A Bolt from the Blue

Still, I spared a final critical eye for my painting. I had taken care to blend my background to the surrounding fresco, so that it joined seamlessly with the rest of the scene. Each color had been applied with care, layered one atop another with painstaking precision. But most important was the trio of male figures I had painted within that small landscape. They had sprung from my brushes with a skill I’d not realized I possessed, glowing with life upon what had once been but a blank square of plaster.

Blinking back sudden tears, I studied the image of a young man-thin but wiry and possessed of a calm smile-who sat upon a grassy knoll. His hands casually wrapped around one knee, he watched with happy amazement the miraculous scene before him. Behind the youth stood a man old enough to be his father. Though his hair was gray and his features and body thicker, he bore a striking resemblance to the young man upon whose shoulder his strong hand rested. His air was respectful, in keeping with the wonders nearby, but his look of paternal pride was reserved for his son.

A short distance behind the pair, a second young man was poised in mid-run, as if rushing to see the miracle before it was too late. Indeed, such was his hurry that his cap had tumbled from his tangled mane of black hair. He did not look back, however, but kept single-mindedly to his pace. A smile danced upon his pockmarked face, and his expression was that of a true believer whose faith had at last been confirmed.

I was still studying my work when the chapel door creaked open behind me. I sensed the Master’s presence almost before I heard his soft footsteps upon the stone floor. Wordlessly, he paused beside me and for a long while studied the portion of fresco into which I had poured my heart. At last, he turned back to me.

“Well-done, young apprentice,” he said, the warmth of his smile soothing all of my aches. “I had expected much of you, and yet you surpassed those expectations. This is a work worthy of a master.”

Before I could reply, his smile broadened into a grin. “And I see you have taken a master’s liberty by putting yourself into the scene, as well, if perhaps symbolically.”

He pointed to the painted image of a hawk perched upon a tree behind the figures of Constantin and his father. Dark of feather and green of eye, the small raptor lifted a single wing, as if about to take flight.

I felt myself blush as I returned his grin. “I could not help myself… though, of course, I would never have dared to paint my face among the worshippers.”

“Ah, but that is half the fun,” the Master countered, his grin taking on a sly edge. “Surely you saw that I did not hesitate to give myself a most prominent role in the scene.”

Staring at the fresco, I frowned for a moment as I tried to pick him out from the painted crowd. It was then that I noticed what I had missed before, that the Christ figure bore more than a passing resemblance to the Master as he must have looked a decade earlier.

“But what if the duke notices?” I gasped out, torn between being scandalized and amused by this subtle bit of blasphemy.

Leonardo merely shrugged. “I suspect he will be more likely to believe that the resemblance is to himself, if he notices anything at all.”

The soft chime that was his wrist clock sounding the hour put a halt to that moment of amusement.

“It is finished,” he softly said, a shadow stealing over his handsome features. “You have done what you were meant to do here, and it is time for you to leave us. Your father is waiting outside the chapel gates to take you back to the city, so that you can start for your home on the morrow. And so, I fear that nothing more remains than to say good-bye to my dearest Dino.”

You cannot say good-bye, I wanted to cry out, for I cannot bear to leave the castle, to leave you! But a painful lump had lodged in my throat so that the words remained unspoken.

Swiping away a few errant tears that had slipped down my cheeks, I took a steadying breath and asked instead, “Will you make my farewells to Signor Luigi? He was a true friend to me, and I shall miss him despite his sharp tongue.”

“I will tell him,” he agreed with a hint of a smile, “no matter that the good tailor will be loud in his protests before he ever admits his fondness for you.”

“And Vittorio, do not let him pine too long for Novella,” I rushed on. “He thinks himself in love with her, you know.”

“I know, and I shall counsel him to patience, for I suspect the washerwoman and her daughter may one day return.”

“And don’t forget Pio. He must have his game of wrestling with a bit of blanket each day.”

“The hound will have his amusements, I assure you.”

Unable to think of any further excuses for delay, I lapsed into silent misery. I knew I should flee before I made a fool of myself, and yet I yearned to draw out this last moment for as long as I could. I cared not that each passing second deepened the wound in my heart, if it meant I could spend a few heartbeats longer in his presence.