THE
OTHER FAERY TALES
PARSNIP THE ARTIST
By Jeremy C. Shipp
Parsnip
the Artist
By Jeremy C. Shipp
Once
or twice upon a time in the land of Tralalia, there was a boy born whose greatest
desire in life was to create art. One of the boys, whose life this story focuses
upon, did.
Every day he painted a painting, and every day he and his
room ended up a right colorful mess. In truth, the boy couldn't remember how paint
had ended up on his ceiling or under his bed or inside his closed closet.
Every night before his mother could go to bed, she scrubbed his everything
(but the paintings) until everything (but the paintings) returned to their original
form. The boy, at the time, didn't feel guilty about putting his mother to work,
because cleaning was part of what made his mother his mother.
Only years
later, when he wasn't such a child anymore, did he say, "Let me clean this
up, mom. I won't tell father."
"He'll know, Parsnip."
And she bent over to scrubbing position. "He'll see it in my eyes."
She was right, of course. His father was a very perceptive man.
During Parsnip's 12th year, he learned just how true that was.
"You're
not a child anymore," his father told him right after the birthday party.
"It's time for you to Work."
"I don't have time to work,"
Parsnip said, honestly.
"Don't call it that. It's Work."
Parsnip's father, like his father before him, could discern the capitalization
in a person's voice. They were men all about capital.
"Sorry,"
the boy said. "Work. As I said, I don't have time. It takes me a whole day
to paint a painting. I hardly have time to eat and drink as it is."
"Then you'll have to paint less, won't you."
Parsnip knew well
enough that there wasn't a question mark at the end of that sentence, so he stayed
silent. On the inside, though, his body screamed for him to return upstairs.
So after he thanked his mother for the cake, he led his new pet pygmy hippo
up to his room and closed the door. The first thing he noticed was that his paints
and bushes were missing.
Stolen, rather.
After that, he didn't
notice much of anything.
Up until that point, his mother had always supplied
him with art supplies. But those days were over. He didn't even have to ask his
mother if that was so. He could see it in her eyes.
"Come to Work
for me," his father said at the dinner table, between courses. "Then
you can buy whatever equipment you want."
"How long will I
have to Work?" the boy said.
"Six hours a day."
Parsnip said nothing more to his father that night.
In the next few days
that followed, the boy learned to improvise. He made brushes out of pencils and
a broom he found in the garbage. He smashed up whatever foods in he could find
in the kitchen and the forest. He used edible substances only, as he could no
longer stand burdening his mother with his cleaning. Now, whenever he made a mess,
Happenstance (his Hippo) would lick everything clean, save for his paintings and
himself.
His father must have snuck into his room and noticed the new
equipment, because he grew angrier with each passing day.
Finally, his
father beckoned him into the basement. He took the boy over his knee and spanked
him. Not as hard as he could have, but close.
Parsnip didn't cry. He
didn't even feel sad. He was too busy feeling anxious.
The next day his
father whipped him with a branch from an apple tree.
The next day, an
orange tree.
The next day, a ruler from a long-dead tree.
And
on it went, day after his, until his father had a rather perceptive idea.
One of Parsnip's paintings went missing. He stood on the loft of the barn,
about to add his newest dried painting to one of his giant stacks, when he noticed
one of the stacks was ever-so-slightly shorter than usual.
Parsnip believed
in the goodness of people, so the notion that his father might have taken the
painting didn't pass once through his head. Only when he joined his parents for
supper did he see the truth in his father's smile.
"Please give
it back," the boy said.
"Come to Work for me tomorrow."
But Parsnip didn't.
And another painting went missing.
And at the dinner table, his father's smile stretched even more.
"Please
give them back," the boy said.
"Come to Work for me tomorrow,
then you can buy us some firewood. Then I won't have to use anymore special firewood."
Parsnip looked away from his father, at the fireplace, into the fire.
"That's…" Parsnip said.
Now, the boy cried, at the
table, into his food.
"Come to Work for me tomorrow."
But Parsnip didn't.
And so it went.
