Yumi and the Nightmare Painter(22)
That did sound nice, particularly following what he’d been through. How could a simple meal be so taxing?
Unfortunately, his conscience was working on him. Painter had gotten himself into some trouble with issues like this—expectations from others, warranted or not—in the past. While thinking of those days brought pain, he’d sworn he would never get into that kind of trouble again.
Nonetheless, here he was. As the two attendants were out of the room, he found himself standing and staring at the strange ghostly girl with long hair. And words came out.
“You asked if I’m a great warrior,” he said. “Are you needing me to fight something, then?”
“I don’t think it will require that,” she said. “I don’t know, honestly. The spirits will need to be formed, and then asked. They said they’re trapped somehow; perhaps you can rescue them?”
“By forming them?” he said, relaxing a little. “Does this require painting?”
“Painting?” she said, cocking her head. “We call them. Through art.”
Through art.
Right. Okay. That he could do. Maybe even something other than bamboo. Was it true—had he been summoned to an entirely different world simply to…to paint? He should probably make sure, he thought. He looked to the girl to explain more, but…
She was just so hopeful. Emotions flowed inside him like blood from wounds, warm and sharp. How long had it been since he’d felt needed, wanted? He didn’t mean to lie. He wasn’t really lying, was he? Her spirits had chosen him, brought him here, perhaps to paint them.
In that moment, he wanted so badly to be the hero someone needed. To have a chance to make up for the mistakes of his past. To become something. It wasn’t arrogance, as some of you might assume. It was more desperation.
Deep down, Painter saw himself as a ruined canvas—the painting spoiled by spilled ink, then tossed into the trash. This was his chance to spread himself out and start a new drawing on the back. He seized that opportunity like a ravenous man at his first bowl of rice in days.
“Lead on,” he said, dropping his mysterious loner affectations and speaking with a heartfelt passion. “I’ll do it. Whatever it is you need, I promise, I’ll do it.”
Yumi gestured to the doors. The attendants and that awful woman—Liyun, Yumi had called her—had gone that way. He leaned out of the doorway and looked around, hoping he’d be able to walk this part rather than being carried or something. Curiously the building—indeed a wagon as Yumi had said—appeared to be floating. That was…odd. But not much more than—
He stepped on the ground.
Barefoot.
Painter yelped and leaped back onto the wooden steps, shaking the wagon-room. The ground was hot. Extremely hot; like as hot as a stove.
For the first time, he looked specifically at the clogs everyone was wearing. Liyun and the attendants, in turn, stared at him with horrified expressions. It was the same sort of expression you might have given a person who sat down to dinner, then started eating the plate.
“What is wrong, hero?” Yumi asked. “I recognize you are mighty and strong, but there is no reason you need to walk without shoes.” She frowned, glancing down at his bare feet.
“This place is…” He trailed off, not wanting to spoil the illusion for Liyun and the attendants. Finally, he took a deep breath and slipped on the pair of clogs by the door. It seemed he hadn’t burned himself too badly, as the pain was fading, but he was still timid as he stepped onto the ground.
The procession started off. Painter felt proud of how well he walked in the thick clogs; they looked more awkward than they actually were. He merely had to be deliberate with each step. He looked to Yumi, but she lowered her gaze and seemed reticent. Even more than earlier. What had he done this time?
There were plenty of other oddities to occupy his attention. For example, the attendants held out big fans to hide him from the eyes of the gathering townspeople. That left gaps through which he could be seen though, and apparently the entire town had lined up to catch a glimpse of him.
Why the pageantry? Couldn’t they have pulled him in the wagon to this new location? This halfway measure with the fans felt deliberate—like pretending not to care if anyone noticed your new haircut, but running your hands through it every time anyone glanced your way.
There were also those floating plants—but at least he’d seen those from the wagon. So he didn’t gawk. Much. But then there was a very odd contraption at the center of the town—a big shiny metal thing made of wide sets of plates, as big across as a building. What was that all about?
At least the people looked human. He would have expected aliens from another planet to have…he didn’t know. Some extra appendages? Seven eyes? Instead they were just people. Mostly eager-eyed, in bright clothing of a completely different fashion and design than he was used to. It reminded him of formal dresses and wraps worn at weddings among his people—at least the colors were similar. But these outfits were far bulkier, particularly on the women, whose dresses were bell-shaped instead of sleek and tight as was common in Kilahito. The men wore clothing that was loose and baggy—often pastel, with a watercolor softness—tied closed at the ankles. They accented these with the occasional black hat, and many wore neat short beards, which you rarely saw among Painter’s people.