Crimson Lake

It had lain in a junk shop’s window covered with dust and dead flies. The owner had received it in a job lot and finding no use for it had stuck it on show. Gradually as time passed and as the patina of crud increased, it sank insignificantly down through the layers of detritus like some ancient artefact.

Jeb Ganmon had been looking for inspiration. He was an artist in training at the local college and was looking for something that he could paint. Something that he could use in a tableau, which would provide the sort of artistic balance necessary for symmetry.

The local junk shop with its faded pictures, mementos from holidays past and old vinyl records. A virtual graveyard of items, probably better off sitting in a refuse bin.

“Hey Pop!” Jeb shouted, as the bell above the door gave out its off key clang. “It’s   

me, Jeb.”

An old man with stained purple slippers shuffled in from the back room. Jeb could see an open newspaper and a half drunk cup of tea, through the open curtain that covered the doorway.

“Oh, hi Jeb,” said Pop, as he was called by everyone in the neighbourhood. “What can I fix you up with today? A genuine Ming vase? It has a little crack in the base, but I’m sure it is valuable.”

“Nah, I’m looking for something to give my picture a real focal point. Something outstanding.” Jeb picked up a few objects and putting them down again.

“Well, my boy, I’m at last closing this scrap heap up and moving down to Clacton. My daughter lives there and wants to look after me. Imagine a ninety two year old needing to be looked after,” the old man laughed quietly to himself. “So… help yourself to anything you want because tomorrow, the rest goes to landfill!”

Jeb spent the next hour sorting through all the accumulated dross that had arrived at one time or other at Pop’s shop. Ninety nine percent of it was rubbish but he found a few items that took his fancy and he piled them on the shop counter.

“Right, Pop, how much for this stuff?” Jeb asked. “Do I get discount for cash?”

“A brass tray, a set of bronze candlesticks, a vase and a small stone cylinder with broken end. Is the stone to be a paperweight or something?” the proprietor asked looking at the object carefully. “I can’t remember having this item.”

“Watch out for the broken end it’s quite sharp!” Jeb said.

After a crisp five pound note had changed hands, Jeb made his way back to his studio. It actually was his bedroom but he had a North facing window and the light was perfect for his artistic needs. An easel was set up in centre of the room with a blank canvas. But tonight he required the dark for his painting.

Jeb placed his acquisitions down on a small table that he used to set up the objects he intended to paint. On the way home he had bought a bunch of flowers and four candles. He filled the vase with water and placed the flowers in it and he set the candles in the candlesticks and lit them.

Gradually his table top scene took shape. The flowers in the vase sitting on the brass tray with the light from the candles reflecting off the glass and the tray. The stone paperweight or whatever it was, lay at a slight angle on the tray casting a hard shadow.

Jeb worked through the night, often removing certain aspects and adding others. It was harder than he thought. The objects just did not want to interact and the more Jeb tried, the harder the task became. 

Eventually he stormed out of his flat down to a small washing green at the back of the house. Angrily he lit a cigarette and puffed furiously at it. Why wasn’t it working? They were inanimate objects. Why could he not paint them?

After he cooled down, Jeb made his way back up to his bedroom. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten, it was nearly dawn. Where had the night gone to? Jeb asked himself.

When he returned to his bedroom he found the flowers strewn over the floor and the vase broken, lying on the floor in bits. Nothing else had moved from the display and Jeb assumed that the vase had tipped when he had rushed out of the room.

The small stone cylinder lay as it had been placed originally but Jeb was suddenly intrigued at where it had come from. The broken top looked as if it was supposed to have been sheared off creating a sharp edge.

Jeb leant down and began to pick up the bits of broken glass before he accidentally stood on them. As he straightened up a bit of glass touched his finger and cut him.

The blood began to drip from his hand and a drop inadvertently splashed on the stone cylinder. Had Jeb seen it strike the paper weight he would have been amazed as the blood was quickly absorbed into the stone leaving no trace of a stain.

After bandaging his finger, Jeb got into his bed, eager to get at least some hours of sleep before he had to get up again. He dropped off right away and was instantly precipitated into a dream.

In the dream everything was in black and white, he was painting the table top display that he had set up but without the vase and flowers. The small stone cylinder looked wet and the light from the candles glistened off it. The tray had a pool of something on it and it looked as if the liquid had run off the cylinder. Jeb was painting the various articles onto his canvas and even though the painting was going well, Jeb felt the same frustration building in him that he had felt the evening before. Why couldn’t he paint this picture right? he thought.

Then he had an inspiration and looking at the bandage on his cut finger he began to unwrap it exposing the wound. A scab had begun to form on the injury but Jeb dug hid nails into the wound starting it bleeding again. Quickly he dipped his paintbrush into the blood and began to paint the black and white image of the cylinder. Suddenly he was painting in colour. The stone cylinder became the focal point of the painting as it was the only item in colour and its colour was blood red!

Jeb woke up with a start. What a nightmare, he thought. What was that all about?

After a cup of coffee the elements of the bad dream began to fade and Jeb took a new canvas out of his cupboard. Right, he thought, now I will paint this picture right.

He felt refreshed and eager to go, but decided to leave the flowers out of the picture this time.

Jeb painted and painted and the collection of articles began to appear on his new canvas. It looked as if he had carried it off when once again, the feeling of inadequacy swept over him. The picture was useless. It was a mediocre attempt, an amateurish daub. He was a failure.

Then he remembered his dream. About removing the bandage on his finger. Of opening the wound and using the fresh blood to paint part of his picture. But, which part? Could it have been the insignificant roll of rock?

