Creative Writing

It's the 450th anniversary of the death of John Milton (OP), and we're using this as an opportunity to publish some of the work of contemporary Pauline creative writers, all of whom took a creative writing EPQ.  Today's post features a short story by Finn Johnsson, whose project focussed on creating a series of short stories, each from a different character's perspective, narrating the events leading up to a murder, and drew on the influence of writers including Agatha Christie, Joan Lindsay and Donna Tartt.  'To ashes' is the first story in the collection, with themes of passion and revenge in the world of art forgery.  The story's illustrations include Finn's sketches of some of the different characters.  

'To ashes'

Finn Johnsson

That painting. It was just an ordinary, f***ing painting. He had never understood his father's obsession, but lately, in the back of his mind, it loomed. Frozen in delicate brush strokes, her visage stared off into the distance. He could hear the horse's panicked scream, the thrill of battle, the blood pounding against his ears. He spent his dreams frantically chasing her across the canvas, and the scene flashed across his eyes when he was awake. His jaw clenched in a silent scream before he slumped back against the seat in resignation.

Drowsy afternoon sunlight pooled around him, soaking the countryside in gold. A cloud of dust trailed behind him as he drove, reminding him of cowboys and sunsets and grainy old films. The trees and fields danced in the wind, swirling before his eyes like he was trapped in some Van Gogh dreamscape. His boot further inched down on the clutch, and the houses that dotted the fields streamed past, jolly red ribbons flowing across the landscape.

His name was Romeo. Something his father had unfortunately insisted on. Just why, he would never know, probably fueled by a fleeting obsession with Shakespeare. He adjusted the rearview mirror and saw his distorted reflection looking back at himself; he looked like he belonged in The Scream. Dark eyebrows slashed their way across a white, ethereal complexion, and a delicate, crooked nose tilted upwards imperiously. Sleepless nights had glazed the hollows around his eyes a dark purple, and his pupils gleamed, burning feverishly. Romeo saw none of these things, though. His glittering eyes were wide and distant, captivated by some faraway women racing through the theatre of his mind.

It was late afternoon by the time the car swerved off the main road and was swallowed by the forest. Romeo peered into the green gloom, his vision adjusting to the darkness. Trees materialised out of the shadows, talons reaching up towards the heavens, their colossal limbs frosted with veins of lichen. Massive boulders littered the forest floor, sleeping trolls hidden under duvets of moss, and shafts of light beamed down in the patches where the sun filtered through the canopy, illuminating the forest in a faint angelic glow.

As he drove on, the trail trickled to little more than a track, and the car lurched underneath Romeo as it navigated the web of ruts and hollows that exploded across the forest floor. He was nearly there. He pulled on the wheel, and his car crunched slowly off the trail into the undergrowth. Once he was certain that the endless snarl of trees had engulfed the car completely, Romeo switched off the engine, stripped out of his socks and shoes and got out.

He stood for a moment, barefoot and unmoving, a man in a dark suit surrounded by an ancient forest before beginning to stalk through the undergrowth. He moved smoothly and fluidly with a strange feline grace. The dead silence of the forest, coupled with the trees arching high above him, made him feel like he was in some vast, empty cathedral. Unnoticed to Romeo, amongst the graveyard of boulders, adders slithered in their secret holes, and bats flitted silently: spectral shadows. An owl glanced down furiously at the incoming intrusion.

Eventually, Ingeröd Manor appeared in front of him. It was a lovely two-story mansion nestled deep into the forest. Once, it had probably belonged to some important Lord or Lady. There would have been parties and banquets with endless torrents of people bustling in and out. Although those memories had all but faded, leaving the manor just an echo of its former self, it still fiercely clung to its stately grandeur. The walls blazed a proud crimson, and creamy white accents adorned the doors and windows. An exquisitely carved trellis crept up the back wall, blooming with colour, and the glass panels that sheltered the outdoor seating area glistened orange in the dying sun.

Romeo sat down and waited, obscured by the shadows. He looked out on the meticulously groomed lawn, the only obstacle between him and the manor. A battalion of ants had begun their expedition, marching their way over the valleys and ridges of his foot in a single neat column. He checked his watch and stared at the hands lazily, following their orbits inside the glass case. Eventually, a figure pushed open the backdoor of the house and stared out into the forest, hair burnished in the afternoon sun, before disappearing back inside. Romeo felt a thrill rush through him, the sensation you get when you look over an abyss and revel in the terrible thought that you're one step away from death. It was time.

