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Edward sat alone and stared at the painting. There had to be some simple explanation. Paintings could not read people. It was impossible. Wasn't it? Disbelief and then excitement comprised his first reactions. By now, his investigation getting him nowhere but deeper into confusion, he began to approach the problem with frustration. He began to convince himself that the painting had conspired with reality to play some elaborate prank on him.
“What do you want from me?” he thundered at it. But, of course, it made no reply. He hadn't bothered to give her mocking smile any reflection to cast her voice into. He knew that there would only be more questions. She was so apt to interrogate, but unwilling to answer any of his.
Edward paced from one side of the room to the other and wracked his brain. Was it the canvas? Was it the paint? The more he tried to unravel the answers, the more tangled they became like a ball of yarn a kitten clumsily dug its claws into until nothing but a chain of knots remained. Feeling claustrophobic from the questions, he needed to break free. The house, which opened its rooms to him to help shoulder the pain, no longer had enough space to hold his plague of questions. Grabbing his coat, he swung it over his shoulders and his arms jetted into the sleeves with the haste that he had once slammed down his helmet over his wearied head. He locked the door behind him and stepped onto the grounds. The first shoots of greenery reared their tiny heads above the soil. Tentatively they crept up, as if testing whether they preferred life in the cool early spring air or the dark but warm earthiness of the ground.
Agnes and the women of the town had been joined by the few men available to aid Edward in his garden plans. He was drawn, for some reason unknown to him, to the renewal of all that had been abused. Just as value and life had shattered before his eyes and inspired him to so carefully guard the fragile beauty unwrapped from the paper sheets of his home, having witnessed the marred and distressed ground diseased by battle found him needing to transform his own plot of frozen tundra into the hope and life of food to feed these people he now dwelt among. Long lines of seeds had been planted but, for now, only traces of these dormant possibilities appeared. Still, it was enough. Results had been produced and crops would yield their bounty. Edward's bitterness toward the painting defrosted some in the morning sun. Seed turned to shoots and would turn to food. Battle would turn to victory; for didn't every seed struggle for its survival from the earthen tomb that bound it? As unaware as it was and lacking all cognizance, still it succeeded. Surely the God who allowed such small seedlings to flourish would water the greenery of Edward's own struggles.
“Remember Edward, the birds are fed and the lilies clothed. God will always bring you what you need or help you get to where you need to go,” his mother used to say.
He was not sure why her words came to him now. He had not thought of them for a long time, but upon remembering them his burden seemed a little less heavy.
“I remember,” he said to the fields.
In reply, a gentle breeze blew across the land, sending a robin from its nest to the muddied ground below. Edward watched, as the robin fished for a long worm that he pulled loose from the ground and proceeded to gobble it. Another bird soon joined the first.
“You're right,” he said to them, “I must go and speak to someone.”
As he walked, thoughts of the painting leaped at him. The woman of paint had become the jealous female of his life who demanded all attention and became cross with him when she was too long neglected. Like the dutiful suitor, her beauty still captured him and he remained devoted and loyal even if he did find her methods taxing. Besides, it really was rather ridiculous to become upset with her. Real as she seemed to him, she was not. She had no feelings for him, so why should she rustle him? Having recommitted himself to the discovery of her secret and exhibiting only traces of residual agitation, his destination came into view.
“Edward! Is that you, Edward?” a voice called to him from the front porch.
“Yes, it's me, Martin,” he said, in surprise.
“Well, go on,” Martin said.
“Go on?”
“Aren't you going to ask me how I knew it was you?”
Edward still had not acclimated himself to the sense of playfulness that so enveloped his blind friend. Asking Martin how he knew it was him had not even crossed his mind. It seemed rude to ask him, but now it seemed that he would disappoint Martin if he did not ask.
“So, how did you know it was me?” he said, giving in to Martin's game.
He now stood before Martin and could see the smile plastered across his friend's face at the chance to provide the answer.
