1.13 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Yes, I’m Penelope Casey, but how did you know my name?” He grinned with a huge smile that flashed sparkling white teeth, the kind that I bet had been medically whitened. “We thought so. Your picture is plastered over the front page of all the newspapers. We never realized you were someone famous.” I stopped my machine and stepped down. “You saw me where?” “You didn’t know,” he laughed and called over to his friends. “Any of you guys have the paper?” They all shook their heads in between grunts and heaves. Stan gave him a look, not of jealousy, but perhaps irritation for being bothered? Apparently, Jesse was the only one taking any interest on whether I was or wasn’t the woman in question. “What paper?” I asked, grabbing my towel to swab off the machine and then my face. I wasn’t finished exercising, but I decided that this was more important. I thanked Jesse and took off for my apartment. I figured I could search on the Internet and find the info. I was just about to take a look when my cell rang — Timothy. “Have you finished your gym work? he asked. “Yeah, I quit early. I needed to investigate something. You haven’t seen the local paper, have you?” “Ah, you’ve seen it?” “No, but one of the guys, Jesse, told me about it.” “I’m in the limo parked in front of your apartment. Will you buzz me up?” “I’m all sweaty and . . .” With little choice in the matter since Timothy was already just outside, I buzzed him in, then waited for the doorbell. I hoped I didn’t smell. Timothy barged right in and swooped me into an embrace, despite my sweat drips and ragged appearance. His kiss didn’t seem to mind. “Ah, I needed that. This separation of residences is killing me,” he said. That was one thing I’d been meaning to ask about. Where did Timothy live? He’d never once invited me over. He showed up at my apartment almost every day, but not once had he offered to let me see his residence. What was up with that? If I didn’t know Judith’s thoroughness at checking out potential beaus, as she’d put it, I’d suspect that Timothy had a secret wife and children.
1.12 The Abyss of WonderLand
Did he regret his trade? I asked him once. Andrew turned serious, his face strained by sadness. “Only the once,” he said, and, of course, I knew he was referring to the day his wife left him because of what he was. But most of the time Andrew admits that the bargain was fair. Yet, he still insists that it was the pooka ride that corrupted him, and then he winks and slugs me in the arm. Penelope That morning when I went down to the gym, the usual weight-lifting guys suddenly eyed me as if they’d never noticed me “intruding” on their space. I walked over to the treadmill and started my workout, but the guys’ furtive glances didn’t stop. I darted a peek down at my outfit, making sure that I had my tee shirt on. I patted my hair, then wondered if my face was splotchy or something. Did I have a pimple bursting into reds? But the music on my phone was playing something I especially liked, and I tuned out my surroundings and worked on getting up a sweat, which was what the latest reading I’d done on getting fit said was required. I wasn’t singing along, except mentally, but one of the big, tall, buffs walked over my way and waited for my awareness. I stopped the music, looked over at him, and said, “Hi.” “You’re Penelope Casey, right?” he said. “We’re all wondering.” My first name wasn’t listed on anything public. The mailbox and call box were labeled P. Casey. I felt an inkling of fear creeping up my spine, but the guy was looking rather quizzical, not seriously dangerous. Besides, I was pretty sure these weightlifters were gay. As if realizing that I was looking a little anxious, he held out his hand and said, “My name’s Jesse. My husband over there is Stan.”
1.11 The Abyss of WonderLand
The sky was dark, but the moon shone down. It was a lovely night for a ride. I told him so, calling the horse, Timothy, and he replied, “Any night I am with you would be an enchanted night, my darling.” He broke into a faster walk. It had a rocking motion. I didn’t feel unsafe on his back. I felt secure, even though I clung to his mane, just in case. At one point he insisted that I let go, raise my arms into the air, and shout out, “I love you, Timothy.” It was no more than a silly dream, so I did. But then I was suddenly back in my bed, snug under my blankets. The room was dark, and I realized that I’d only been dreaming. In a way, I was disappointed, but I closed my eyes and went back to sleep. I don’t think I dreamed anything else that night. Timothy It is said that to entice a young maiden one must offer her a ride. My research on Penelope told me that she was probably not a maiden, due the hardhearted idiot who’d maltreated her, but the principle should be the same. Touch was a key component of knowing, and a gentle ride through the countryside was hopefully an inducement for enhanced feelings toward me. I didn’t want her magicked, but a little help from the power of the pooka couldn’t hurt. As I’d known it would be, our journey together was exquisite. I could feel her body shifting as my muscles moved us forward. Her seat was poor and more than once I had to swing myself to the right or left, but a pooka knows its rider, whether they are a fated one or not. “No rider ever comes to harm on a pooka ride, my father had told me long ago.” Back then, when Andrew and I were just kids, my best friend had begged me to take him on a midnight ride, and I had. He said the aftereffects of that ride was what convinced him to give his pledge to me. I suppose it could be true, but Andrew then was a mere slave boy, stolen away from his tribe. What I offered him in exchange for his long term friendship was a life of an unknown length and a chance to be free. Of course, he chose to join me and stay by my side. After I bit him, I did try to free him, but there were no papers stating such a fact during that era, and no one could read anyway. By custom, most villagers accepted me at my word and despite the darkness of his skin, the people treated Andrew as an equal.
