The Painter and The Poet - A Narnian Story

Chapter Seven

Anya could hardly believe it. Years of study, hours hunched over her desk, hundreds of letters to Ed, and she still couldn't believe it.

"Thank you so much," she managed, giving the masters a shallow bow as a smile pulled at her lips.

Just as quickly as they came, the masters left the mess hall, leaving Ed, Master Rowl, and Anya alone once more.

"You'll be apprenticing under me," Master Rowl announced, beckoning them to the door that led to the courtyard. "I have one other apprentice– a young boy named Blake. He will give you a tour of the quarter."

Anya had to take a few breaths before moving to follow him. It was a long shot getting into the Art Quarter in the first place, but being mentored under the great Master Rowl was simply an impossible wish. He was famous for never taking in any apprentices. But then how had she never heard of Blake?

He led them to one of the studios surrounding the courtyard. There was nothing special about the oak doors he pushed open, they looked identical to all the rest save for the number five painted on the doorframe in gold. Anya quickly counted– eighteen studios made up the first floor of the Art Quarter.

"Blake! Come meet someone!" Master Rowl called into his studio.

The room wasn't very large– just enough to hold a few easels, tables, sinks, and cabinets. Still lifes were set up on various surfaces, drapes were artfully hung from blank walls, a skeleton that might be real stood in one corner, and paint and ink were smeared on nearly every surface. The back wall of the room was made entirely of glass and overlooked a garden a few stories below, allowing plenty of natural light into the room.

Through the legs of one easel, Anya could make out the small feet of someone sitting on the other side. She watched as they swung to the side, hopping off the stool and walking into view.

'Blake' was a scrawny boy of maybe twelve years with wild brown hair and olive skin. He wore a simple pair of trousers and a cotton shirt like most of the other apprentices, and like theirs his were covered in faded stains. He wore no apron, which explained why there were so many.

"Hello," she greeted, "I'm Anya."

Blake frowned. He glanced at the men flanking her before returning his skeptical gaze to her form. She could tell he was analyzing her in ways the average person wouldn't even think to. Behind this boy's unruly appearance was a genius in the making who knew exactly what he was doing.

She couldn't fault him for it though– she was doing the exact same thing.

There were circles beneath his eyes, his laces were untied, his shoulders were turned inward even when he stood– either from habit or for defense, and his skin was a little too dull. However, his eyes burned with an intensity she'd never seen in a child, the backs of his hands had been turned into makeshift palettes just like hers often were, and a miniature sketchbook was tucked into his front pocket.

"You're late," he finally said, crossing his arms in a very boy-like manner. "Many months late."

Master Rowl scoffed, "Good gracious, boy. It's like you've forgotten your manners."

Anya was glad that this time Blake's frown wasn't directed towards her. He was intimidating for such a tiny thing. She took a step toward him, "Unfortunately, I was stranded in the Great Western Mountains during the winter. Believe me, I didn't want to stay there as long as I did. Have you ever been to the mountains?"

He shook his head no, curiosity beginning to show in his eyes. Anya dug through her bag to pull out her sketchbook, "I've got some sketches– here."

Slowly, like he didn't want to show any interest, Blake made his way over to her to peer at the graphite drawings she'd made during her travels. There were many– sketches of the woodland creatures, of the jagged peaks, of the dreary tavern and the road beside it, of the groves of soaring trees and the roaring rivers they'd crossed.