Romeo confidently walked up to the house and through the slightly ajar back door. He made his way up the staircase, ignoring the way her voice carried sweetly through the closed door between him and the guests. He tried the handle of the room, which was the second furthest on the left. It was unlocked, of course. Two cases lay on the floor, and a dark overcoat was hung over a tall easel in the corner. A small gold key and a large rectangle covered in a velvet cloth lay on a broad oak desk. After checking that the corridor was empty, he picked both up and left the room, turning through the corridors until he came to another door. The key fit perfectly. Of course. He stepped inside quickly, locking the door behind him. His eyes sought it out immediately; he could feel its alluring pull even through the cloth that cloaked it. Avoiding eye contact, he switched the two objects, arranging the fabric to ensure the room looked unchanged. He locked the door again and stopped by the first room to drop off the identical rectangle he now carried. He shut this door again and simply left.

Blood fired through Romeo's head as he ran. He heard hoofbeats and drums pounding, and all he saw was red. He was the horse from the painting, galloping through the undergrowth, flanks heaving with sweat and eyes rolled back in their sockets. He bolted madly through the green and yellow. Smoke danced in the edges of his vision, and arrows whistled around his ears. His nostrils flared, inhaling the smell of smoke and sweat. Eventually, he stumbled into something and looked down at the car, which was solid and sleek and so out of place in his terrible fantasy. He collapsed, trembling, onto the bonnet. His breath hissed out in ragged gasps as he lay there, looking up at the trees, letting them lull him into lucidity. He had done it. The painting was his. Romeo stood up slowly and walked to his car, changing out his shredded suit. Then, he slowly backed the car out of the woods and began driving it up to the house.

The front of the manor was even more impressive. Gardens streamed before it, heavy-headed flowers bowing in deference. Trimmed hedges formed labyrinthine patterns on the lawns, and crystal water splashed out of a marble fountain. He parked his car under the shade of a rock-old oak, next to the other vehicles that also stood there. He was the last guest arriving, the main act. He walked up to the house and rapped the door sharply. After a few seconds, it swung open, and a man appeared. He had grey eyes and a short grizzled beard that, coupled with high cheekbones, gave him a wolfish look. His shirt sleeves were rolled up above the elbows, revealing cords of muscle and tanned, travelled skin.

'Romeo, welcome back,' he enthused gruffly before pausing, scrutinising his face. 'Good god, you look terrible. Are you quite sure you're alright?'

'Just a bit tired, nothing to worry about, Loke', replied Romeo wearily.

'You're lucky; you came just in time for dinner. All the guests are having drinks in the living room. Let me get your bags for you; come right in.'

He noticed the hesitation on Romeo's face and the way his gaze lingered on his cases. 'Don't worry about them; I'll be careful carrying them up.'

Romeo walked in, his footsteps echoing on the rough-cut stone floors as his eyes drank up his surroundings. He was taken back to long summers, filled with laughter and noise and the sound of water splashing, to winters with roaring fires and thick blankets of snow, to his father…
 
Romeo winced, quickly steering his thoughts away before entering the living room. The floors were wooden, the colour of burnt honey. A grand piano lay in one corner, keys shining, and an oaken bar stretched across the far wall where rows and rows of glass bottles winked gleefully at him. On a shelf by the bottles lay an ornamental hunting dagger with a pretty pearl hilt and a curved gleaming blade. In the other corner, a fire crackled. It was one of those charming traditional fireplaces only found in Sweden: all ornate, white tiled with intricate glazed blue patterns. He thought back to when he was little, and he would sit by his father in front of the fire at night, letting the flames hypnotise him into a deep, comfortable sleep.

He walked up to the small glass table around which the other guests were seated, engrossed in conversation.

'Good evening', Romeo said as all the guests swivelled to look at him.