1.10 The Abyss
I mentally kicked myself. I was turning into a gloom-filled Turner. I must stop that, I decided as I scrubbed my face and brushed my teeth. Then I donned pajamas and threw myself into bed. Timothy “She was perfect, Andrew. You saw the way she looked — so beautiful, but it was more than that. She is kind, and she feels everything so greatly. Those are qualities that seem rare in this age, maybe in all ages. But you are definitely wrong, Andrew. She is the one.” “I am happy for you,” he said rather stiffly. I glanced over at him, trying to read his face, but Andrew had lived as many years as I had. He concealed his thoughts skillfully. “You still have doubts about her?” I prodded. “I will continue to doubt your relationship until you tell her.” I sighed. He was right, but I wasn’t ready yet. Penelope wasn’t equipped to take the leap into my world. She needed time to fall in love with me first. I wanted her to trust me implicitly. Penelope The dreams I had that night were strange, filled with pookas. The rabbit was there, his ears pouncing as he nodded his head. The tiny fox jumped on my bed and brushed against my cheek. He didn’t speak, just looked at me with sad eyes. An owl visited and a strange cat. Last of all was the black as night wild stallion. He spoke to me. “Come for a ride, my darling.” I knew his voice and the way he said darling. It was Timothy, which made no sense, since Timothy was definitely not a horse, but then dreams often don’t apply logic. I’d once had a nightmare where I was on a cooking show, attempting to prepare an edible meal, except the ingredients I needed kept running away, scurrying across the floor before I could dump them into the large mixing bowl I’d been given. Then, even the eggs I’d just cracked and added, reassembled themselves, spread their wings, which were poking out of the shells, and soared upwards toward the ceiling. But in this dream, the horse was standing over my bed, pawing at the ground. He was a beautiful animal, and I wanted to please him, but what he was asking was ludicrous. I had no idea how to ride a horse. I’d never ridden. I explained that to him, and he nodded his head. “I will always be gentle with you. You are to be my bride.” I stood up then, slid onto his back from the bed, draping one leg over the horse’s back and sort of pulled and scooted myself into place. The huge horse stood perfectly still, waiting for me to get adjusted. Strangely, I didn’t wonder the presence of a horse in my bedroom, or how he’d gotten upstairs into my apartment. Dreams are magical. Everyone knows that. Thus, when the carpet turned into grassy knolls and gray boulders of rock, I didn’t comment on it. This was dreamland, the WonderLand of fantasy.
1.9 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Yes, definitely,” I said, envisioning it. Then I stopped. “Sorry. I just get super excited when coffee is mentioned.” “You heard it from Penelope. A coffee shop is needed. Any ideas where to find the space?” “What about the backroom where you store the extra paintings? Could they be shifted elsewhere?” I asked. Both Timothy and Danny looked thoughtful for a moment. “Dainty sandwiches, some pastries, iced tea, perhaps, but definitely coffee,” I continued. We’d need another guard stationed to prevent food and drink from leaving the area,” Timothy said. “But, yes, let’s move forward. I actually bought the building next door. I was thinking we might want to expand someday. We can shift the overflow there. Get in architects for next week. We’ll need workers to cart the stuff, workers who’ll take orders about being careful with the paintings.” I was smiling at Timothy, so impressed with his forethought and the confidence he had that all this would be a success. Were galleries money makers? But it wasn’t the time or place for such questions, and my feet hurt. “Is Andrew here?” I asked, smothering a yawn. Timothy nodded, then smiled. “Yes, he’s waiting for us. You look ready to crash.” With that, we turned about and went out through the huge glass doors, and just as Timothy had said, the big limo was parked in front. Andrew drove us home, and when we arrived, Timothy insisted on going upstairs with me, riding the elevator as if that were a dangerous thing to do. But I loved him for it. He must be exhausted, too. And the pressure on him to get everything right, even with Mr. Franco in charge of a lot of the details, must have been enormous. Yet, Timothy remained uncomplaining and simply dabbed a kiss on my forehead and wished me a goodnight. I wished that he could stay, sit on the couch for a bit, perhaps give me a few of those very special kisses he’d promised me, but I thanked him for a lovely evening and locked my door. I was careful with the gorgeous gown I was wearing. I hung it up in my now overly crowded closet. I supposed I could shift some of my things to the spare bedroom, but I hated to do that, in case I needed a roommate, in case something bad happened at work or . . .
