The Canvas on the Hill

The rain poured again the night after She added the sword in my hands. It washed away the weapon, and with it, most of my identity was stripped by the glassy beads of liquid. A bittersweet feeling flowed through my threads. I was a knight no more, but my thoughts trickled with excitement. What would She think up for me next?

Channels of fallen rain dug their way through the soil at the base of the grand tree that sat on the hill. The leaves protecting portions of my new identity from being washed away. What remained, as the sun peeked over the hill, was the rock She had painted two weeks before. The same rock that had been the backdrop of my knighthood as well as a central point whilst I was a waterfall for the many days before my royal appointment.

Golden light reflects off the white of my newly cleaned canvas. The rain has been more frequent recently, and thus my metamorphosis has been rapid these days.

Eagerness shivers through my easel as Her auburn hair crests the hill, glowing with a backdrop of pure light.

“A knight no more. Dammit, I quite liked that visual.” She mutters, placing her tools of creation next to me.

She stares for quite a while. Taking in the new emptiness, the remaining rock, wondering what could be created next. I can barely hold my anticipation.

Finally, she brings out the bright colors and tools she uses to create my many identities. Placing them on a small wooden fold-out table, while folding out a similarly sized wooden stool for her to sit upon while she works. The first strokes of cold paint send flutters through my canvas. Though I will miss my sword and armor, a new beginning is one of the most exciting journeys.

“How should we say your journey as a knight ended?” She asks, knowing I don’t have the capabilities to respond.

“I vote you slayed the dragon and saved the village. But maybe that’s too typical.”

She continues Her broad strokes, mixing colors as needed, and switching out her tools to achieve varying-sized lines. Along with her process comes the shine of her eyes. I can see every time an epiphany of creativity slithers through her mind. Her eyes widen subtly, her pupils dilate ever so slightly, then the furious scribbling commences.

She continues this way until a chill takes hold of the air and the golden light fades to the lonely, inky black of night. She puts down her tools and packs them up neatly. Then She takes a last glance at what She has accomplished throughout the day before stepping away into the night.

That’s when my only other visitor comes.

An old man, lantern held high, crests the hill. His wrinkles deepened in shadow by the flickering light. He stands, out of breath, once he reaches the foot of my easel. Then he observes.

Crouching over and pushing the light closer to me as he takes in all the details She left to dry. He notices the rock has remained and chuckles slightly. Then pulls away and disappears into the night once more.

The process repeats continuously for days. Thankfully, no other rainfalls come as She works on my new identity. Some days She is quiet, and other days, She can’t seem to keep quiet while she works.

On the night of the eighth day, shortly after the old man had left his quiet observation, a new visitor approached my tree-covered hill. He is tall and looks gentlemanly (at least as much as I can surmise the definition of ‘gentleman’ from the tales She mutters while She works). Similarly to the old man, he holds a lantern in his hand and raises it to observe me.

A shard of metal gleams from his back as he moves his lantern, and I notice, like me once before, he has a sword. A true knight stands in front of me, observing Her work.

I take in his identity, recognizing his hardships, his efforts in life, as we have both served the Queen in our knighthood. Though he wouldn’t know that, of course. As She is in the middle of crafting my new identity, any recognition of our bond was washed away weeks ago.

“Theodore wasn’t lying; she is quite talented.” He mutters to himself.

At that moment, I want the ability to speak, I want to tell him all the wonders She harbors. I want to explain to him her talent in detail, her pure skill. Who better to hear it from than the creation of Her?

Alas, in all Her prowess of the arts, She has never painted me a mouth. I’ve been captivating wild landscapes or decorated castles. On the rare occasion, a person, just like her, or the old man, or the knight standing before me. Though in all depictions, I am masked and, therefore, unable to visualize a mouth to speak from.

I sit in silence in my place on the hill. The canopy of the great tree twitches at the consistent breeze of the night. The knight admires Her creation for a while more and then moves on, down the hill, and back to the village.

She returns the next day to add some finishing touches to my new identity.

In my new depiction, I am sitting upon the rock that has been consistently there for my past few identities. My hair is a deep green, the tint of lily pads in a pond. It flows along my body and continues down a scaly tail attached to me at the waist. I am facing off to the other side of my canvas, taking in the deep, eerie views of a forest that surrounds me.

She has spoken of these creatures before; if only I could remember their names.

“A mermaid.” A voice ticks up from behind Her.

She startles and turns to face the Knight as he trots up the hill towards her. Her face immediately shifts, from focused on my creation, to full of a wondrous glee I’d never seen Her possess.

“You’re correct. Astute eye you have there.” She chuckles back in response.

“My eyes owe all their astuteness to the majesties of your creation.”

Thank you, I blush to myself.

“Theodore told me you were good. He wasn’t lying.” The Knight continues.

“I knew Theodore was sneaking looks in the night. His wife told me he’d go missing for a while after dinner.” She replies, now standing to meet him.

“Our own village spy.”

“You’ll have to come back when I am finished.”

“I’d be glad to see it complete. You’re planning to add a face to the mermaid, right?” He jokes.

“Of course,” she chuckles, “I’ve been practicing with my faces recently. Might finally add one here.” She smiles fondly, looking at me now.

“Well, I didn’t only come to marvel at your newest masterpiece. I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me for dinner tonight.” The Knight asks, a nervousness creeping in his throat.

“I’d be delighted.” She smiles back.

She begins to pack up her tools, and they depart down the hill. An early finish for today, the sun, not quite bright, is still present in the sky.

I sit there, a faceless mermaid, and watch Her walk with the Knight down into the village. Days and nights pass, weeks turn to months as seasons go by. My canvas has been washed clean, first by rain, then by melted snow. I am identityless once more.

I sit dried and wrinkly, much like the skin of Theodore. Who lost interest in me a while back, as my faceless mermaid went unfinished, Theodore slowly abandons my hill.

The canopy of my great tree grows, and the foot of my easel sinks into the soil. I feel I have become one with the hill. A fixture, forever there.

I am wallowing in my loneliness when He first approaches the hill. A boy stares at me wondrously. Younger than She was when She first stumbled upon me. He feels the arid cracks of my canvas, examines my placement on the hill.

Then He pulls out his tools and brightly colored tubes and begins to work.