There was an older man with a smooth bald head, and a moustache Poirot would be proud of. Behind his round stomach and ridiculous appearance, shrewd eyes darted cunningly. Next to him was a woman, elegantly poised and dark hair curled perfectly. She glanced at him, mouth curved upwards in some secret amusement before she turned back to the book she was reading. There were many more who didn't matter, and then, finally, there was his older brother. He hadn't changed in the last fifteen years; the same smug upturned nose and boisterous lock of blonde hair that slightly obscured baby blue eyes.
It would have been honestly all worth it to see the look on his goddamn face, those bright blue eyes staring deadeningly at him, wide and unblinking. Mouth gaping like a fish dragged up from deep water. A sharp crack cut the air, frantic and desperate, as the glass in his trembling hand shattered, sending shards tumbling down onto the floor. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, and before anything coherent came out, Romeo extended his hand in greeting.

His brother numbly shook it, mouth still ajar with disbelief as Romeo turned, walking over to the bar where he swirled the contents of a tall amber bottle with dark red liquor from a squat flask. The burning, bittersweet taste made him grimace in appreciation. Still holding his drink, he sauntered off to the piano. The keys were worn from years of use, and the paint peeled in places, but it didn't make it any less magnificent. He sat down. He could hear the ivory calling to him, aching to be played after all these years, and after a brief hesitation, he obliged. The notes swept across the room, filling every cavity with their sweet melancholy, the feeling of the leaves in autumn turning red or the day after Christmas.

He shifted his thoughts back to the last time he had seen his brother. It had been a blustery winter day, with china blue skies, fluffy white clouds, and wind that bit through to the bones. The sea had frozen smooth, glaring and blinding in the bright sun. His brother had convinced him to go fishing on the ice. They had carefully skated over to the fishing area, and Romeo had looked down into the jagged wounds that the fishermen had sawed into the ice. There were spots where the sea fought through these portals that separated the two worlds: a black swirling mass, all dark and terrible. He remembered standing over the edge, his eyes lost in the endless depths when he had felt a sharp shove to his back.
 
The next moments came to him with painful vividness, like he was trapped in some oversaturated technicolour movie. His hands had clawed at the air, desperately trying to counteract his own devastating momentum. His breath caught in his throat; he hadn't even screamed. Romeo flailed there for a long moment, teetering hopelessly on the brink as the world slowed down around him. It's funny what you remember in moments like these. His first thought wasn't that he could die; it was that he hoped the salt water wouldn't ruin his new clothes. He remembered wondering what all the fish would think when he came crashing down. He remembered that the sun looked like some golden apple waiting to be picked and that the clouds, once pure white, looked so very black and sullied in the water's reflection. And then his world, just as suddenly as it had slowed, sped up again as the water came rushing up to greet him in its icy clasp.

After that, he only recollected what had happened in flashes. The thunderclap of cold. The currents fighting to drag him down. His hoarse cries for help. The relief when he saw his brother's silhouette coming to save him. Only then, when he saw his brother's blank, expressionless face looking down at him, that a tiny sliver of doubt wormed its way into his brain.

'Help me', he gasped hoarsely.

His brother had just stared coldly down at him.

'Why?' he had whispered to his brother through trembling lips.

His brother didn't answer; he just gave a satisfied, icy look and turned and walked away, leaving him in the water, clutching onto the edge of the ice. After that, all Romeo remembered was seeing his brother's hazy figure turning his back and receding into the distance. Just that one scene, replaying again and again in his head like some broken film until the cold consumed him.

As his mind wandered, his fingers strained, sending hundreds of notes rippling across the room. He continued to play until he couldn't play any more, until the music fell apart in his hands, and he looked up at the eyes staring shakenly at him.

By the time they gathered for dinner, the dying sun was nothing more than a wavering red orb getting slowly devoured by the dark forest. He sat in the centre of the table, opposite the women and next to the old man with the seafoam eyes with whom he struck up a conversation.

'What do you do for a living?

'I work a bit with art', he replied shiftily.

'My father was an art historian, you know? But his true passion was always the art itself. He travelled a lot. I guess it's a profession that takes you all around the world.'
 
'Oh, I worked all over when I was younger: New York, Paris, London,' his eyes were wistful and distant. ‘Those were the days; it was an exciting time to live in. Let me tell you; the parties were unlike anything seen before, or since, for that matter: tigers and dancers and cocaine on every tabletop; it was terrible. But now? I do a bit for galleries here and there, but mostly, I just travel and pick up a bit here and there for my private collection.

