The Man Who Could Paint Death
Morte Pictorem was regarded as one of the greatest painters in all of Europe. His skills with a brush were unmatched and his beautiful works of art could rival those of Michelangelo and DaVinci. So why then was the name Pictorem not included among these great artists? Pictorem did not gain his reputation for capturing the beauty of monarchs or decorating the walls of cathedrals. The master painter was commissioned to paint the dead. People would pay handsomely to have Pictorem capture the images of their loved ones before their bodies were interred for all eternity. Surely, Pictorem was not the only artist to make his living in this rather morbid fashion, but all the men and women of Europe proclaimed, “no hand was better at bringing life back to the dead then Morte Pictorem.”
From the high mountains of the North to the ports of the South, Pictorem would travel with his paints, paper and sharp eye. His attention to detail was a skill of perfection, one that very few artists had mastered. However, things would not play out so perfectly for the arrogant artist. Like a lightning bolt from the heavens, fate would strike down on him with no remorse.
One evening, while traveling to Italy, his carriage was thrown off the road during a terrible storm. The driver lost control and the wagon rolled down a steep hill, tumbling the occupants around inside it. Inside the carriage with the artist were a young woman, whom Pictorem found to be quite beautiful, and an older gentleman who claimed to be one of the world’s greatest scientists. The carriage came to sudden halt at the bottom of the hill as it smashed against a large tree. The woman and the scientist were thrown from the carriage, but Pictorem remained inside. The driver rushed down to the bottom of the hill and found the man and woman battered but unharmed.
“Where is the second gentleman?” the driver asked with frantic concern.
“I believe he is still inside the carriage” the scientist replied trying to catch his breath.
The driver rushed over to the broken remains of the carriage and pried the door open. He saw Pictorem lying face down on the floor of the carriage. He reached inside and grabbed him by the back of the shirt and dragged him out of the dismantled wagon. He pulled his heavy body over to the others.
“Is he dead?” the woman asked with sadness and fear in her voice.
“I am not sure” the driver replied. He then reached down and rolled the painter over on his back.
The woman shrieked with horror at watch she saw. The driver back away slowly as he stared down at the young artist.
“Good Lord” the scientist exclaimed as he closed his eyes to hide himself from the sight.
Pictorem was alive, however, a shard of wood had punctured his right eye. His extremely valuable right eye. For the next several weeks Pictorem would be confined to a bed in the Ospedale Maggiore in Milan where he was cared for until his wounds healed. It was also there that a doctor informed him of the sad news. He would never regain the sight in his right eye. It was at that moment that Pictorem wished for death. How would he survive if he could not paint?
A few months later Pictorem was on his way out of Italy and back to England. His right eye was now covered with a patch to protect it from the elements and prevent infection. Upon arriving at home, he made his first attempts to pick up a paint brush and test his vision. It was a failure. His mastery with a brush and perfect detailing came from his remarkable vision. Vision that was now lost.
Pictorem fell into a deep depression and began drinking heavily. Soon, he found himself living on the street as a beggar. Once the most sought after artist in all of Europe, he wasn’t even able to get a shilling for a crust of bread now. One night he was thrown from a local tavern for not having enough money to pay for his drinks. He was beaten and left in the street a bloody and broken man. He crawled towards the darkness of the woods, hoping that some creature would bring him to his pitiful end. He made his way to a large tree stump and sat against it. There he laid back his head and waited to die.
“A pitiful sight you are, Morte Pictorem” a voice boomed out from the darkness.
Pictorem lifted his head up and saw a dark shadowy figure standing before him. He squinted with his one good eye trying to make out some sort of details in the darkness.
“Who are you?” Pictorem asked curiously.
“Is it not more important why I am here?” the deep voice echoed in response.
“Do I owe you money?” Pictorem fired back, “because it should be obvious to you I do not have any money, now be gone and let me die here a broken man.”
“I am not here to gain riches” the voice replied, “but rather to offer you a chance to return to the prominence you once had.”
“Do not jest a dead man, stranger.”
“Believe me, I do not jest you” the stranger replied.
“Then show yourself, do not hide in the shadows like some sort of fiend” Pictorem replied with annoyance.
“My appearance is of no consequence” the dark figure retorted, “all that matters is that which I have to offer.”
“Then say your peace and be gone” Pictorem replied solemnly, “and leave me to die.”
“It is time for you to continue your work” the figure replied.
“How can I when I have this!” Pictorem thundered as he leapt to his feet and tore off the patch that covered his scarred eye.
A white film covered the severed eye ball that gleamed lifelessly at the large shadow. The figure began to laugh. Pictorem could feel a surge of anger swelling within him. How dare this…person…mock him. How dare he laugh at him and make comments suggesting he could attempt to paint again. The half blind painter let out a loud bellow that seemed to come from deep within his soul and he rushed at the dark figure. He lunged at him in an attempt to wrestle him to the ground, but to his surprise all he met with was air, followed by the hard ground as he crashed face first into the dirt and leaves. He looked back and saw the dark shadow looming over him. How could he have missed him? His path was direct and the figure made no attempt to move.
“What sort of magic is this?” Pictorem asked in disbelief as he realized that he passed through the dark figure.
“No magic, Morte” the voice answered from the black void.
Pictorem slowly got to his feet and was ready to listen. He sat down on a nearby fallen log and stared up at the hovering blackness.
“What do you want of me?” the defeated artist asked.
“Simply to continue your work” the mysterious stranger replied.
“But, I can’t” Pictorem replied weakly.
“You can” the shadow said getting closer to him, “and you will.”
Morte Pictorem was back. Europeans would again call on him to paint their loved ones and he would do his best work. Pictorem was only thirty-five years of age when he met with his accident and lost his right eye. He would live to the age of seventy-seven. Upon his death bed, he made a confession to a priest about the offer the mysterious figure had made to him that night in the forest.
“He promised he would return my ability to paint and continue my work” Pictorem said as he lay in bed, sweating profusely with a fever.
“In exchange for what?” the priest asked softly.
“A life”, Pictorem replied tearfully, “for every commission I was given, I had to supply a soul to him.”
“You took a life?” the priest asked.
“I had to choose the soul who would be my next subject” Pictorem replied, “a soul that was given to death.”