Dirk Tot

The monster slowly rose from the chair and would have stood erect if the ceiling had been higher. Mel uttered a terrified cry, turned on his heels and fled, dropping his drawing. He collided heavily with Fa Theum, who blocked the doorway.

‘Mel, whatever is the matter?’

The boy could only whimper as the priest held him fast, preventing his flight. He looked up at the old man and was astonished to see that he showed no fear. Instead, he was actually smiling. Mel half turned and was even more astounded to see his father and mother in the shadows, sitting calmly side by side on the settle. His mother, Mabin, was smiling nervously, but his father shifted uncomfortably. He glared at Fa Theum.

Then the monster spoke. ‘Hello, Mel.’ The voice was deep and resonant but surprisingly gentle, his Vlamian accent refined.

Slowly, Mel turned to confront the dreadful sight and a strange thing happened. He began to look at the creature the same way he looked at a subject he was about to draw. Almost at once, his fear and preconceptions fluttered away like so many moths shaken out of an old blanket. What he now saw was not so much a monster as a tall and powerful man dressed in the finest clothes he had ever seen. And, what’s more, they were coloured. Mel had never met anyone before who was not dressed in tabby. The monster wore a long, sleeveless tunic made from fine, richly embroidered purple brocade trimmed with tawny fur. Beneath this was a deep blue velvet doublet stitched with gold. The sleeves of his doublet were slit in many places, revealing the white silk of his shirt. He wore a heavy chain around his neck. He carried a plumed, flat velvet hat and he had a jewelled reticule at his side, attached to his ornate belt. His black leather breeches were tucked into soft, high boots. He made a dazzling contrast to the drabness of the cottage.

But, the wonder of the colours aside, it was his ruined face that held Mel’s attention. The whole of the right side seemed to be made of wrinkled leather, leather that had melted like candle wax. Set in this was his eye, now a milky dome. There was a deformed lump where Mel supposed his ear had been and on that side of his head there was no hair at all. The man-monster turned his head for a moment to look at Mel’s mother and father, and Mel was surprised to see that when the ruined half of his face was turned away he looked perfectly normal. In fact, he was even handsome. By this time, Mel’s initial dread had almost completely vanished.

‘Mel, don’t stare,’ admonished his mother.

Mel lowered his eyes momentarily, but raised them again as the stranger bent down to pick up his drawing. The man straightened up, forgetting the low ceiling, and bumped his head, sending a small shower of dust cascading around him. Mel stifled a laugh.

‘Mel!’ his father hissed.

‘I’m … I’m sorry,’ stammered Mel sheepishly. He looked up at the stranger to see that he too was suppressing a laugh. He rubbed his head where he had bumped it and Mel saw that his left hand was made entirely of finely engraved silver. It was beautifully crafted, even down to the articulated joints.

The stranger looked down at the drawing of the hare he held in his good hand. ‘I can see that everything I’ve heard about you is true, Mel.’

The stranger had heard about him!

The man looked at the drawing again, and then turned to place it on the table, where Mel was surprised to see lay many of his other drawings. ‘You are industrious too, I can see.’

‘Mel, this is Dirk Tot. Say hello,’ said Fa Theum, as he stood behind Mel with his hands resting on the boy’s shoulders.

‘Hello,’ and after a sharp squeeze from the priest he added, ‘sir.’

‘Come here, Mel,’ said Dirk Tot. Clearly discomforted by his stooped posture, he sat down again in Willem’s chair, which complained with a loud creak as he settled his great bulk. Hesitantly, Mel approached. ‘How long have you been drawing?’

‘I don’t know in years,’ Mel answered. ‘Ever such a long time, as long as I can remember.’

‘What do you like to draw best of all?’

‘I like to draw imaginary things best of all,’ Mel replied instantly.

A smile flitted across the undamaged side of Dirk Tot’s face and then vanished. ‘Tell me, Mel, which do you think is the best of your works?’ He gestured towards the drawings scattered on the table, some in charcoal and some in ink.

Mel quickly sorted through the drawings. ‘This one,’ he said, passing a picture of a set of bagpipes with dancing human arms and feet and the head of a nightingale with its beak open wide.

Dirk Tot studied it. ‘Why do you think this is good?’

There was a short silence before Fa Theum prompted, ‘Come on, Mel. Don’t be shy.’