'I've never understood it.' 

'What?'

'The allure of art.'

Romeo saw the old man's eyes light up.

As they ate, vast amounts of food kept materialising on the groaning table. Broths and risottos, red blushing lobsters slathered in butter, crispy potatoes, juicy seasoned steaks; all neverendingly procured up on silver platters. The tablecloth was a broiling sea upon which fleets of silver vessels floated around on, carried by furious gusts of animated conversation.

The room faded away, away as their banquet floated upwards. Bellowing bulls ran amok the clouds, and the moon waxed and waned with alarming speed. The endless excess got devoured with grotesque efficiency by the guests until they physically couldn't eat any more, instead just sitting there, bloated and blissfully content. Despite the awful amount of food they ate, they drank even more: four bottles of Bollinger and three bottles of an excellent Merlot, followed by a delicious vintage port and brandy on top of that, too. They drank from goblets which appeared before them until the table became the sole point of convergence in their worlds, around which the rest of the universe orbited at an alarming rate. Movements and conversation blurred together into a continuous flow, travelling at such a confusing speed until there were hundreds of people all flashing around in a fever dream feast. Romeo's eyes scrabbled to grasp hold of her glinting emerald ring, a solid star on the horizon in his ocean of half-formed thoughts. It moved with each of her graceful gestures like a little hummingbird flitting from flower to delicate flower. By the time Loke stood up to give a toast, Romeo's vision had gone quite dark around the edges, and his head was buzzing in a pleasant, insensate way.

'Skål to the paths that brought us here, and may they stray far from misfortune.' 

'Skål!' the table chorused back.

Romeo leant forward and casually said to the woman in a low voice. 'You know some people have the most terrible misfortune.'

He glanced right to check that his brother was listening before carrying on. He had always had an excellent stage whisper.

'I once knew a criminal who tried to sell a Rembrandt. It's a funny story -'
 
His brother's cutlery clattered loudly against his plate as he looked dumbly at him. Then he leapt up, the sound of his chair shoved abruptly backwards, scraping jaggedly through the dead silence as the napkin flew off of his lap. His face was pale and bloodless, hands clenched and quivering. Romeo met his frantic eyes innocently, and his brother looked around, realising that everyone was staring at him in hungry anticipation.

'My apologies', he choked out at last before sitting awkwardly back down in his chair.

Loke's low voice reverberated through the tense room. 'If everyone is done eating, why don't you all come and pour yourself another drink in the living room.'

His brother got up from the table.'I need to first. I need to…I just need to check something. In my room. Quickly. I'll come back down after,' he blustered as he clumsily excused himself.

'Drinks in the living room sound lovely', said the woman smoothly, collecting her dress in one hand and grabbing her drink in the other. 'Thank you so much for the dinner. The food was excellent.'

The rest of the guests quickly followed suit, waking from their slumber and expressing their many thanks for the meal, but Romeo hung back. He walked outside to light up a cigar and sat down, watching through the window as Loke cleaned up the room. He swept the floor methodically, catching all the corners. With patient efficiency, tables were cleared, and dishes were washed. As he worked, the familiar motion eased a few weary lines from his face, making him seem younger, certainly not yet forty. Not even near forty. Young for the owner of a guest manor. Young for a man with so many tired lines remaining on his face.

Romeo got up, leaving Loke to continue with his silent task. He stumbled up to his room and collapsed onto his bed, drowning in the tangle of sheets. The room warped around him, the cheery floral wallpaper spinning like some pastel merry-go-round. His eyes slowly drifted to the rectangle in the corner of his room. Romeo tried to ignore it, but it chafed unrelentingly at him, furious underneath its velvet prison. Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore and yielded, looking at the painting for the first time in eleven years.

The horse's eyes flexed madly, tiny moons of terror rolling around in its sockets. Muscle and sinew rippled like shifting stone slabs. An elegant neck strained into an alabaster arch. The battle roared around, glimmers of golden light glancing off plunging spears. A man stared out at Romero, futilely reaching for his hand as the light died from his eyes. Perched calmly on the horse, pale eyes fixated on something beyond the frame, her mouth pressed close with grave certainty as she waited patiently. The droplets of blood that splattered across her bare arms were startling red against her pale skin like she had eaten wild cranberries and the juice had dribbled down uncaringly. Her pink dress looked almost pearlescent among the ebb of dark cannon smoke.

