The painting next to it showed a single rowboat, deserted, but adrift. The water displayed its shadow in a way that was almost threatening, as if the dark sky beyond promised a storm. I wondered where the boat’s owner had gone. Was this merely a boat that had broken free from its pier, or was this something more sinister? Had someone fallen into the water or . . . It was not a painting that left me with a comfortable feeling. I shivered and moved my eyes to the next.
Timothy moved away from Gregor, back over to me. Once more he clutched my hand. Then, he bent over to whisper in my ear. “You see too much, Penelope. Maybe the artist only regretted his lack of a good rowboat. Perhaps this is merely the boat waiting for his arrival, prepared to drift him out for a peaceful day on the water. Maybe he has swum away a bit, just out of the picture and is enjoying the water.”
Art was like that, allowing multiple interpretations. On another day, the rowboat and the sky behind it might not seem so dark and foreboding to me. But I moved on, wanting to purge my mind from those eerie visions.
We said our goodbyes to Simone and Gregor and moved to another room. Timothy seemed excited to show me the next chamber. I stopped at the doorway, studying the room’s label.
“What is Pooka Art?”
“Let’s go forward, and you will find out. You have never seen a single work that I’ve put in this room.”
“Why not? I thought you showed me everything, except the few you acquired at the last moment from local artists.”
“No, this room is special. I wanted you to see the whole all at once.”
I stood in the doorway, doing a brief scan. The center piece presented a giant horse. It was obviously a black stallion, rearing in a conventional pose to show his wildness and contempt for being ground-bound. But there was something about him that seemed slightly off. The eyes, I decided.
On the right of him was Jimmy Stewart with his giant rabbit buddy, Harvey, standing close beside him. The painting was in acrylics, so the piece had a slightly humorous feel to it, as if someone had played a joke on the artist, and that was the result.
Another painter had showed the pooka as a bird, flying upwards into the night sky. There was also a cat, a slightly odd cat, his diamond eyes staring out at us. His golden eyes seemed to see into me, asking questions I didn’t know the answers to.
There was an owl, fox, raven, wolf, goat, and several other horses, both of those showing a low, full moon with darkness all around. The one thing they all had in common were the golden eyes, haunting eyes, eyes that entered the viewer and seemed to measure your worth. Except for the center piece. The rearing stallion. His eyes were golden but tinged with bronze. He had a ring around his iris that didn’t resemble any horse’s eyes I’d ever seen.