Every day he painted
a painting, and every day a painting was burned. At first, anymore. As the days
and weeks passed, more and more paintings were lost with each fire.
Eventually, the day came when he had no paintings left but the painting of the
day.
He painted it, and carried it into the barn.
His father
carried it into the house, and burned it.
Parsnip cried.
This
was the tradition until one day President Clamp rode by their home and happened
to glance into their window at the very moment that Parsnip's father was passing
by the window, with the painting under his arm, heading for the fire.
The President leapt from his carriage, and barged into the house. An invitation,
of course, was unnecessary. He grabbed the painting from the man's hands.
Parsnip's father pushed the man over. A moment later, he saw the man's face,
and realized his mistake. "Mr. President! I'm sorry! I thought you were-"
"It's quite alright," the President said. He stood and brushed
himself off with one hand. "Give me this painting, and tell me where you
got it, and all will be forgiven."
"The painting's not worth
anything, but of course you can have it."
"And the painter?"
"My son."
"Your son, huh? Does he paint often?"
"A painting a day." He said this with no pride in his voice.
"Your son sounds like an interesting young man. He would make a fine
addition to my cabinet. I'd like him to paint for me. What do you think?"
"He's not worth anything, but of course you can have him."
And so, for the first time, Parsnip cried not because he lost a painting,
but a family. It hurt much more than he could ever have imagined.
A pair
of sentinels led him into the President's office, where the President sat, sharpening
pencils.
"Ah, the young painter boy," the President said, looking
up from his pencils. "What's that thing on the leash?"
"It's
Happenstance," Parsnip said. "My hippo."
"I imagine
it makes quite the mess."
"It's housetrained."
"Even so. Let's get rid of it, shall we?"
One of the sentinels
approached the hippo from behind.
"Take him away and I'll never
paint again," the boy said. "Never."
The President sighed
and waved the guard away. "Take him to his room."
Parsnip's
room was obviously someone's idea of what a painter's room should look like. Art
engulfed him from all sides, from all forms. Paintings, statues, books. There
were even instruments scattered about here and there for good measure. All of
the furniture wasn't shaped like any furniture he'd ever seen. He doubted if he
could sit comfortably on any of it. At least his bed appeared to be normal. But
the instant he sat on it, the whole thing vibrated and hummed. Music played constantly,
though he couldn't find the source, and he couldn't find how to turn it off. So
he didn't.
He painted.
And painted, and painted, and painted.
Parsnip was allowed in various sections of the castle, as long as he was
accompanied by his sentinel, Kite, though he spent most of his time in his room.
Kite, sometimes, would insist that the boy go to a dinner party with the
other young people of the caste. And sometimes, after his painting was finished,
he did.
Parsnip never approached anyone at these parties, but that didn't
keep him from conversation. Most of these young people were the sons and daughters
of politicians. Therefore, they were used to approaching others.
They
asked him about his newest painting, about Happenstance, about his health.
One of the young woman named Salt, though, motioned for him to join her in
the corner.
She whispered something.
"What?" Parsnip
said. "I can't hear you."
"I said I'm sorry," she
whispered, ever-so-slightly louder than before.
"About what?"
"You know. The Gallery."
"Gallery?"
Her mouth dropped open a little, and she looked as if she was about to cry. And
then she did. One tear that she quickly wiped away. "No one's told you."
The question mark at the end of that sentence was lost with her tear.
He shook his head.
"I…I can't," she said. She walked away,
and rejoined the mass of talking, laughing young people.
On the way back
to his room, Parsnip said to Salt, "What's the Gallery?"
Kite's
mouth dropped open a little, and he looked as if he was about to cry. But he didn't.
"No one's told you."
He shook his head.
"I'll
take you there," Kite said. "But you must promise me that you won't
say anything while you're inside. Not a word. If you do…you know I'll have…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
Kite took him to the
Gallery. It was in one of the Castle's outer rooms. It was filled with citizens.
Open to the public.
"These paintings are wonderful," he heard
someone say.
"The President has some talent," said another.
When Parsnip heard he would be painting for the President, he didn't think
he would be painting for the President.
