IGMS Issue 2 Page 9

  Salt of Judas

  by Eric James Stone

  Artwork by Deena Warner

  * * *

  Osbert Peale did not paint portraits when he sat on his stool beside the Avon. He painted Tewkesbury Abbey or one of the footbridges over the river. Sometimes he portrayed the boatmen on the water or passersby on land, but those people were merely parts of the landscape. Only in his narrow rented room above the butcher's did he paint portraits, and those he never showed to anyone for fear they would laugh.

  Every portrait was of Her. He'd begun to paint Her portrait even before he discovered that Her name was Amelia. He said that delightful name occasionally to himself as he drew in charcoal the curve of Her neck or used the painting knife to soften the glow of Her cheek. But in his mind She remained most often Her. And though he often whispered -- to himself -- that he loved Her, he knew that a wealthy landowner's daughter like Her would never love a humble artist like him.

  As he sat beside the river, palette in one hand and knife in the other, creating landscapes in oil, he always watched for Her, since She often strolled along the footpath with Her companions. On occasion She would stop and look at his work in progress, and Osbert would then find it difficult to breathe as he painted with trembling hand. But except in his imagination She had never spoken to him, nor he to Her. His love for Her was a secret he kept from all the world.

  He was using the blending knife to darken the shadows of an overcast sky on his canvas when a deep voice came from behind him.

  "I understand you paint portraits."

  Osbert turned his head to look up at the stranger. The man was bald as an egg, and under the darkening sky his skin seemed Lead White with a touch of Ultramarine Blue. He wore a red vest -- Cadmium Red darkened perhaps by Burnt Sienna -- over a white silk shirt, black breeches and white stockings. The buckles on his

  shoes glinted gold even without direct sunlight. Although Osbert had been in Tewkesbury less than a year, he thought he knew everyone of consequence in the town. This man must be a wealthy traveler, perhaps brought here by the convergence of the Avon and the Severn rivers.

  "You are mistaken, sir. I am only a landscape painter."

  The stranger nodded slowly. "Where do you buy your oils?"

  "From Barber the apothecary. He has a shop on Church Street."

  "From now on, you will buy them from me." The stranger spoke as if stating an obvious fact.

  "But Barber has always--"

  "Barber has sold his shop to me. I am the new apothecary."

  "Oh." Osbert did not know what else to say. Barber had been a friendly fellow, quite unlike this brusque man. But possibly the new apothecary would become more amiable in time.

  "Soon you will want to bring life to your portraits. Come to me then." The apothecary turned and strode away.

  "I don't paint portraits," Osbert called after him, but the bald head made no acknowledgment.

  In the dim morning light that came through his one small window, Osbert looked at the latest portrait of Her. She was tilting Her head inquisitively, and Her lips were pursed slightly, as if She were about to ask a question.

  "You wish to know my name, milady? I am Osbert Peale, at your service. Or perhaps you wonder what it is I will be painting today? I believe I shall attempt once more to capture the spirit of Tewkesbury Abbey.

  "Or do you merely wish to inquire whether I think it will rain? Yes, that must be it, for the weather will do quite well as a subject of conversation with someone when you have nothing else in common."

  He fell silent. This piece was his best, seeming to catch a moment before motion rather than an eternal pose.

  Soon you will want to bring life to your portraits. Come to me then.

  What had the apothecary meant? Could he have known of Osbert's secret portraits?

  What would it be like to touch Her, to feel the softness of Her skin? Osbert reached out and gently stroked Her face. His fingers came away wet with paint.

  The wooden sign showing a mortar and pestle still hung over the door, but someone had painted over the name Barber and replaced it with Dyer. Osbert hesitated before opening the door and walking into the shop.

  "Ah, the young artist." The bald man rose from his seat behind the counter, ducking his head to avoid various bottles that hung from the ceiling beams. "I knew you would come."

  "I need linseed oil."

  "That is all you wish?"

