Photographs of him were rare – in fact, there was only one known to exist, taken years before, when he was an art student. It was still used to identify him: he appeared as a tall young man of slender build, narrow-hipped, with a chiselled face and lustrous fair hair. He looked sullen and aggressive, but also vulnerable.
Bathurst and his aides took extraordinary measures to disguise or conceal his features when he was travelling around. Travelling around was something he did almost constantly, of course. Should some enterprising photographer manage to obtain a candid shot with a long lens, or when Bathurst was caught unawares, then the painter would use any means at his disposal to suppress it: invocation of privacy laws or physical threats were instantly uttered, but most often he would resort to his vast wealth to buy the picture. Naturally, all this heightened the intensity of the attention around him.
It followed too that people were curious about his physical appearance. His enemies said that he had grown old, put on weight, that his flowing locks had thinned or fallen out, or that some cuckolded husband or lover had managed to disfigure him.
None of this was true, as the chosen ones who were allowed into the private view on Gannten Asemant immediately discovered. Although he was no longer the fragile youth blessed with classical beauty, Bathurst’s body had filled out while maintaining a look of fitness and agility. His face remained aquiline and attractively angular, his fair hair flowed about his shoulders. He moved with feline grace and carried himself with an aura of manly strength. Fine lines of maturity that were forming around his eyes only emphasized the sensuality of his features.
His force of personality was extraordinary. Everyone present felt acutely aware of him, as if he was exerting a magnetic attraction. People could not help staring at him or trying to edge closer to him, eager to listen in on the few conversations he engaged in.
The temptations of the bounty aside, Bathurst was one of the most photogenic men they had ever seen. In order to remove temptation, all photographic equipment and cellphones were temporarily confiscated and secured in a guarded room along the corridor. The guests had to content themselves with gawping, and the lesser satisfactions of being able to tell their friends they had at least been there.
Even allowing for Bathurst’s celebrity the canvases were still the dominant presence. The five large paintings, all completed comparatively recently and therefore unseen even by most of his entourage until this event, were hung on the gallery walls. The two largest were placed one at each end, the other three being hung side by side on the wall facing the window.
No catalogue was prepared by the gallery, so none of the paintings was identified. Was this Bathurst’s own wish, or just a mistake by the gallery? No one seemed to know. However, we do know what paintings there were, because the enterprising young reporter from the News managed to elicit the titles from Bathurst or one of his close aides, and diligently recorded them.
With hindsight, we therefore have the remarkable information that this was the only known occasion when all five canvases of Bathurst’s HAVOC SEQUENCE were displayed together.
Final Hour of the Relief Ship was on one of the end walls. Opposite, at the further end of the gallery, stood The Breakers of the Earth. Arrayed along the wall between them were the three paintings which today are recognized as supreme even amongst Bathurst’s supreme canvases: Virtuous Magnificence and Decadent Hope, Willing Slaves of God and Terrain of a Dying Hero.
The mere thought of these five masterpieces being in one place at the same time still has the capacity to take the breath away.
However, even the presence of the five Havoc paintings did not provide the surpassing moment. Bathurst had promised to display several of his smaller paintings. Four of them were hung there, quietly filling the available spaces on the walls. Dazzled by the Havocs, the guests might have been excused if they had not immediately noticed the others. But there they were, four canvases placed unobtrusively at eye-level on a slightly uneven and not especially clean gallery wall.
Two of them were sketches for details in the Havoc Sequence: one of these was the head of the sea serpent from Final Hour of the Relief Ship. The other was the body of the naked woman about to be consumed by a burning tide of fast-moving lava, from Willing Slaves of God. Either of these so-called sketches would stand alone as a crowning achievement for any other painter. In particular, the draft of the serpent’s head (which was in fact a full-sized canvas painted in oils) gave an astonishing insight into the close attention Bathurst paid to detail. With these two canvases set beside the ultimate paintings, it was possible to discern the artistry and technique that had been demanded of the artist.
Then there were the other two.
The first was The Shroud, which was being displayed openly for the first and perhaps the only time. The Shroud was a framed canvas of about fifty by sixty centimetres. The artist was depicted in such detail that it was almost a shock to see it. It was immediately obvious that it was based on the famous photograph, the one everyone had seen: the posture, the clothes, the facial expression – all were identical. The only difference was that Bathurst had painted himself older: the youth had been supplanted by the man. There was no hidden message in the painting itself. The guests could turn from a regard of the painting to see the man himself, standing a short distance away, almost the twin of his own creation.
The last of the smaller canvases stood out from the others, from the havoc, the shroud, the ever-constant sense that the artist was directly or indirectly placing himself in every image. This one was different. It was a portrait of a woman and the title was E.M. The Singer of Airs. One by one the guests came to this painting, stared absorbedly at it, apparently paralysed by its intensity.
All, men and women alike, were disconcerted and seemingly aroused by its fierce erotic clarity. Many stood before it for several minutes, neglecting the charismatic artist whose presence dominated the rest of the room, reluctant to move away, or to yield their place in front of the painting to another person. Some seemed embarrassed, others shocked. One man turned away, blushing. No one could ignore it, no one could deny its power.