A woman rushed at him from across
the room.
Kite drew his dagger and prepared to throw.
"She's
my mother," Parsnip said.
Kite lowered his weapon and Parsnip received
a hug.
"I'm so proud of you," his mother said.
Parsnip
didn't have to ask if his father was here.
On the way back to Parsnip's
room, Kite said, "You have to understand. The President's been under attack.
His image requires…"
Kite continued talking, but Parsnip didn't
care about the words.
Or the President.
Or the Gallery.
He vibrated into bed and slept, so that he could paint another day.
But that day didn't come. At least, not at first. When he opened his eyes, it
was still dark outside. He heard voices in his room.
One of the voices
became more distinct. There was a mouth by his ear. "Don't be alarmed,"
the voice said. "We've come to save you."
Hands grabbed him
from both sides and pulled him out of bed. He was rushed out the door.
"My
hippo," Parsnip said.
"Forget him," the voice said.
Luckily, Happenstance was awakened by all the noise, and trotted over to
the boy. Parsnip swooped him up and held him tight.
Four green-clad men
and women surrounded him on all sides, facing away from him.
Parsnip
spotted through the wall of bodies that in the hallway, Kite lay on the ground,
not moving.
"Is he dead?" Parsnip said.
The four laughed.
"We're not about to stoop to their level," said one.
Sentinels dashed at them from hallways and doorways and the four green people
shot at them with blowpipes. Just as the five (or six, including Happenstance)
were about to reach the secret exit, a sentinel managed to deflect a dart with
his dagger (on accident, most likely). He rushed forward and grabbed one of the
green women by the arm. He held his dagger to her neck.
"Release
the boy or she dies," the sentinel said.
Parsnip attempted to escape
the triangle of bodies around him, but they held his arms with their free hands.
They passed through the opening in the fireplace, and closed the secret
door behind him.
"This is the President's secret escape route,"
one of the green men said. "Not many people know about it."
Parsnip didn't care about that. "What's going to happen to her?"
"Metal?" the man said. "She'll be tortured for information
that she doesn't have. We're only told what we need to know. Which isn't very
much. Then she'll be killed."
The boy held the hippo even tighter.
"Why don't you go back and save her?"
"Because if we did,
more of us would be captured during the rescue. If Metal's life were worth more
than ours, then of course we could go back. But it's not."
"And
mine is?"
All three of them laughed.
"Of course,"
said the remaining woman.
Parsnip was taken to a secret location in
the woods. Secret even to the three who brought him there. At the outskirts of
the forest, the three blindfolded themselves and waited. After a few moments,
all four of them (or five, including Happenstance) lifted into the air. An unseen
force carried them through the forest, spinning them around, weaving the trees.
Many minutes passed, and they touched down in a village filled with
green-clad people and simple huts. Parsnip threw up. Not because of the place,
but the ride over had made him sick to his stomach.
A woman approached,
dressed in a lighter green than any of the others. This was what Parsnip thought
at first anyone. The longer he looked at her though, the more he thought that
she was in fact wearing the same green. A green light was emanating from her body.
"Metal's gone," one of the green men said.
The lit woman
said a word Parsnip had never heard before. Then she knelt down beside the boy.
"My name is Yarn," she said. "You're the painter."
Parsnip nodded.
"We saved you because we need your help. The President's
a very bad man. We don't want to kill him. We simply want the citizens to know
and accept the truth. The knowing part is easy. But in order for them to accept
the truth, they'll need to feel it in their hearts. That's why we need you to
paint for us. Understand?"
"No," he said.
"You
will, when you're older. For now, paint what we tell you to paint."
"I don't know if I can do that," Parsnip said, honestly.
"Listen,
child. A good woman gave her life so that you could be here. You can leave at
any time, but I suggest you search your conscience before you make a decision."
So Parsnip painted.
And painted, and painted.
He missed
his days in his parents' house and even in the President's castle. Every once
in a while he got to paint what was in his own heart, but mostly he painted what
was in the hearts of others.
In other words, he Worked.