Chapter 4: Release

Dawn found Mr. Wesley lying wide awake beneath his blue covers, unshed tears clouding his eyes and a dull ache in his chest. Slowly, with all the lethargy of disillusioned age, he dragged his tired body to the window, which gazed out upon the grey Cornish sea. The morning sun shone brightly, setting all the water a-sparkle with life and joy, while the corner of his eye caught the softly spiraling smoke from some comfortable cottage.

And he turned his face away.

As he walked away from the window, that incongruous tableau of the life that he no longer had, anger led strength to his steps, as he almost ran down the hallway to the windowless room near the stairs, where he wouldn't have to acknowledge what he had lost. What he had let himself lose. But as he came face to face with dozens of pairs of staring cinnamon eyes, the tears began to fall down his weathered cheeks, leaving trails of salt on lips and neck.

Angrily wiping them away with a swipe of his hand, he grabbed the nearest brush and began to paint. Great swathes of angry, bloody red, cool and heartless blacks, fierce greens, angry oranges, all seemed to flow from his brush to the blank canvas. All his anger, all of his pain and fear and loss and regret and sorrow and hate and helpless longing seemed to bleed out of his very blood, as he almost brought the very art to life, for all his refusal to use magic. One magical painting was more than enough. Much, much more.

With one last, choked sob, he slashed a silver zigzag into the top right corner, before standing back to observe his work. A rolling cloud of black and grey, streaked with the reds and oranges, seemed to emanate menace and hatred and fear. It covered all the canvas, bending trees sideways under lashing rain and roaring winds, making the once-green grass and blue lake seem to mirror the blackness of the hated sky.

Lost in this whirling maelstrom were faded figures – dozens, hundreds, each drenched in blood, faces marked with pain and horror and blame, as they stared at the helpless observer. But Mr. Wesley did not scream, or cry, or run. He merely stared at the figures with eyes full of unbearable longing and remorse, which were caught on one tiny red-head holding a wilted white rose.

By the time the villagers began to arrive around eight o'clock, Mr. Wesley was in his customary place in the kitchen. Coffee and tea were hot and waiting on the table, the warm smell of cooking pastries wafted from the oven, and none spared a thought for the fact that usually some would be baked by now. "He should sleep in more often," most of them would say, with an affectionate smile, and any trace of sadness in his eyes was hidden completely by a veneer of normality, calmness and content. And every day was much like any other, in the small and static town of St Just.

Mallory stumbled in at around ten thirty that morning, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, though he clearly had had the time to properly spike his hair again, a ritual that Mr. Wesley had never understood. Smirking slightly from where he sat, nursing a hot cup of earl grey, he watched Mallory down his three cups of coffee before stopping to look around.

Mallory's obvious double-take at the sight of the nearly empty room caused Mr. Wesley and the few others there to laugh in shared amusement. "What, you thought all anyone did was come in 'ere, boy?" asked an older gent, seemingly in the process of walking the large Border Collie lying contentedly by his legs.

"Well… yes," Mallory replied, with the barest hint of embarrassment in his eyes. "After all the people here these last couple of days…"

The other gent smirked, and Mr. Wesley interrupted to save young Mallory the inevitable teasing, since the younger man seemed one who took himself too seriously. "Surely you were aware that we've just been though the weekend, Mallory? It's a lot quieter here during the week, which is all for the best, if you ask me."

An elderly woman, smiling wide enough to show her rather small supply of teeth, patted Mr. Wesley affectionately on the shoulder, causing him to shift in slight discomfort. "Young Master Wesley says that, but if I've ever seen someone whose life is his work, this man is it!"

Yes, because he has no other life at all, Mallory thought to himself, but deigned to comment. Mr. Wesley had been friendly enough, for all the dullness of his life, that he felt the surprising desire not to offend him. Instead, he directed his next question to the subject of the discussion, hoping to draw him out a bit more. "And what do you do here, when all your friends are out doing whatever it is old people do when they're not here."

A few suggestions were shouted out – "Golf!" "Cribbage!" "Fishing!" "I'm not old!" – but Mallory's eyes were caught solely on those of Mr. Wesley, which seemed to go strangely distant at the mention of friends. But it passed so quickly that he was sure he'd imagined it, and spared it no further thought.

"I suppose I do what most people do here," Mr. Wesley replied quietly. "I work in my garden, I walk my dog, and sometimes I go to the town for supplies."

"And he paints!" the elderly woman persisted, despite an annoyed glance from her embarrassed host. "You should see some of his work, it's really lovely."

"Not now, Mrs. Cambellson," Mr. Wesley muttered in annoyance, before quickly changing the subject. "Actually, what with Mr. Eddison here needing to walk old Bessie before she gets too fat," ("Oi!" interjected Mr. Eddison, jokingly, echoed by the canine's injured whine) "and Mrs. Cambellson running late for the bridge club, I was thinking of closing for a bit and taking Rommie out for a walk around the point."

"Oh," said Mallory, face falling slightly in disappointment. For all that he was staying with a distant relative, he really didn't know anyone here, and had no idea of how to spend the next few weeks. At least in the café, he had company of sorts, however unsure he felt… his train of thought was broken by the touch of a hand on his shoulder, causing him to look up with eyebrow raised inquiringly. "Yes?"

Mr. Wesley smiled back at him, a warm expression for all its uncertainty, before repeating what must have been his last comment. "I was just saying that… well, if you wanted to… you haven't seen much of our area while you've been here, have you?"

"No, not really," Mallory replied slowly, somewhat confused. Too busy in here, I guess, he added mentally.

"Well, if you wanted to, Rommie and I would more than welcome your company, and maybe we could show you a bit of the area while we're at it."

Smiling warmly, Mallory was glad to see his grin echoed slightly on his host's face, who, to Mallory's surprise, seemed genuinely eager for his company. So far as Mr. Wesley could ever be anything as emotional as eager, that was.

"I'd love to, Mr. Wesley."