  "Yes." A sudden sweat broke out on Osbert's brow, though the air was cool in the darkened shop.

  The apothecary rummaged around under the counter, clinking bottles together. "How is your portrait work progressing?"

  "I paint landscapes."

  "So you said. So you said." The apothecary rose from behind the counter and held out a corked bottle. "I'll put it on your account. Barber said you paid him monthly without fail. I like a man who keeps his bargains."

  "Thank you." Osbert took the bottle and quickly exited. Once he was sure the man could not see him through the shop windows, he shuddered in relief. He didn't like the way those dark eyes seemed to look past his own.

  As days became shorter and the weather cooler, Osbert saw Her less frequently on Her walks. And since there were fewer daylight hours for painting landscapes, he spent more time in his cramped room painting portraits by the light of an oil lamp. Often he would paint through the night: a portrait of Her smiling coyly or laughing or merely looking to the horizon.

  Over the past three nights he had experimented with painting a sequence of small portraits capturing different positions as Her head turned until Her eyes seemed to look into his. Now as he looked from one painting to the next in order, it was almost as if She moved. Almost.

  Soon you will want to bring life to your portraits. Come to me then.

  Three times he walked past the apothecary's door before he went inside.

  "Ah, the young artist." The apothecary rose to his feet. "More linseed oil? Some White Lead, perhaps?"

  "What did you mean?"

  The apothecary raised a dark eyebrow. "I am surprised, however, that you are running low on supplies so soon, since the weather is not generally fit for painting landscapes."

  Osbert pointed his index finger at the man. "You said I should come to you if I wanted to give life to my portraits. What did you mean?"

  The apothecary nodded. "Now you are ready."

  "Ready for what?"

  "Ready to give life to your work. Are you a religious man, Master Peale?"

  Osbert blinked. "I . . . I'm a God-fearing man, if that's what you mean."

  "God-fearing. A good word." The apothecary smiled, his teeth gleaming in the dark shop. "I, too, am God-fearing, you could say."

  "Enough of this. What do you know of my painting portraits? What do you mean by 'give life'?"

  "You paint portraits of a young lady, perhaps? Someone you desire, but who remains forever beyond your reach?"

  Osbert couldn't think what to say. The apothecary seemed to know him intimately.

  "You paint her portrait till you know her face better than your own. But you do not know her voice, her touch. She is no more alive to you than a stone." He tapped the stone pestle on the counter. "But there are . . . other arts beyond the art of painting."

  "You practice the arts of witchcraft," Osbert said in astonished realization. He knew he should denounce the apothecary to the Church immediately, but curiosity restrained him.

  "Those who fear its power may call it witchcraft. It is nothing more than knowledge, and knowledge is neither good nor evil. 'Tis the use that makes it so."

  "Yet you talk of giving life to the creations of men. Surely that is blasphemy, as only God can create life."

  The apothecary smiled again. "You are wise for one so young. But I speak not of creating life, but of giving it. Tell me, what is it that makes a man live?"

  Osbert pressed his lips together as he thought. "The spirit -- the soul."

  "And if a painting had a soul?"


  "But how is that possible? A soul comes from God, and He would not give one to a mere painting."

  "There are heathen tribes who believe that a painting steals the soul of the person portrayed. That is not true -- to steal someone's soul into a painting requires the application of magics far beyond their primitive superstitions." The apothecary waved a hand dismissively, then pointed at Osbert. "However, you have a soul. If you are willing to give up part of yours to make the painting live, that is within my power."

  Osbert stepped back. "You want me to give you part of my soul? So you can drag me down to damnation piece by piece?"

  "No, you would not give it to me. You would give it to the painting, give life to the portrait."

  Though the response allayed Osbert's suspicions somewhat, he asked, "And what benefit do you receive from this, then, that you would risk hanging as a witch?"

  "What benefit? You would pay me, of course."

  "I'm not wealthy. I have but twenty pounds a year bequeathed by my uncle. It is enough to live on, but painting is my one luxury." Osbert hoped someday to paint well enough to sell his work, but that day was still to come.

