When she was about ten years old, her father returned from seven days of labor in the nearby fields. She ran to greet him as he set down a coarse sackcloth and said, "Da', yo' home! Can we paint the carvings t'night? Can we please?"
"Arvah, my Chey," he replied, "but dikh, I ha' some drab fo' tu." As he said this, he removed a precious gift that was wrapped carefully in the sackcloth. It was a set of charcoal and oil paints. It had cost nearly all of his wages to buy such an expensive gift.
Tears welled up in Sage's eyes as she hugged her father fiercely. "Thank tu, I'm so baxtalo to have my Da'."
They set to making brushes themselves with hair delicately plucked from the tail of their piebald Cob horse. Sage had raised the horse from a pony and had named him Buttercup. Buttercup was one of her closest playmates and she would spend long hours riding and grooming the horse.
When the paints that her father purchased ran out, her mother took her deep into the forest at night to gather herbs and berries. She taught her the names and uses for all of them. Together they mixed all the different bright colors needed for painting. As the women worked, they would chant in the old tongue. Her mother forbade Sage from doing so when she was not present. One day, she asked her about it cautiously. "Dya, why can't I sing the Romani chants without you?"
"My Chey, it's too dook, ta' mix the drab and the bol. The spells of making are strazhno—too dangerous. Our power comes from the herbs taken from the earth, an' our souls is channeled an' focused thro' our voices. When I tell fortunes, I use the power o' namin', to summon the Mulo spirits. Do no' use these things lightly, an' never link all three."
"I won't Dya." But she practiced all of it as often as she could. If her mother hadn't been so busy with the cooking and cleaning, she would have seen Sage chanting under her breath as she mixed spectacular colors and painted fantastic images.
When she was twelve, Sage began scouring the forest for the perfect color of pink. It could only be found in the rare pyramidal orchid. It was very difficult to find and by the time she had gathered enough for her paints, the sun was hanging low in the sky. In her rush to return home, Sage became hopelessly lost.
Her parents grew worried when their daughter did not return that evening, and set out together with an oil lamp to search the fringes of the dark woods. It was there that they were set upon by a group of local laborers, greatly displeased to have their work taken by the wandering tinkers and who had resorted to highway robbery in the forest. They had been drinking and had worked themselves into a fury over imagined slights and evils at the hands of the Romani people. They seized and beat her parents mercilessly. They spit and cursed at them, before looping two coils of rope around the limbs of a great oak tree. There they hung the husband and wife. The mob exited the forest and found the family's Vardo at the edge of the trees. They burned the beautifully decorated wood to the ground. They mercilessly killed Buttercup and urinated over the corpse.
The next morning, Sage eased the stiffness in her joints caused by a night spent under the stars. She stretched and warmed her hands before making her way towards her home. As she set out, she used the daylight to retrace her steps. She moved quickly, fearful of her parents' anger and worry. The forest was strangely quiet that morning, as if grieving. She reached the clearing where the violence had taken place the previous night. It was the shadows of the two forms swaying lightly in the breeze that she saw on the ground first. She raised her eyes slowly and with a burgeoning sense of dread. At the sight of her dead parents swinging from the trees, her breath was crushed from her chest. She fell to her knees in disbelief and shock. Sobs racked her body as she bawled in dismay and anger. She refused to leave the bodies, but was unable to approach any closer to cut them down.
That was where a kindly old Frenchman named Pascal found her. He had seen the slaughtered horse and burned Vardo along the road at the edge of the forest. He took in the scene and felt a deep pity for the girl, for he was alone in this world as well. He cut down the bodies of Sage's parents and gave them a proper burial in the forest. The girl stood by silently and watched. He covered the filthy and malnourished girl with a blanket and lifted her to the seat of his cart. He took her back to his small home several kilometers away. For days the devastated girl refused to speak. She would eat crusty bread when offered and put on the clothes that Pascal brought her, but her eyes were dull and clouded.
It was only when Sage discovered that Pascal was a painter, that she resumed living. The paint and brushes brought back the spark to her eyes and provided a much-needed distraction. Pascal had no wife or children and was delighted when the girl awakened from her stupor. He cared for the girl as his own and taught her the many painting techniques of the French masters. The two were happy together, or at least found a certain peace amongst their shared passion for artistry. She grew into an accomplished artist and her work and fame soon brought her to the streets of London.