1.9 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Yes, definitely,” I said, envisioning it. Then I stopped. “Sorry. I just get super excited when coffee is mentioned.” “You heard it from Penelope. A coffee shop is needed. Any ideas where to find the space?” “What about the backroom where you store the extra paintings? Could they be shifted elsewhere?” I asked. Both Timothy and Danny looked thoughtful for a moment. “Dainty sandwiches, some pastries, iced tea, perhaps, but definitely coffee,” I continued. We’d need another guard stationed to prevent food and drink from leaving the area,” Timothy said. “But, yes, let’s move forward. I actually bought the building next door. I was thinking we might want to expand someday. We can shift the overflow there. Get in architects for next week. We’ll need workers to cart the stuff, workers who’ll take orders about being careful with the paintings.” I was smiling at Timothy, so impressed with his forethought and the confidence he had that all this would be a success. Were galleries money makers? But it wasn’t the time or place for such questions, and my feet hurt. “Is Andrew here?” I asked, smothering a yawn. Timothy nodded, then smiled. “Yes, he’s waiting for us. You look ready to crash.” With that, we turned about and went out through the huge glass doors, and just as Timothy had said, the big limo was parked in front. Andrew drove us home, and when we arrived, Timothy insisted on going upstairs with me, riding the elevator as if that were a dangerous thing to do. But I loved him for it. He must be exhausted, too. And the pressure on him to get everything right, even with Mr. Franco in charge of a lot of the details, must have been enormous. Yet, Timothy remained uncomplaining and simply dabbed a kiss on my forehead and wished me a goodnight. I wished that he could stay, sit on the couch for a bit, perhaps give me a few of those very special kisses he’d promised me, but I thanked him for a lovely evening and locked my door. I was careful with the gorgeous gown I was wearing. I hung it up in my now overly crowded closet. I supposed I could shift some of my things to the spare bedroom, but I hated to do that, in case I needed a roommate, in case something bad happened at work or . . .
1.8 The Abyss of WonderLand
Some say that Turner found pleasure in these opposites and believed that in painting them, his shame was lifted. Maybe. But with Turner, a painting was not something a viewer just glanced at. Anyone who stared into that darkness and light had questions, questions that could only be answered from inside their soul, questions that were perhaps different for each person. Timothy smiled and shook his head. “It puzzles me how you are so drawn to Turner’s melancholy. You are not like that, I have seen no darkness inside you.” I laughed quietly. “Perhaps seeing so much chaos in his pictures jerks me out of the shadows. All of my loved ones have left me. My two friends took off for other places. I suppose I have a lot to be depressed over, but I won’t wallow in that doom. I choose the brightness, but I can understand Turner’s despair. Perhaps he had no light in his life and no vision of the promises of the future.” “And you do? What is the future you see, my darling Penelope?” It wasn’t the right time to ask such questions, A herd of people cavalcaded in our direction in their rush to complete their journey through the gallery. We stepped aside and then retreated. When we returned to the entryway where the sparkling beverage and the snacks had been, we saw that the tables were cleared. The clean-up crew was at work, carting dirty dishes and glasses off to be washed. As we stood, observing, the lovely pink tablecloth was whipped off the table and tossed in the bottom of the cart to be washed and presumably used elsewhere. Just as I commented on that, the lights dimmed and then did a quick blink on and off. It was closing time for the grand opening of Caldwell’s Fine Arts Gallery. Timothy and I remained in the foyer, bidding the guests goodbye. Franco was there, as well, doing a wonderful job of PR. He seemed to know everyone’s name, offered handshakes, and gave brilliant smiles to all the ladies. Several appraised him with the same enthusiasm. I was sure that the general manager of the gallery would profit from this gala with enough dates to last him several months. “Are you jealous?” Timothy asked, but I saw that he was teasing and just shook my head. When the last of the stragglers had made their way out the doors, Timothy played the nice boss role and praised Danny’s success in setting up the event. The two chatted for a moment, but then Timothy reminded him that the gallery would be opening at ten in the morning. “Are we set up for that as well?” “Of course, boss,” Mr. Franco said. “Guards, docents, ticket takers, and gift shop clerks. All is ready. Except, one of the patrons suggested a coffee shop was needed. Any thoughts on that?”
