yeah" Methos whispered. "She was a old friend of mine; one of those
immortal regrets."
"Oh"
"Anyway, I kind of lost track of her work several decades back. I tried to
keep track of at least one of her paintings at all times, but you know."
"Places to go, immortals to hide from?"
"Yep. That about sums it up."
"So what lead to her discovery in the art world?"
"According to exhibit director I called, several months back her last
piece was recovered in an extraordinary way. Apparently that one piece was
enough to spur the art symposium committee to search out her collection
for a public display. "
"So what time is the exhibit opening?"
"We're not going to the showing."
"Huh?"
"Like I said, I was a close friend of the artist. She told me several times
that she was going to paint my portrait; she said....said it would make me
eternal,... but I never found it." Methos spoke of the memory in a hushed
tone, unashamedly revealing its pain.
"Aw man, I'm sorry to hear that. So you think there might be a picture of
you at the showing?"
"Probably. That's why I gave the symposium a hefty contribution check in
order to secure a private viewing. I don't often visit this part of the
world so maybe no one will make the connection. "
"We hope."
"Yeah"
**********************
She was glad she had donated the book to the local museum after reading
the novel. She even prepared a synopsis of Olivia's story that she was
going to present to the visitors later during the showing. As she walked
through the halls reviewing the artist's work she felt herself being drawn
back to the central room where the novel's portrait was displayed. The
artist had certainly been talented but none of her other works compared
with the final one. She was a bit startled when she over heard two men
talking in the foreground. They were standing next ot the glass display
case protecting the book. The younger of the two was rubbing his hand on
the image copy of the book's dedication note mounted on a podium next to
the glass case. She almost called security before remembering that one of
the program's benefactor had requested a private showing of the
collection. She tried to slowed down her walk not wanting to disturb them,
but her cat like curiosity got the better of her and she slipped into the
room and hid behind a partitioning wall.
"Are you going to be okay?" said the older of the two. Both men had their
backs to her so they didn't hear her approach. She changed her mind at
introducing herself when she realized that the younger man was shaking.
"Yeah man,.. you know I haven't had a reaction like this in a long while.
Not since Alexis... Life is just too short for you guys."
"Yeah, I know. When I look at you and Ducan, I wonder...."
"Hey Joe,... uhmm,... do you think you could... uhmm.. give me a moment or
two."
"Sure man. I'll be in the lobby if you need me."
The older man wobbled away with a visible limp in his steps. Her mind was
intrigued by the younger man's response to the exhibit and wanted
desperately to find out what caused it. He stood quietly over the glass
covered case protecting the book that was opened ot reveal the picture.
He chuckled sadly to himself. "Dorian Gray. If only you had known
Olivia." sigh He slowly shook his head as he straightened up his slouched
over shoulders. "Grow strong and live to fight another day." he murmured
to himself. When he turned around, she had to quickly shove her fist into
her mouth to keep from screaming.
It was HIM! She knew, no matter how improbable it seemed, that the young
man standing before her was in fact the same Marcus captured in the painting.
His hair, his nose, and especially his eyes. His eyes held the same mixture of
remorse and resolve as depicted in the drawing. How could it be? she mused
to herself. The man scanned the room as if he could feel her presence but after
finding nothing he shook his head again and turned back to the painting.
"Good-bye dear friend. And I promise I will never forget you as long as I
walk upon this earth." Then he walked out of the room.
The Portrait
She found it at an ordinary old yard sale. It was one of those kinds of
sales where the mom sets out all her old 'vintage' garbs from yester year
and there's plenty of junk that really should be dropped off in the
nearest recycle bin but the dad still thinks he can make a buck or two off
of them. She told her friends she had no idea why such small time sales
caught her eye. But inwardly she knew exactly what made her stop at every
front yard she pasted Saturday mornings.
She was a seeker of lost treasures, secretly of course. Her friends would mock
her relentlessly if they knew that she hoped to find the hope diamond under
someone's old pile of shoes (pun intended). Her favorite finds were the boxes
of used paper and hard back books everyone seemed to collect over time. She
loved to read good books and believed that the most beaten up dog eared copies
would contain the best stories. She considered their tattered appearance
to be a better recommendation on the author's work than any literary
critic's citation. Those books that looked crisp and fresh were never
given a second glance; they had been so unappealing to the first owners
that she wasn't about to waste time and money giving them a second look.