  "I will not charge much. The ingredients I require are not costly, excepting the salt. Shall we say, eight shillings?"

  Almost half a pound. But to have Her speak to him, to be able to touch Her would be worth that price. "How do I know I will get my money's worth?"

  "You are a man who fulfills his bargains; so am I. I will add the cost to your bill. If you are not satisfied, you can merely refuse to pay."

  With such an offer, how could the apothecary possibly swindle him? What suspicions could remain? "How is it done?"

  "We will need to cut off a piece of your soul and grind it to a powder you can mix with your paint. Then whatever portrait you paint will be given life."

  "The soul is immaterial. How can it be cut or ground?"

  The apothecary sighed. "Not everything the Church teaches you is to be believed. The soul is not immaterial; it is a material more refined, more pure than base matter. That is how it can occupy the same space as your body. The trick is to get part of the soul to separate itself from the body, so it can be removed without harming the flesh."

  The apothecary turned and reached for a metal saltcellar on the top shelf behind him. "Salt is a symbol of purity because it prevents corruption. That's why it's used for protection against evil spirits. The purity of salt has power."

  Osbert nodded.

  "But the salt I have here is not common salt. During the Last Supper, Judas Iscariot knocked over a dish of salt. That salt became cursed for all eternity. And I have some of it here."

  Skepticism returned to Osbert's mind. "I cannot believe you have the very same salt that was at the Last Supper?"

  "It matters not what you believe. The power of the salt is real." The apothecary smiled. "But you are a clever young man to see that this is not the very same salt. The spilt salt was collected by one who recognized its power. And when that cursed salt is mixed with uncursed salt, the curse spreads. As it says in the Bible, 'If the salt has lost its savour, wherewith shall it be salted?' So this is known as the Salt of Judas or Traitor's Salt. The grains may not be the same, but the curse is."

  Osbert stared in fascination at the saltcellar. "What does the curse do?"

  "As normal salt is repellent to an evil spirit, Salt of Judas is repellent to a good spirit, only far stronger in its effects. Place your left hand on the counter here, fingers spread apart."

  Osbert did as he was told.

  The apothecary reached out and gripped Osbert's wrist with fingers hard and cold as iron. "This will be painful, but no real harm will come to you."

  "Painful?" Osbert almost tried to pull his arm back, but the apothecary's grip held him fast.

  "It will not last long." The apothecary sprinkled salt onto Osbert's little finger.

  Osbert's knees buckled as he felt fire spread across his hand and into his forearm. He exhaled a choking scream, then found himself unable to draw breath. The apothecary's icy fingers tightened on his wrist. His vision blurred with tears, but he thought he saw a wavering tendril of fire rise from the knuckle of his little finger.

  "There it is." The apothecary's voice was calm. He had put down the saltcellar and now held a pair of shears. Deftly he snipped the tendril of fire just above the knuckle. The tendril writhed on the counter, leaving scorch marks where it touched. "Looks very much like a salted slug, does it not?"

  Still unable to breathe, Osbert tried to yank his hand away, but the apothecary did not let go.

  "Oh, yes. The pain." The apothecary pulled Osbert's hand several inches away from the tendril, then poured some water from a bottle onto Osbert's little finger. "Holy water, to wash away the salt. The pain should subside." He finally let go of Osbert's wrist.

  Clasping at his finger to make certain it was still there, Osbert realized the pain was easing. He was able to breathe again, and he took several deep breaths to steady himself before shouting, "What did you do to me?"

  "Just what I said I would. I sprinkled Salt of Judas on part of your body to force your soul out of that part, allowing me to clip it off." The apothecary used tongs to pick up the tendril of soul and drop it in the mortar. He added some dried leaves, which burst into flames. "The salt also corrupted it enough that we can see it and even touch it." He took a pestle and began pounding it in the mortar. "There are many who say that the curse on the Salt of Judas is the curse of Hell itself, and that the pain you felt is what a damned soul will feel for all eternity, but I don't know that is so."