Once the bandage was off his finger, it was easy to scratch the fresh scab off and allow the blood to run down his hand. He tentatively dipped his paintbrush into the blood and then touched the tip of the canvas. Instantly he felt a feeling of warmth rushing through him. He was a great painter! His picture was a success!

Later that day his girlfriend Jane came to see him. Jeb made them coffee and they sat on his bed and talked she asked him how his painting was proceeding.

Jeb got up from the bed and walked across to where his latest painting sat on an easel. It was draped with a piece of cloth.

“Ta Ra Ra!” Jeb shouted and whipped off the cloth revealing the masterpiece.

Jane got up off the bed slowly. Her face wore a mask of incredulity.

“Yeuk!” she shrieked as she recognised what the red liquid running down the canvas was. “That’s blood!”

“It was the only way I could guarantee reality,” Jeb blurted out. “The paints just did not give the right …feeling.”

“You’re sick!” shouted Jane backing towards the door. “You need to see a shrink!”

“Don’t say that!” shouted Jeb rushing over towards her. “You have no idea of what I am going through to finish this painting!” And picking up a dirty plate that lay on the table, he smashed it over her head.

That night Jeb hung his creation on the wall of his room, but the off white colour of the wallpaper made it look awful. He took it back down and laid it on the table. Looking back at the wall he realised that the wall had to be repainted to allow his painting to be shown at its best, but what colour to paint it…?

The sun rose the next morning and filled the off white coloured room with its rosy colours. Jeb lay on his bed and gazed in admiration at the chromatic changes that were occurring. The reds, oranges, yellows and crimsons, they blended, bled and mixed in a symphony of colour. But why, why could he not capture the effect on canvas? he thought.

Jeb felt his senses exploding with the effect and he began to dream. It was a progressive dream where, bit by bit, he came aware of where he was and what he was meant to do.

The desert sand reminded him of an all enveloping ocean where waves rose and fell. The mighty pyramid that rose high above the sand glowed in the hot sun and threw a harsh black shadow on the desert. Jeb could hear chanting and as he moved round the massive monolith he saw that people were lined up on a large bridge that led into the dark interior of the pyramid. They were raising and lowering their arms as they chanted a sort of hymn.

As he neared the edge of the bridge he realised that the people were chanting to him. They were welcoming his arrival. He was expected…

Moving slowly between the lines of worshippers Jeb soon found that he had arrived at a large block of hewn stone. It had a cleft leading to a bowl cut into it and the surface was smeared with dark reddish brown stains.

A robed figure approached Jeb and handed him a large ceremonial axe. It was highly ornate and the blade looked sharp.

“The sacrifices await Lord,” the robed man said before bowing and moving away.

Jeb looked down the avenue of people and saw a thin phalanx of human beings, some shackled in chains, moving up towards him. There were about six of them and they looked terrible. Thin and emaciated, their faces had a greenish pallor. These people had been imprisoned, starved and ill treated.

As the first prisoner arrived in front of Jeb, a large trumpet sounded and the worshippers fell on their knees and bowed.

The robed man returned carrying a small stone cylinder and a bowl. He bowed before Jeb and handed the two items over. “The sacrificial stone and bowl, Lord. Do you wish me to position the first offering?”

Jeb suddenly broke out of the dream like feeling that he had been experiencing.

“Why do I have to carry out this duty? Who am I?”

The robed priest turned to Jeb and said, “you are the High Lord of Death. Without your contribution, the crops would fail, the population would die and our very existence could be in jeopardy. Spill the blood, water the plains and all will be well.”

Then he forced the first of the prisoners, a man, to kneel and place his head in the stone bowl.

“Strike it Lord!” he shouted and Jeb felt a rush of adrenalin course through his body as he raised the axe and brought it sharply down on the man’s neck.

The rest of the proceedings was a blur. Each time a prisoner was decapitated the robed priest rolled the stone cylinder in the unfortunate’s blood and applied it to Jeb’s body. First it was on the forehead, then his shoulders, then his legs. By the time that the last prisoner had been sacrificed Jeb was covered in blood. The crowd were roaring and calling out his name, commending him for once again guaranteeing that all would be well for them.

After the ceremony- the celebrations. Massive table covered with food and drink. Jeb was led to a large throne where he presided over and took part in the feast. Women danced, musical instruments played and high above fireworks exploded lighting the night and casting strange colours over the revellers.

The wine was very strong for it wasn’t long before Jeb began to feel drowsy. The stress of the day’s events, the sheer mystery of why he was here and how he was going to get back home all played on his emotions. His eyelids closed and soon he was sound asleep.

The sound of his front door crashing open brought Jeb sharply back awake. The cries of “police! Get down on the ground!” echoed around the flat and as Jeb opened his eyes he couldn’t get over the fact that every where he looked the scene was red, blood red.

 Suddenly he was manhandled onto the floor and a burly policeman wrenched his arms behind his back and handcuffed him securely.

The ambulance service removed seven women’s bodies, including Jane’s,  from Jeb’s flat after forensic had been in and photographed and sampled everything. It appeared as if Jeb had killed them and drained every drop of blood from their bodies to cover the walls and ceiling with. His artistic masterpiece hung proudly on the scarlet coloured wall.

A team of cleaners suitably gowned and masked were employed to clean up the flat.

Not a job for someone with a weak stomach, four old hands were given the job. They had worked in some of the most ghastly of areas and thought nothing of it.

“Here, look Fred,” said one of the men to his colleague. “Here’s something for your display cabinet,” he said as he handed over the small stone cylinder. “I’ll bet it’s something special!”