When she picked up the leather bound book stuffed in a dusty box at the
end of the trash table (you know, the table that has all the 'as is'
merchandise) her heart almost did the tango. Not only was it a copy of
Oscar Wilde's The Portrait of Dorian Gray but it was hand monogramed. The
inside cover has a personal message from an Olivia to her friend Marcus.
The message read:
To my dearest friend and brother Marcus,
You have inspired my work in no less fashion than Dorian did for
Basil. I can never thank you enough for sharing your courage and passion
for life with me. Please treasure this book as a momento of our friendship
as long as you walk upon this earth.
Olivia
Her mind immediately began to conjure up a adjoining tale to explain the
affect this Marcus had on his friend. As she dazedly walked over to the
homemaker manning the money box her right hand caressed the soft fabric
covering her paper jewel.
"Ahhh, I was wondering when someone would find great aunt Olivia's book.
That one's been waiting for a new home for years."
"Why would you sale such a gem stone?" she asked, "not that I want you to
change your mind about ridding yourself of it." She dramatically clutched
the book tighter to demonstrate her desire to own it.
"Oh its been a bone of contention in my family for years. Apparently my
great aunt Olivia intended to give it as a surprise gift to a friend of
hers only to be devastated by news of his death the day before he
was suppose to return. Olivia had been a struggling painter back during
the turn of the twentieth century. Whoever this Marcus character was
inspired her to send her work off to Europe. Olivia made quite a fortune
in overseas commissions although she never enjoyed the money."
Her curiosity was heavily peaked now. "What happened?"
"Well, when she received the news of Marcus' death, according to my
grandmom she just curled up into a ball and stopped existing. Her family
was forced to put her away in one of those asylums for the rich and crazy.
Most of her earnings went to pay for her upkeep and therefore nothing was
left to save or invest. My grandmother's family had to care for her the
rest of her life as if she were an infant. Of course, Olivia never painted
anything else after that, ... except for the picture"
"What picture?" she was almost breathless with anticipation wanting to
hear more of the tragic story.
"Look at the last page of the book." She complied quickly with the woman's
request and turned to the back of the book. She gasped when she saw the
portrait.
The image had an almost life like quality to it; the details were so complete
and clear she almost though it was a color photograph of the man. It was a
picture of a young man, probably in his mid to late twenties. He had jet black
hair perfectly styled and groomed. His countenance was incredible distinct; he
had the aquiline nose of an aristocrat but the mischievous sneer of a barbarian.
His checks were flushed pink with vigor yet were caramelized by sun golden rays.
His jaw was strong and pointed; he looked like someone whose very presence
exuded authority. But it was his eyes, his eyes that made her gasp. They were
simultaneously emerald green like jade and rust brown like a warm sandy
beach. They reminded her of her pet kitten's eyes that seemed to shift in
color with both her mode and the lighting. His eyes conveyed so much
passion; they looked like the eyes a man who had seen countless wars and
sorrows while twinkling happily with glee. In fact, even on such a two
dimensional surface his eyes had the depths of the ocean. She could swear
that they were sparkling.
"Oh my, she WAS good. I have never seen anyone capture the human eye with
such accuracy. You can even see the man's soul in this."
"yes," said the woman with disdain. "My great aunt had such a wonderful
talent. Yet she threw it all away. My grandmother inherited the book and
kept it buried away in the antic for many years. She hated that man in the
picture, she blamed him for what happen to her sister."
"How could she blame someone who was dead?"
"She would say that her sister had wanted to make that man eternal like
Dorian Grey and convinced herself that she could make it happen. That's
why she painted that portrait, in a vain effort to bring him back to life."
"Oh that's so sad. So why did your family keep it all these years?"
"It served as a testimony to foolishness and wottonness. My own father
would slap that book on the table in front of any of us who misbehaved
and point to it and say, 'daydreams and mischief will turning you into you
great aunt Olivia. Boy, would we straighten up after that lecture,.. at
least for a moment or two."
"So why are you selling it now?"
"My brother's family said they didn't want the old relic and since it
comes with such a tragic tale I didn't want to make a lot of money off of
it. You know, its distasteful to profit off someone else's misery."
"Yeah, I understand. So, uhmmm,... how much do you want for it?"
"Are you planning on buying that bag of clothes over there?"
"I can"
"Good, then I let you have the whole lot for thirty dollars."
"Thirty dollars, why that's robbery. I can't let you give this away so
cheaply."
"Honey, like I said, I couldn't live with myself if I made a profit off
that book. Go ahead and take it, enjoy."