At the time of this gallery view it’s doubtful if anyone there had any idea who the sitter had been, who ‘E.M.’ might be. Now we know that it is almost certainly a portrait of Esphoven Muy. This is thanks to the detective work of Dant Willer, the young reporter. It was Willer who through later research into the Kammeston Archive was to establish the link between Muy and Bathurst.
It is also through Willer that we have a permanent, reliable recording of this painting. A tiny digital camera, concealed behind the lapel of Willer’s jacket, snatched five images of the painting of Muy. Like most of the people there that day, Willer was sensually overcome by the impact of the portrait.
Without the Willer frames the painting of Muy would never have been seen by anyone who was not at the Blue Lagoon. Those tiny low-resolution images, digitally enhanced and combined, have been the basis of every reproduction that has appeared since.
The painting of Esphoven Muy had never been exhibited until that day, and it has not been seen since. The Havocs were quickly reserved for collectors and national galleries, the sketches for the Havocs went to a museum on Derril, Large Home. The Shroud was not for sale, and neither was The Singer of Airs.
That loving portrait of Muy, an insight into Bathurst’s past and his deeper self, his talent never before seen to such minimal but brilliant effect, remained the property of the artist. For that short time at the gallery view, a woman was briefly seen through the artist’s eyes, a beauteous woman with wind troubling her hair and her clothes, and unspent passion troubling her eyes.
Bathurst and his entourage departed quietly from Gannten Asemant a few days later. It was never revealed where he was going, but Kammeston’s biography suggests that it was to Salay, or one of the other islands in that group. Bathurst’s life was destined to be long and he had many more islands to visit. The proprietor of the Blue Lagoon, Jel Toome
r, became a wealthy man on his commissions from the exhibition. He donated the gallery building and all its remaining contents to the Gannten Seigniory, left the island and has not been heard of since.
The Blue Lagoon is still in existence and is open daily to visitors. Most of the paintings Bathurst exhibited that day are displayed in the building, but obviously only in reproduction, and in some cases fairly poor reproduction.
Dant Willer continued to work for the Ganntenian News until the period of apprenticeship was complete, but then moved away to Muriseay.
Ferry services to the Gannten Chain have improved in recent years, but it remains a remote part of the Archipelago. Hotel accommodation is not available at international standards, but inexpensive pensions can be found near the gallery and are recommended on that basis.
There are no shelterate laws anywhere in the Gannten Chain, but havenic rules should be observed.
Currency: Ganntenian credit, Archipelagian simoleon.
GOORN
CHILL WIND
THE SEACAPTAIN
It was not much of a course, but I was not much of a student. Choices of college education on my cold home island were always limited, unless you were able to win a scholarship to somewhere on another island. I was not, so in the company of many Goorn people of my age I headed for the technical college in Evllen. This town, sheltered by a range of hills in the surrounding countryside, and touched by the tepid last flow of a warm sea current from the southern reaches of the Archipelago, enjoyed a comparatively moderate climate. In Goorn terms this meant that it rained almost every day.
I completed my first year and then prepared for the obligatory gap year. A gap year was a way of saving expenses for the administration, while maintaining their grant-in-aid by keeping the student count technically higher. It was not for students an option. Most of my fellow students drifted off home, while the ones whose families had money set off on several months of vacation, the most popular choice being an extended sequence of island-hopping in the warmer island groups to the south.
I did neither of these because unexpectedly I landed a gap-year job in the north of Goorn.
My subject was practical stagecraft, the course I had drifted into by default, but which after the first week or two began to interest me. By the end of my first year I was sufficiently motivated to write several application letters, and when a temporary job in the town of Omhuuv was offered to me I jumped at it.
Omhuuv. I had never heard of the place, but soon tracked it down to a part of Goorn I never imagined I would visit. It was in the region known as the Tallek, in the mountains along the northern coast, a small port whose main industries the year round were the packing, smoking and canning of fish. Until I started applying it had not occurred to me there would be a theatre up there, but it seemed this was so. Teater Sjøkaptein, located in the heart of the town, closed its doors during the winter months, but maintained a repertory of drama and mixed entertainment throughout the summer. Tourism appeared to be the third industry in Omhuuv. Internet checks revealed that climbing, trekking, water sports, orienteering and tunnelling were all popular activities around Omhuuv’s fjord, or in the surrounding mountains.
Once my place was confirmed I was anyway told that because of the winter closure there was no point in my attending until spring was due. I went home to Goornak Town, where my parents lived, and drifted through the cold months. Then, after an email confirmation from the theatre, I set off for Omhuuv on one of the round-island buses. The trip took four days.
* * *
My first priority was to find somewhere to stay. I had been browsing a college website which listed possible addresses, and in the weeks leading up to my departure I made provisional bookings at three of them. The one I chose after I arrived was an upstairs room in a house close to the seafront. The window looked out towards one of the smaller wharfside smokehouses, with a view beyond it across the smooth waters of the fjord. On the far side a mountain rose sheer from the water, and for the first few days of my time there the steep sides were patched with traces of clinging snow. Later, when the thaw settled in, the same mountainside was etched with white watercourses, as a dozen wild falls tumbled down to the sea.