1.7 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Ah, there you are,” Simone called out with cheerleader liveliness. “I’m not surprised you brought her here. It is time, isn’t. Innocence can only be allowed for so long before it becomes tedious.” I shrugged off Simone’s words. She often said things that were confusing, as if there was a point to it, but it had flown over my head. Like a person speaking English as a second language, her words, also, felt stilted and off. But she was a lovely person, and I hoped she thought of me as a friend. “Where is Gregor?” I asked her, seeing that she was alone. “Oh, he deserted me. I think he was bored. Last I saw of him, he was flirting audaciously with a cameraman. Since I don’t see either of them around, chances are they left for greener pastures.” “What a pity you didn’t,” Timothy said. “Timothy,” I hissed, giving the hand holding mine a jerk. He didn’t relinquish my hand, but his face simmered down. The inner flame of his dragon had been reduced to mere smoke puffs. Simone would survive his brief flash of irritation. “Timothy was telling me about pookas. They are delightful, fantastical creatures. I’d never heard of them before,” I told her. “Fantastical?” she said. “Ah, yes. The myths of Ireland. Too bad such tales are dying out from a lack of familiarity with such beings. I wonder where all the pookas went.” Simone glanced at Timothy, sighed, then stepped further away from him and closer to me. “Great gallery, Timothy. But I think it’s time for me to go home. I need my beauty sleep, you know.” She kissed my cheeks in that way she had with no touch involved, then waved goodbye to both of us, and walked out of the room. After she left, Timothy seamed reticent about discussing pookas anymore, so we moseyed into another chamber, the one called Oceans. It held the two Turners that Timothy had bought, although he’d told me that he’d also put in a bid for one of Turner’s castle paintings. The first painting was a bit of a disappointment. The ocean was wild and wooly, but it didn’t display the chaos I’d seen in Turner’s other paintings. This one was calmer and almost serene, in a way. Although the sky carried a bit of storm and told the viewer that another chaotic churning was on its way. The second Turner that Timothy had been able to acquire was more in the vein of what had always fascinated me: the oppositional forces of light and dark as they met in a painting. It held exactly what I held so wondrous: Aesthetic Realism that finds light and peace inside chaos and squalor. I understood from my readings on the man that Turner had hidden inside his work, seeking answers.
1.6 The Abyss of WonderLand
I closed my eyes, remembering my first sight of Timothy. His eyes had glowed with such a hue. I’d thought of sunflowers when I’d first looked into his eyes, but then I’d seen the color in his irises. That copper brightness, in shades painters called honey bronze, bronze sand, or golden bronze. “This is why you chose this painting, isn’t it. The stallion has eyes the color of yours.” Timothy seemed slightly disappointed with my words. I guess I’d insulted him. “I don’t mean the painting isn’t wonderful. It’s . . .” I didn’t know what to add. It had depth, but other than that, little artistic greatness. The stallion’s coat shown and his hooves sparked, like they held fire in them. The horse’s nostrils were flaring, reddish, as if the challenge of my looking at him was something he resented, no, not resented. He wanted me to do something. What? And then I knew. He was asking me to sit on his back, to gallop with him across the moors. Yes, I wanted to tell him. Yes, I will ride you. But of course, we weren’t in fairyland, nor Ireland. We were in a gallery, and I was merely looking at a canvas with an acrylic painting of a horse. “No, not a horse,” Timothy said. “He’s a pooka.” “I don’t know what that is. I’ve never heard of it. Is that a breed of horse?” “A pooka is a mythological creature who can shape change at will. He can be Harvey over there, or a wolf, a crow, or any other animal he wants. Even a human. He is long-lived and full of magic. The Irish say he comes from Faerie. The Norwegians call him Puke, which means nature spirit. Shakespeare called him Puck.” “Wow. Enchanting. You had me at magical. Where can I find one of these creatures? This stallion seems to want me to go for a ride.” “He would give you a riotous ride, my dear. Pookas are known to jump over hedges and gallop with wild abandon. But he would never allow you to be hurt. Although a pooka can be mischievous, he loves pretty women and treats them with great care. His sprint across the land might provoke a little fear, perhaps, but nothing harmful.” “How do you know so much about them?” I asked.
1.5 The Abyss of WonderLand
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.