“Firstly, it is Tuesday morning.” He looked pleased with himself as he said it, but Edward lacked the clarity to understand his deduction.
“Three people come regularly to visit me,” he continued, “Mrs. Samuels brings me a bit of soup or bread every Saturday evening. Agnes does not have a regular day of visitation, but she is the second most frequent— lovely girl your cousin is and such a nice singing voice. And, then of course, there is you. Seeing as how this is a Tuesday morning and we are not at a time of school holidays, since it is early March, then my visitor must be you.”
“But, what if I were not myself and someone outside of the three regular visitors?” Edward had forgot his earlier concern of seeming rude and was now drawn into the reasoning powers of Martin's mind.
“Well, in that case, I still knew it was you because you walk briskly, approaching quickly, as if you are escaping something, and then you shuffle as you draw nearer, perhaps because you do not wish to intrude.”
Edward wasn't sure he liked this sudden ability that all around him seemed to have to read into his private stirrings and movements—first the painting and now Martin. He knew that Martin had not meant his observation as intrusion, though, and that he was forced to more keenly observe these nuances to adapt to his surroundings. Edward too had employed coping mechanisms.
“Well, you would make an excellent detective. You remind me of Sherlock Holmes,” he said in reply.
“Oh have you read him? He really is fascinating, isn't he?” Martin said now, obviously elated at the praise.
“Well, come inside,” he invited, as he stood from the chair and opened the door.
Edward followed Martin inside, noticing the impeccable nature of his house. On the few occasions that he had visited, he always marveled at the perfection of the upkeep. His own house burst with the contents of so many previous owners and eras. Edward knew, though, that if abrupt sounds and heavy silence could cause one to stumble, everything acoustic would be perfectly arranged in his domain as well.
“So what brings you here today, business or pleasure?” Martin asked.
“Both,” Edward said. Just as Edward predicted, Martin had become invaluable to the garden plans. He knew the mechanics of the land and made several solid recommendations to Edward on how best to till the land and maximize the potential of the grounds. They discussed the optimal watering for the new sprigs, which Edward had noticed on his way out this morning. Perhaps, it had been a bit deceptive to allow Martin to believe that he had come to consult him on matters of the earth, when really he had come to seek sanctuary from the tempestuous relationship he shared with the lady of his house.
“Care for some tea?” Martin asked him now.
“Tea, yes. I'll get it for us.”
Edward darted into the kitchen to prepare the tea and Martin continued to speak to him as he did.
“What do you make of this Zimmerman affair?”
“How's that?” Edward asked, unable to hear his muffled voice with the clatter of teacups.
“The Zimmerman affair,” Martin repeated louder for him.
“It will certainly get the government's attention. And to think that Mexico would pull a stunt like that!” Edward said.
“I'm more surprised at the gall of the Huns!” Martin said.
Edward nodded and then realized what he had done and that Martin could not see his response.
“Yes,” he said and then continued, “It worried Agnes. She started to wonder if California would be included in annexing the south.”
“Is that where you're from? I never can seem to keep all your states straight past those original thirteen you stole from us,” Martin said, with a teasing smile.
“I am, yes. San Francisco to be specific.”
“Well, I'll tell you something Edward. If I were American and my country weren't part of this, I wouldn't have signed up to join.” It was one of the few things that Martin had spoken without any hint of a joke. The moment of sobriety quickly passed, though, as the winsome smile reappeared and he said,
“What are you trying to do, become a hero before the others join so you have something to brag about? It might become your war soon enough. You didn't have to get a head start.”
“It's been my war for a long time,” Edward said. It was the first time he staked a claim on it, the way the gold miners had in '49, when someone suggested it wasn't yet his war.
Martin nodded, that somber look crossing his face once again.
“Do you ever—” Edward began. They had come to new ground that required careful treading lest any ice remain from winter to slip through. Though joviality was more their style, they shared the common language of a battle-wearied veteran and thus their conversation on the matter required few words.