I went shopping – there appeared to be only one general foodstore in the town, but compared with the prices in Goorn Town and Evllen it felt inexpensive, at least for the sort of food I usually bought – then the next morning I walked through the narrow streets to find the theatre.
The centre of town was set back from the main road, so even the trucks, with their huge engines and deep-treaded tyres rumbling through towards the interior of the island, hardly broke the silence. In one of the side streets I found a large, almost monumental building: a white fascia wall, and two mock towers, castellated and painted deep blue. Across the white front was a long electric banner, presently unlit, with the words Teater Sjøkaptein picked out in electric bulbs. Next to the name was a stylized picture of a fishing boat, casting its nets, with the snowy mountains of the fjord in the distance behind. The grizzled face of a mariner, with a waterproof cape and cap, was superimposed across the view.
The main doors to the theatre were closed and barred, with brown paper pasted on the insides to discourage people from looking in. There were several glass display panels next to the steps, but I saw no announcements of performances, and there were no show cards visible. However, the building did not look at all derelict and was in good repair. The paint had been recently applied.
I pressed my face to one of the door windows trying to see into the foyer beyond. I rattled the handle lightly, not trying to force the door but to make enough noise to alert anyone who might be inside.
After a few moments a man appeared from within. He stooped to peer at me past one of the brown paper covers, then seemed to realize who I might be and unlocked the door.
‘I’m Hike Tommas,’ I said. ‘I’m starting a job here.’
‘Hike? I was expecting you last week,’ the man said, but not in an unfriendly way. He extended his hand, and we shook. ‘My name’s Jayr. I’m the acting manager here. For the moment there’s no one else on the staff, so we’ve a lot of work ahead of us.’
‘What’s to be done?’
He ushered me in, closed the door against the cold wind and led me through the lobby, where dust-covers had been laid over the carpets and counters, and down two narrow passages and a short staircase up. The theatre building was unheated and lit only by dim bulbs set high in the ceilings.
Jayr gave me a hot drink from the coffee machine he had set up in the tiny office behind the pay-booth. We sat casually in the cramped space, leaning against the edges of furniture.
‘Do you have any experience in a theatre?’ Jayr said.
‘We had to do practicals in my course.’
I described some of them, naturally embellishing the facts to make them sound more impressive. In fact I had already set out my C.V. when applying, and I assumed Jayr would have seen it. Most of my real experience had been in watching other people working behind the scenes, but my interest in stagecraft was genuine and I had spent a lot of time reading the books and talking with other students.
I gained the impression Jayr was glad to have someone to work with him, and his questions soon sounded desultory to me. I decided he was probably unimpressed with his new assistant, but it did not seem to matter much. It was not he who had hired me, it turned out. We were both temporary staff, although I was more temporary than Jayr. He lived in Omhuuv all year round.
I slowly pieced together some idea of what the story was. The previous owners had sold the theatre to a new company, or there was a transfer of a trust document, or another kind of legal dispute. No one was officially the owner for the time being, so they needed staff to stand in temporarily and prepare for the season ahead. Although Jayr lived in the town he had not been born on Goorn, but on one of the other Hetta islands, at the far western end, a small industrial island called Onna. He had worked here the previous
summer, more or less in the same position I was now in. He said he had been given a big chance, a fabulous opportunity to prove what he could do as manager. He told me the technical facilities in the theatre were as good as you would find anywhere. The official tech crew had not yet arrived and were not expected for a few more days.
He took me out to show me around the backstage area, giving me a guide to the main technical facilities. I took all this in without a problem: my course had given me a thoroughgoing background in stage management and theatrical craft.
The theatre was about to re-open after the winter break. Bookings had already started coming in. The Sjøkaptein was a popular feature of the town. The problem, Jayr’s problem, was that the programmes were so unimaginative. He told me the previous year the season had included several plays, but now he was here he had discovered that this summer the main bookings were for variety shows, comedians who were famous from television, pop tribute bands, magic acts. There were problems with the need to hire musicians, finding out what special or extra lighting effects were needed, obtaining releases from TV companies, dealing with agents, all in addition to the normal concerns of staffing, safety measures, office paperwork, and so on.
The programmes at the end of the season were more to his taste. During two weeks towards the end of the summer a couple of plays were scheduled, and he was looking forward to those. In the meantime he was making the best of the rest. There was a renowned clairvoyant coming for a short season – Jayr was looking forward to her too. Clairvoyants always filled the seats, he said. And a mime artiste. Jayr liked mime. But he found the rest uninspiring. He told me there was plenty of scope for me to become involved.
Later, when Jayr had to make some phone calls, I wandered away on my own and walked down to the semi-dark auditorium. The seats were protected by vast over-thrown translucent plastic sheets. I sat quietly in the luxuriantly cushioned rows of seats, somewhere in the middle of the stalls. I leaned back, staring up at the ornately decorated plaster ceiling, the cluster of small chandeliers, the velvet plush on the walls. The building had clearly been renovated recently, but it still felt like a traditional theatre.