The Fate of Pryde, the second in TheTrilogy of Remembrance.

The Fate of Pryde Chapter 3

            “Alex has only said he met them on his last trip to Venice, Toronto and New York.” 

            That was the “official” story, which I was authorized to give. In fact, I knew a great deal more about each and every character Alex had painted.  

            “Those people must have been very important to him.” First he examined the canvas up close and then backed away. “Each one is a distinct individual but each one contains elements of universal humanity. Amazing—how he has conveyed such powerful emotion! What do you think Fizzy?”

            Fizzy smiled enthusiastically. “Mr. Wainwright is a very great artist. He brings another world of insight to his work and to us.”

            Fizzy may have looked thuggish, but he certainly was well spoken. Pryde again moved closer to the canvas. “I wonder who this woman is?”

            “I believe she is a person whom he met at an inn where he stayed last year.” I said.

            Pryde sighed. “She looks so sorrowful. So closed in.”

            Indeed the woman was sorrowful and after meeting her, so was Alexander. I’m sure all of us know situations where one’s past catches up in a truly catastrophic way. That is exactly what happened to Alex, and in a most distressing fashion. Once he realized who she was to him, he was thrown into the pit of despair.

“Has Mr. Wainwright set a price on the work?”

            “Pardon?” I broke from my reverie.

            Looking at me oddly, Pryde said, “The price?”

          “A price hasn’t been set as yet, but I’m sure Mr. Wainwright is open to discussion.”

Pryde’s eyes sparked with determination. “Mr. Helmsworth, please! Tell Mr. Wainwright, that I shall pay him whatever he asks for this work. I must have it.”

            Of course, I was delighted, but I only nodded. “I will tell him so, but perhaps we should go back up to the office.” 

Once seated at my desk, I said, “Mr. Wainwright is interested in hearing the specifics of your proposal on the stained glass project, Mr. Pryde.” I spoke rather more formally than I had intended. “You do realize that he hasn’t worked in stained glass before?”

            Pryde smiled broadly. “I’m delighted he is interested. But tell him not to worry. I’m not seeking him out for know-how in stained glass. Mr. Wainwright is far from a mere artisan.” He waved dismissively. “I will hire one hundred skilled tradesmen if he needs them. Technical expertise is no small thing, but that is not why I need Mr. Wainwright.”

            Jonathan Pryde was excited—so much so that he could scarcely contain himself. With a passionate expression of joy on his face, he jumped up to pace my office. “No, Mr. Helmsworth, I want him for two reasons.” The man marched to and fro in front of the window. He stopped and turned back on me. “First, because he is a true genius with light and color. But more important, he has astonishing vision. In fact, he is the only living mythographer in the world today.”

            I do not think I had ever heard another living soul use such an esoteric term. I paused and played with my pen. “And by that you mean…”

            “He, Mr. Helmsworth, is the only artist who can aspire to mythological vision and then render the spiritual in tangible, human form!” He sank back to his chair almost out of breath.