"And that is where I met you, sweet Dorian." Sage sighed, her tale spun. But there was still more that she needed to say.
"From the first moment, you have had the most extraordinary influence on my work. My life has been dominated by you ever since. It was as if you were the realized ideal of every artist's dream. I worshiped you and was immediately jealous of everyone else to whom you spoke. I wanted you all for myself and was only happy when I was with you. Even when you were away from me, you were still with me—in my art. I was too ashamed ever to let you know anything of this. You would not have understood it. I barely understand it myself. I only know that I have seen perfection before my very eyes."
Her eyes wandered around Dorian's face slowly. They paused only as they reached his lips. She continued on tentatively. "Weeks went by and I became more and more obsessed with you. I have drawn you in armor, and as Adonis with spear and cloak. I have painted you on the prow of Adrian's barge as you cross the green Nile and again in some Greek woodland over a still, pool of silver. But that was as art should be—ideal and remote. Do you remember those wonderful summer days we spent together with the wolf cub? How splendid and eternal those afternoons were to me. But then, I decided to paint a portrait of you—as you actually are and in the reality of your own time."
Now that Sage was talking about painting, her voice grew louder and more excited. She gestured with her hands as she continued. "I needed the realism to be exact, so I labored for days to get the perfect skin tones. I agonized over achieving the perfect brush strokes. I called upon all of the skill taught to me by Pascal. I used all of the knowledge passed down to me by my Romani heritage. They were used in gathering and mixing the perfect combination of herbs. This was needed to make my work as lifelike as possible. I may have gone too far when I mixed in some blood from both you and the wolf pup. The mixing of names was another invocation my mother had warned so strongly against. I put too much of myself into the painting. Too much of my idolatry and desire to immortalize you forever—both on the canvas and in my heart."
Sage paused, risking a tentative glance at Dorian to gauge his reaction. He merely sat quietly and stared at her, so she continued speaking. "Later, I felt so foolish and decided that I had imagined everything. I have used similar mixtures and chanted the silly spells of making in my head before. They have never resulted in more than a brighter living-color or a more daring sheen. I was so glad to gift the finished work to you and hardly thought of it again until the offer from Paris came. I see now that you were right Dorian. The picture simply cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me for what I have told you. You are made to be worshipped."
Dorian drew a long breath and a smile came to his lips. The peril was over for now and he was safe again. He felt relief and pity for the girl with her strange confession. Would anyone ever inspire in himself the strange feelings of idolatry that Sage felt?
"Dorian, it is extraordinary that you were able to observe this in the portrait. Perhaps, if not now, maybe someday you would let me stand again in front of the picture."
"Never."
"Well, perhaps that is best and you are right. I owe you so much. Ah! You said you had some secret to tell as well?"
Dorian scoffed. "My dear Sage, what you have told me can hardly be called a secret. You simply admire me too much. That is not even a compliment. It was a very disappointing confession."
"What did you expect? Was there something else about the picture? There is nothing else to see is there?"
"No, nothing else to see. Now, we will no longer speak of it. For we are friends and we must always remain so. You should go and tomorrow I will come to your studio and have tea with you and all will be pleasant again."
Sage gave him a look of relief that the matter was settled. She hated conflict. She slowly rose and moved towards the door. "Very well. Good-bye Dorian. I will see you tomorrow."
After Sage had left, Dorian smirked and chided himself. Poor Sage! She had never even known his true reason for covering the portrait. Instead of revealing his own secret, he had uncovered a very strange secret from his friend. What a bizarre and absurd confession. He sighed and touched the servant's bell that sat on the desk. The portrait would be hidden away at all costs. He could not afford the risk of discovery. He should never have allowed anyone access to the room that it inhabited in the first place.
As he covered the portrait with a heavy coverlet his valet entered. The man stood impassively as he received his orders to frame up the portrait—careful to keep the screen intact, of course.
Briefly, Dorian shuddered and regretted that he had not told Sage the truth about the picture. Since she had created it, perhaps she could have done something to save him. But it was too late now. The future was inevitable. He knew his passions would once more demand to find their terrible outlet. He found solace, knowing that only the painting itself could lay bare the shadow of that evil.