She walked back to her car with mixed feelings. On one hand, the bargain
huntress in her was dancing with glee over getting such a steal. But her
wing bearing voice of conscious was shaking her finger at her saying 'how
could you?' Oh well, I'll just enjoy it and then put it to good use
ten months later....
"Methos, why did you drag me all the way down hear to Sacramento just to
see some old art exhibit? There's plenty of art back up in Cascade."
"Joe, I didn't drag you. You said.. you begged me to share some more of my
'mysterious' past with you for your twisted voyeuristic pleasure and now
that I'm giving you an opportunity..."
"Okay, okay ...your right man. I'm sorry. I didn't know that this show had
some historical signifance to you. But just the though of MacLeod being
left watcherless for a couple of days gives me the hives."
"Yeah right, your just nervous about leaving him in charge of the bar in
your absence. What do ya think you'll find when you return, electric burns
in the ceiling?"
"Now you know Macleod.."
"Yep, trouble knocks on his door early in the morning."
"So did you know this lady whose work they're showing?"
"Yeah" Methos whispered. "She was a old friend of mine; one of those
immortal regrets."
"Oh"
"Anyway, I kind of lost track of her work several decades back. I tried to
keep track of at least one of her paintings at all times, but you know."
"Places to go, immortals to hide from?"
"Yep. That about sums it up."
"So what lead to her discovery in the art world?"
"According to exhibit director I called, several months back her last
piece was recovered in an extraordinary way. Apparently that one piece was
enough to spur the art symposium committee to search out her collection
for a public display. "
"So what time is the exhibit opening?"
"We're not going to the showing."
"Huh?"
"Like I said, I was a close friend of the artist. She told me several times
that she was going to paint my portrait; she said....said it would make me
eternal,... but I never found it." Methos spoke of the memory in a hushed
tone, unashamedly revealing its pain.
"Aw man, I'm sorry to hear that. So you think there might be a picture of
you at the showing?"
"Probably. That's why I gave the symposium a hefty contribution check in
order to secure a private viewing. I don't often visit this part of the
world so maybe no one will make the connection. "
"We hope."
"Yeah"
**********************
She was glad she had donated the book to the local museum after reading
the novel. She even prepared a synopsis of Olivia's story that she was
going to present to the visitors later during the showing. As she walked
through the halls reviewing the artist's work she felt herself being drawn
back to the central room where the novel's portrait was displayed. The
artist had certainly been talented but none of her other works compared
with the final one. She was a bit startled when she over heard two men
talking in the foreground. They were standing next ot the glass display
case protecting the book. The younger of the two was rubbing his hand on
the image copy of the book's dedication note mounted on a podium next to
the glass case. She almost called security before remembering that one of
the program's benefactor had requested a private showing of the
collection. She tried to slowed down her walk not wanting to disturb them,
but her cat like curiosity got the better of her and she slipped into the
room and hid behind a partitioning wall.
"Are you going to be okay?" said the older of the two. Both men had their
backs to her so they didn't hear her approach. She changed her mind at
introducing herself when she realized that the younger man was shaking.
"Yeah man,.. you know I haven't had a reaction like this in a long while.
Not since Alexis... Life is just too short for you guys."
"Yeah, I know. When I look at you and Ducan, I wonder...."
"Hey Joe,... uhmm,... do you think you could... uhmm.. give me a moment or
two."
"Sure man. I'll be in the lobby if you need me."
The older man wobbled away with a visible limp in his steps. Her mind was
intrigued by the younger man's response to the exhibit and wanted
desperately to find out what caused it. He stood quietly over the glass
covered case protecting the book that was opened ot reveal the picture.
He chuckled sadly to himself. "Dorian Gray. If only you had known
Olivia." sigh He slowly shook his head as he straightened up his slouched
over shoulders. "Grow strong and live to fight another day." he murmured
to himself. When he turned around, she had to quickly shove her fist into
her mouth to keep from screaming.
It was HIM! She knew, no matter how improbable it seemed, that the young
man standing before her was in fact the same Marcus captured in the painting.
His hair, his nose, and especially his eyes. His eyes held the same mixture of
remorse and resolve as depicted in the drawing. How could it be? she mused
to herself. The man scanned the room as if he could feel her presence but after
finding nothing he shook his head again and turned back to the painting.
"Good-bye dear friend. And I promise I will never forget you as long as I
walk upon this earth." Then he walked out of the room.