His father had chased art like a boy desperately trying to catch the moon. He wanted nothing more than to seize it, to be able to conjure up scenes of beauty and terror. However, despite his best efforts, his connection to art didn't translate to the canvas and his endeavours ended as hopelessly as the boys. Accepting the devastating realisation that he would never be able to paint anything of significance, the next best thing was to devote his life to studying what would forever remain out of his reach. Hours holed up in his library reading and learning. Long trips building up his collection with the loving care of a shepherd as he tends to his sheep. But the abundance of paintings and manuscripts his father collected was nothing compared to the painting standing before him. That stupid f***ing painting.

He remembered the day his father had come home with it. He had been travelling for over a month, leaving his mother worried sick. Although he was gone often, this time was different. He hadn't called once; it was like he had just fallen off the surface of the earth. Romeo remembered seeing his mother fretting over the phone every night, her mouth moving in silent prayers. Then, one evening, with no warning, he had returned, hair plastered to his forehead and dark circles around his eyes, clutching a leather case with crazed care. His father had passed out right there on the doorstep, and it had taken all of Romeo and his mother's strength to pry his precious prize from his grasp. He had never revealed how he had gotten a hold of a Rembrandt, thought to be missing for centuries, but Romeo guessed his father's extensive research had unearthed a clue to the painting's location, and he had stopped at nothing to recover it.

It was the thing his father had loved the most, family aside. When he was little, he spent hours studying it, staring unblinkingly, searching for the secret it obviously had to contain. However, those stupid fantasies died alongside his mother, and as he grew older, they became caustic, festering into bitter resentment. He sighed, absorbed in the canvas, and for the first time in a long while, fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

By the time he woke up, it was nearly eleven. Romeo left his room and walked out onto the balcony. He lit up a cigarette and watched as the wisps of smoke trailed off into the darkness. Everything had changed now that night had wrapped her dark embrace around the landscape. The sky had faded into an inky violet, and stars illuminated the akasha like thousands of twinkling faerie lights. The forest stood still, now nothing more than a foreboding silhouette. Behind the impenetrable tangle, Romeo could hear the sinister cackling of the night's secret creatures. A loon's haunting cry echoed repeatedly from somewhere in the ubiquitous blackness, and Romeo shivered.

There was a sound behind him, and Rosaline walked out on the balcony carrying an easel and tin box. She set up in front of him, silently twisting the screws of the easel in place deftly.

Romeo sat down and watched, enraptured, as she began to paint. The scene before him began to appear on the canvas. It was beautiful, and so was she. Her movements were delicate and assured, a ballerina or a leopard stalking its prey. He didn't know how long he sat there, but by the time Romeo felt the first few raindrops against his face, the painting was complete. Even after she left, he sat there, unable to move, until the rain had soaked fully through his clothes and any stars had been fully extinguished by the storm.
 
After he returned to his room, he washed himself and changed into a fresh pair of clothes. By the time he was done, the storm raged outside. Romeo sat down on his bed, listening to the peaceful lashing of the rain and feeling the low roll of thunder as it prowled through his chest. His door swung open, and she came in, sitting down on the bed next to him.

'So you have a brother?' She asked sharply. Romeo looked at her slowly. 'I do.'

'It's alright,' she interrupted.' Family is complicated, not that I would know,' she added dryly. 

'So what are you going to do now?' He tried saying it casually, but it came out flat and sullen. 

'There's a boat leaving tomorrow at noon. I guess I'll see where the wind takes me.'

She looked at him long and hard.

He wanted to say something, anything, but instead, he just watched silently as she left through the door. He had never been good at farewells.

Romeo lay down and closed his eyes, seeing the painting appear in his mind as he knew it would. The woman in the billowing dress stared off at something in the beyond, her mouth moving in a silent whisper. Then she turned, staring directly at him with those piercing eyes, and galloped off. He chased hopelessly after her figure until he eventually passed through the doors of sleep, and she faded off into the distance.