‘I like it because it’s more than just an ordinary picture.’ He looked at his interrogator. ‘It’s a picture that means two things at once.’ He shot a quick glance at Fa Theum, who nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘It’s a symbol.’

The old priest smiled the faintest of smiles.

‘You see, it’s a picture of a bagpipe, which makes a certain kind of noise, joined up to a picture of a nightingale, which makes another kind of noise – a noise much sweeter than the pipes. And the arms and legs are dancing – as if to the music. So, even though there’s no sound, you can make believe there is. But you’re not sure what kind of sound it is, bagpipes or bird, or both. And you wonder why he’s dancing. Is it because of the music or because of something else?’

‘Where did the idea come from?’

‘I don’t know, it was just there when I sat down to draw.’

‘Are your ideas always there?’

‘Usually. Inside in my head. But if I ever can’t think of one, I look at the shapes and get a new idea from them.’

‘Shapes? What shapes?’ asked Dirk Tot.

‘Just shapes. Sometimes I look in the hearth, at the ashes, and I see pictures there. Or in the flames in the fire. Sometimes I see them in the clouds or in the stains on the wall. I see people and animals and monsters with ….’ he nearly said horrible faces ‘… strange landscapes.’ Mel could feel everybody’s eyes on him. He hated being the centre of attention.

Dirk Tot seemed to sense his awkwardness and quickly asked, ‘Tell me, how often do you make mistakes?’

Mel thought about lying, but he realised this man knew too much about drawing. ‘Not very often. Well, sometimes … Quite a bit actually.’

‘Every artist makes mistakes; it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Only people who never try anything new never make mistakes.’

The man sat forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. ‘Now tell me, which is your worst picture?’ he asked.

Surprised at this question, Mel shuffled through the drawings a couple of times and then handed the man an ink portrait. ‘This one, I think.’

The stranger studied it. ‘Tell me why.’

Mel thought. Should he point out the mistakes or tell him how the pen kept clogging up or how lumpy the ink was or how dark it was when he made the drawing? As Mel rehearsed these themes in his head they began to sound like excuses. Eventually he said, ‘Well, you see, it’s a picture of Fa Theum – but it’s not like him.’

‘You’re wrong, Mel, it is the very image of him,’ interrupted Dirk Tot.

‘It looks like him – at least I hope it does – but it’s not him. Fa Theum talks and laughs and does lots of things that my drawing can’t show. He can read and write and say sermons and he tells funny stories and – ’

‘Well, I’m glad someone thinks they’re funny,’ interjected the Fa.

Everyone laughed – everyone except Willem.

Dirk Tot continued. ‘You know, Mel, there is more to being an artist than being able to carry a likeness. A true artist knows the difference between what is good and what is bad and, more importantly, between what is merely good and what is great. Sometimes great masters make paintings that are bad – not as often as bad artists, but occasionally – and do you know what they do to these bad paintings?’

Mel shook his head.

‘They destroy them.’

Mel slowly nodded. ‘So that the bad apple doesn’t spoil the others in the barrel.’

Dirk Tot fixed his one good eye on Mel and stared so hard that the boy began to feel uncomfortable. Mel lowered his head and shifted his weight. After what seemed an age, Dirk Tot grunted, turned to Fa Theum and nodded.

‘Mel, gather up all these drawings now and come over to the fane with me,’ said Fa Theum. ‘We need to put them back up on display so that the rest of the village can continue to admire them.’ This drew an alarmed look from Dirk Tot that the priest pretended not to notice. ‘Besides, Dirk Tot has things he needs to discuss with your parents.’

After a glance at his father, Mel did as he was told.

As soon as he was out of the door, the questions about the richly dressed stranger gushed from Mel’s mouth. But he soon realised that he was not going to get any answers until Fa Theum was good and ready. He could not contain his excitement however, as he virtually pulled the old priest past Dirk Tot’s fine carriage and coachmen in their matching liveries of deep blue.

They entered the cool, whitewashed interior of the fane and genuflected to the large diaglyph on the altar before sitting down on one of the scrubbed, wooden pews. Sunlight slanted in through the small windows, creating patches of amber light and shade on the bare stone floor.

The old man held up a pre-emptive finger. ‘Sit still. Listen carefully to what I have to say.’

What Fa Theum then said began a chain of events that changed Mel’s life, and, ultimately, the lives of everyone in the land of Nem, forever.