  "You have damned me." His vision dimmed as despair filled his heart. "I have been touched by the curse of Judas."

  The apothecary laughed. "You are a good man, Osbert Peale. If your soul were not good, the Salt of Judas would not cause you pain." The apothecary looked in the mortar, ground the mixture a little more, then removed the pestle. "Now, take this powder--"

  He tilted the mortar and poured an ash-white powder onto a sheet of paper, which he expertly folded. "--mix it with linseed oil, then blend it with the paint on your next portrait."

  Osbert looked at the packet but made no move to take it.

  "Come now. Are you going to waste all the pain you've suffered? Take it."

  Osbert slowly reached out his hand.

  The gray light of dawn diffused from the window, blending with the yellow from the oil lamp. Still wet, a portrait of Her stood lifeless on the easel. On his palette, still unused, was some of the soul-paint.

  Osbert feared it would not work. And he feared it would. The events of the night before were becoming confused in his mind. Was the apothecary a charlatan or a puissant witch? Osbert rubbed the little finger of his left hand. It had felt a little numb during the night, then prickly, but seemed almost normal now. Perhaps it was getting accustomed to missing its soul.

  He took his blender and dipped it in the translucent soul-paint, then carefully began applying it to her face. Now that he had started, he worked feverishly until there was none of the substance left on his palette.

  On the canvas, nothing had changed: Her eyes still looked to the distance, Her serious expression remained frozen in oils. The pain, the fright, his work -- all were for naught. Osbert threw down his palette and painting knife, then stretched himself out in exhaustion upon his cot.

  He would deal with the fraudulent apothecary later.

  When he woke up, the first thing he saw was Her smile.

  A week later -- seven portraits later -- Osbert hurried into the apothecary shop and closed the door. "I need to make more soul-paint. And it needs to be stronger."

  "Soul-paint? Apropos." The apothecary's teeth glinted in his smile. "Run out already, have you?"

  "She smiles at me. She gazes into my eyes. But She doesn't talk, and when I try to touch Her, I can sense Her movement but She still feels like paint."

  Nodding, the apothecary said, "Yes, a higher concentration is needed to give the portra
it more vitality. But that would require a larger portion of your soul. Are you willing to give it?"

  The pain hadn't been too much to endure, had it? And it had been over quickly, had it not? "How much would I need?"

  The apothecary bobbed his head back and forth in thought. "For talking and touching, let me see . . . . Perhaps, to be on the safe side, we should take the whole hand."

  Osbert clenched his left hand into a fist, then opened it again, looking at it carefully. "Will it make a difference to my hand, not having a soul? My finger felt strange that first night."

  "Oh, my dear boy! Is that what you thought?" The apothecary laughed. "You do not have a soulless finger, nor will you have a soulless hand. The rest of your soul extends to fill the empty parts. It is the same with fat men -- they do not have more of a soul than thin men; their souls just stretch to fill their bulk."

  Osbert's relief at this explanation made him realize how much he had feared having a part of his body without a soul. He rolled up his sleeve and put his left hand down on the counter.

  Three days later his tongue was still sore from having bitten it during the agony of the salt on his hand, but he was otherwise recovered from the ordeal. Nonetheless, now that he had a sufficient supply of the soul-paint, he was glad he would not need to go through that again.

  Osbert glanced at a portrait he had finished the previous week. Her face smiled at him, and Her eyelashes fluttered demurely. But that portrait was imperfect, flawed.

  He would create a new portrait. This would be his best work, perfectly capturing Her eyes, Her hair, the flush of Her cheek. And this one would speak to him.

  "Back again, my young friend?" The apothecary rose to greet him.

  "Her portrait has stopped talking to me. She still smiles, but the earlier ones no longer smile. They are utterly lifeless!" Osbert gripped the edge of the counter.