At two am, he woke up. His room was still silent, but something had changed, as if the tension in the air had shifted slightly, leaving a deep uneasiness. He couldn't move; all he could hear was his breath coming out in short, shallow gasps and the dreadful absent silence of expectancy. He lay there, frozen stupid, until eventually, somewhere in the darkness, floorboards creaked, and the strange tension bled out his room, leaving him shaking and clammy.

After that, Romeo didn't sleep again. Moonlight spilt through his open window on the other end of the room, swathing the room in a cherubic silver glow. He looked out at the stars, feeling their celestial pull. Eventually, the clock worked around three, and Romeo slowly got up from his bed, opening his door with trembling hands. The candles along the wall cast dark halos of flickering shadow around him as he walked down the empty hallways, coming to a stop at the door. Romeo put the key in the lock, delicate gloved fingers moving smoothly until there was a quiet click, and the door eased open. He crept forward silently, face twisted in a rictus smile; vengeance belonged to him and was his to repay. In the darkness, his eyes were coal black like goats'. He stopped abruptly. Dark pools oozed across the floor, surrounding the bed. Romeo continued forward unsteadily until he was standing next to the headboard. Slumped on the bright white sheets, hair matted with red, was his brother, very much dead.
 
Dazed, Romeo let the revolver in hand limply fall to his side and stared. Blood seeped from his chest, staining the sheets a deep scarlet. He looked so horribly surprised, mouth open in dumb shock. His eyes were wide in disbelief, all blank and awful. They had glazed over like a layer of ice had frozen over the ocean blue.

His grip tightened on the revolver until his knuckles shook. He raised his arms slowly, holding them out straight until the metal barrel pressed firmly against his brother's temple. His vision blurred, and his breath came out in ragged, rough gasps. Eleven years. A tear trickled slowly down his burning face. His arms began to tremble violently. Eleven bloody years. His finger tightened around the trigger. The warm metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as he pressed the barrel harder against the unmoving skull. He put down the gun.

There was no future here, nothing to sow, just barren blight he thought bitterly. It was done.He walked around the room, mechanically opening drawers and cupboards until he finally found a smaller case underneath the bed. He opened it up and looked down at several pages of documents and letters. They were mostly financial. Apparently, his dearest brother was severely indebted. In rather colourful language, there were some letters depicting what would happen to him if said debts weren't paid soon. Too late. He kept thumbing through the documents until he came to a cream folder at the bottom of the pile: The Last Will and Testament of Måns Gustasfsson. He began to open it and hesitated, instead tucking it away in his pocket for safekeeping. Everything else he left, money and jewellery, ready for the scavengers that would inevitably come and pick the room clean. His father had always said looters become looted, while time and tide make us mercenaries all, although this was probably not the image he had in mind. Then, after taking one more dispassionate glance at his brother, he shut off the lights, locked the door and left.

He could hear the birds singing their morning chorus and looked out the window as dawn's first rays filtered into the sky, casting the forest in a blue haze. A deer grazed on the lawn, barely twenty metres from the house, ears twitching nervously and tense body quivering. Romeo looked at the cars in the driveway she had left. Suddenly, the deer startled away, a lithe body springing through the air off into the forest. He remembered the will in his pocket. He paused again before opening it. For some reason, it felt invasive and intimate. Romeo knew what it would say, but temptation got the better of him, and he began to read it. Most of it was expected, but the last paragraph made him draw a sharp intake of breath. My favourite painting, the Rembrandt, I leave to my son Romeo. He thought back to his brother's dead body and actually let out a chuckle, deep and rumbling, as the sun came over the tops of the trees, bathing the forest in blood. He looked at his watch. He had time; her boat didn't leave until noon.

Many thanks to Finn for letting us publish his story.  And if you're interested in reading extracts from some of the other creative writing EPQs Paulines have produced in the last few years, you can find them here: Old Stories in Dark Places, a collection of fantasy short stories by Thomas Lamont; Scorched Grass, a historical novel set in the 12th century by Tom Salter; The Stone Machine, an H P Lovecraft inspired short story by Alex Kwang; Through Fields of Gold, a Cormac McCarthy inspired novella by Zack McGuire; Cheating Death, a Terry Pratchett inspired short story by Charlie de Waal; The Papers, a Saki inspired short story by Yang Hsu; and Avarice, from a collection of short stories inspired by the seven deadly sins, by Alex Jacob.