“It’s my first offense,” Painter said. “To the other painters, this will be described as medical leave. At least I won’t have to suffer the embarrassment of them knowing I’ve been suspended.” He paused. “Unless this lasts longer than a month. Unless I’m unable to consistently do my job. Then I’ll get fired. Lose the apartment.”
“We’ll just fix our problems before then,” Yumi said, confident. “Even if it requires me to find a way to deal with that stable nightmare.” She stared at him, defiant. She wasn’t certain if it was what he’d done with the heat, or if she was again growing accustomed to this place. But her shivering had subsided. That let her maintain some confidence as she met his eyes when he turned back toward her.
“I’ll teach you,” Painter finally said, and walked over to a large trunk beside his fuzzy altar. “But you’re not going to face the stable nightmare, Yumi. I will train you to deal with an ordinary nightmare in an emergency. Then we’ll go out at night and try to find proof of the stable nightmare’s existence. Maybe we can spot it moving through the city, then lead someone else to it. If we have another witness, the foreman will have to accept that it’s real. That will prove I wasn’t lying to him, and he’ll be forced to revoke my suspension and send for help.”
“An excellent plan,” Yumi said, nodding as she walked up beside the trunk as well.
“There’s something odd about that nightmare, Yumi,” Painter said softly. “When I found it, it was almost fully formed. I know I said otherwise, but…my gut says this one should have started rampaging by now. When the nightmares destroyed Futinoro, they didn’t do it quietly. Yet this monster is subtle, sneaky. It’s been days since I spotted it, and not a single attack has been reported…” He shook his head, then gestured to the trunk. “Open it.”
She did so, revealing a collection of large paintbrushes. Some were nearly as tall as a person, like a broom with a brush on the end. Most were somewhat shorter, perhaps two feet long.
There were also jars of ink, all of the same dark shade, and some canvases. Painter directed her to get out one of the shorter brushes, along with a large pad of paper rather than the canvases—which he said were for painting when “on duty.” The paper was for practice.
Judging by the fact that the pad was pristine, never opened, it didn’t seem that Painter did much practicing himself. After setting the things out, Yumi noticed something else at the bottom of the trunk, easy to miss in the shadows. A large black portfolio tied with a cord. She reached for it.
“No!” Painter said, reaching to take her hand.
The transcendent warmth chased away the chills, erasing them from her body like the wrinkles in a blanket suddenly stretched tight. She gasped, then let out a soft sigh at the way the heat warmed her to the core.
Painter didn’t snatch his hand away as quickly this time as he had before. He looked down at their hands, where he’d tried in vain to take hold of hers. Instead they had merged, the heat pulsing like a heartbeat and washing away all other thoughts and sensations.
Finally he withdrew his hand. “Sorry,” he said. “But you can’t touch that portfolio. Ever.”
“Why not?”
“Because I say so,” he snapped. “My world. My rules. You don’t touch that. Understood?”
She nodded.
“Right, then,” he said, stepping back. “I’ll teach you how to paint bamboo.”
“Wait,” she said, frowning. “You have bamboo on your planet?”
“Sure we do,” he said. “Wait, you have bamboo? It doesn’t fly…does it?”
She shook her head. “It grows where the stone gives way to soil. Out beyond the searing stone, in the cold wastes. Few people live there because there’s no heat, but I’ve seen bamboo around cold springs also.” She frowned. “How do plants live here? There’s no sunlight.”
“What does sunlight have to do with anything?” he asked.
“It…makes plants grow.”
“It does?” he said. “I guess that’s how you survive without hion lines. Our outer cities have enormous farms where little lines of hion crisscross the fields and sustain the plants.”
She tried to imagine that. There were places here other than Kilahito? How did one reach them? It seemed like everything out there was pure darkness.
Yumi put aside her questions as Painter began coaching her through painting bamboo. She still didn’t understand why painting had anything to do with nightmares. They were…scared of art?
Well, she would get those explanations when Painter decided to disclose them. For now she tried to be a good student, to give him an example of how he should be. She did as he asked, kneeling beside the pad of paper to draw straight lines with the brush, and did not interrupt or ask questions.
（It’s infuriating how many cultures think this is the best way to teach. They make it as convenient to the instructor as possible. As if learning were somehow a performance for their benefit alone.）
“You start,” he explained, “by getting a feel for how the ink flows. Notice how it’s dark at the top, then grows lighter the longer you draw the line, finally running out at the bottom. When you paint, you’re not just creating something from your mind. You’re seeing what the ink wants to become. You…”
He trailed off, and she glanced toward him.
“Never mind that,” he said. “Here’s how you make bamboo.” He snatched his fingers a few times at one of the brushes and managed at last to pull out a copy of it. With some work, he procured the souls of some paper and ink as well, then knelt beside her and showed her a specific method for painting bamboo. It was actually quite clever how he used the natural way the ink filled the brush to create a darker top for the bamboo, the lighter middle, then another blotch at the bottom where he paused briefly. There was something organic about the painting style, as if he were growing the bamboo.
He did it again, exactly the same way.
Then again.
And again.
“Bamboo,” he said, “is easy. It’s great because you can simply memorize the pattern—then create something that looks good with minimal effort.”
“All right,” she said, nodding. “I like how structured that feels. But…”
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Yumi lowered her eyes. “I should not question.”
“How do I know you’re learning if you don’t ask questions?”
It wasn’t the proper way…but it was his world. His rules. “You said in the place of ritual,” she explained, “that art is about emotion. I disagreed, and I like this way of making bamboo you showed me. I merely find it odd to hear you speak of memorizing a pattern, then creating without effort. I guess…I expected something different.”
Painter stared at the soul of the paper in front of him. And then it vanished into smoke, drawn back to the body of the paper nearby. It appeared he couldn’t keep something that way very long. Fortunately, his clothing remained in place… She covered a blush.