“Think about it all, you mean?”
“The fighting, the men,” Edward said.
Martin looked thoughtful, an expression he wore rarely. That is not to say that he was immune to melancholia.
“I think we all do. How could we not?” Martin said at last.
“Then how do you face everything in jest? I suppose it must just be your character.”
“Oh, I've not always been this way. I live in humor more than I ever did— before.”
“How do you do it?” Edward asked now, in an earnest need to know.
“Because,” he said, all traces of the smallest hint of a smile now in retreat, “if I do not live in humor, I will break.”
Edward said nothing for a moment, suddenly feeling he had trespassed too far. He had pressed Martin, but would not have answered himself.
Deciding their chatter had become too cumbersome, Martin turned the conversation with the swiftness that a summer rain can be swept from a brilliant blue sky.
“I have a tart on the counter. Well, I say it's a tart but, Mrs. Samuels tells me only half the ingredients are present. Anyway, I think it smells divine. Would you care to join me?”
“A tart,” Edward said, trying to keep up with the rapid change in topic, “Yes, that sounds nice.”
Already, he was standing to fetch the tart for them.
“Oh and Edward,” Martin called to him.
“Yes?”
“Put it on the blue plate, would you? I always eat tarts on the blue plates.” To others, this request may have seemed eccentric. But, Edward reasoned that a blind man had the right to decide what color plate he wanted to eat from. After all, there were others with oddities even stranger than this. Some people talked to paintings and expected them to reply and, what was more, they actually did! It had seemed unwise to breach the subject with Agnes, but perhaps Martin could offer some insight. He had been able to speak to him today about things he had not even thought to bring up with others. Still, though, warfare was a commonality. They had both experienced the reality of it. Though at times it was insane, no one would debate its authenticity of existence. Edward, motivated by the quest for answers, pressed on in his decision.
“Martin, I—”
“Yes?” he said, as he busied himself with the tart before him, obviously taking no note of the missing ingredients.
“I want, no, I need to find out about—”
Martin continued eating not noticing, or else ignoring, the seriousness in his voice.
A painting who is talking to me.
“The way the other houses are managing their lands,” he said, instead.
“There's a few large houses around here that I'm sure you could find your information out from. To tell you the truth, I wouldn't mind walking there with you now when we finish. A nice spring walk may just be the perfect follow-up to this tart.”
When Edward had cleared away the dishes, they embarked upon their journey in the crisp breeze of spring. Despite now being delayed from his true intention and being forced to walk with Martin, since he had seemingly suggested it, he didn't mind the walk. He had wanted to immerse himself in the subtle approach of the warming days, but his thoughts piled themselves too heavily when he was alone. With Martin's stream of verbosity, like the steady chirping of a bird, his thoughts could mingle softly with Martin's words but there was not the space for them to assert their oppression. Edward still had to concentrate in order to catch the words, like drops of rain in a bucket. Too heavy a rain could cause drops to miss their mark and too many stray thoughts could distract Edward from collecting the words.
“Now, we should be, I believe, approaching a rather large estate. You will, no doubt, wish to observe it for your research.”
They had indeed stopped in front of a far-stretching piece of land with a house, both larger and grander than Edward's own that he had purchased.
“Aren't you going to ask me how I knew where we are?” Martin asked, in much the same manner that he had earlier.
“Was it based on the amount of time we had been walking?”
“By George, the Yank's got it,” he said, with a chuckle. The house stood proudly among several acres.
“They've planted a garden, too,” Edward said now, noticing faint traces of greenery that looked much the same as his own sprigs at home did.
“Good, good— what was that? I hear a female voice. She sounds pretty. Oh Edward, is she?”
Edward had not heard the voice. They were separated by a fence and she was a fair distance from them, but sure enough there was a girl there and yes, she was pretty.
“She's pretty,” Edward said, “but, not alone. A man's with her.”
“Shame.”