uniqueness you possess, refine your technique, clarify your visions, bring out the hidden inside you and show you how to put it to canvas. Or Masonite, or art board, whatever you choose. You'll be world-famous within a year.'
'And what does he demand in return?' The demon yawned.
Grampion eyed his shoulder. 'Only responsiveness and artistic dedication. His pleasures are simple. He fastens himself to artists with potential because he likes to see the results. Paradoxically, he can't paint a lick himself.'
'Let me think about it.' Suddenly the hall seemed dark, the overhead lights dim. The conversation around us had begun to fade as if something had deliberately muted all other talk, and I felt my throat constrict.
'Sure. Sure, you think about it. Think about what you're missing with your silly pretty pictures. Acclaim, fortune, the admiration of your colleagues. Think about it.' He was as disappointed as he was sarcastic.
'If he's such a prize to have around, why are you so anxious to get rid of him?'
'Who said I was anxious? I'm just trying to help out a younger artist, that's all. I-I need to rest. I've done it all, accomplished everything I'd hoped to do as a painter. It's time to share the wealth. Maybe I'll take up tatting. You think about it. When you're ready, come see me.'
He fumbled in his pocket, produced a business card.
'You know Paradise Valley?'
'A little.'
He nodded once, then turned and vanished into the crowd. I watched him borne away by several obsequious collectors, Clamed the demon visible like a red searchlight above the clutter of humanity. A searchlight only I could see.
I don't know why I went up to the house that night. Temptation, temptation. A subject I'd often tried to render in paint and now was acting out.
I went home thinking of Grampion's words, of the wealth and independence his work had brought him, the independence to thumb his nose at even the most influential critics, those same critics who casually dismissed my own work as purely 'commercial,' a stigma I had striven for years to escape.
Nowadays I am wiser, but then I was young and impatient.
There was no answer to the bell, but the door was unlocked. I considered. Had I not established a rapport of sorts with Grampion? Surely he would not object to my surprising him, even at so late an hour. He was said to be fond of surprises. I fancied he would be happy to see me, for though he had many casual friends, he knew few who understood him.
I called out past the opened door. There was no reply. Now that was odd, I thought. Surely he would not go out and leave the place unlocked. I entered, made my way through the central atrium, the kitchen area, down a hallway toward bedrooms unslept in. By my watch it was eleven o'clock. The moon lit my path.
Gone out for a minute, I thought. Artists are notoriously unpunctual eaters. Cake and chocolate at midnight in place of a balanced meal. I resolved to wait until he returned.
A grandfather clock boomed portentously from the salon, announcing the time. I perused the well-stocked library, the objets d'art.
Then there was a sound. A stilled cry, almost a whining. I frowned and debated within myself. Grampion had many enemies. The door, unlocked. Could I have stumbled onto a burglary or worse? Was Grampion lying somewhere nearby, bleeding and in need of immediate help?
I armed myself with the nearest heavy object-atrophy of carved marble, presented by some society of European avant-garde artists-and moved cautiously in the direction of the sound. As I drew near a part of the house I had not yet visited, the rhythmic roll of anxious breathing reached me. I was reminded of a marathon runner well along his course.
A door was open, and light stole from beyond. Cautiously I pushed it open all the way.
Grampion stood in his vaulted studio, in front of an easel. A half-completed canvas rested there, full of mad, violent colors and strokes. The subject matter was still indistinct, but the breathtaking talent behind the work was already in evidence.
Crouching behind Grampion was a giant, glowing, red thing. Its eyes were open now, the pupils black slits that probed the canvas. No longer decorative and modest, it was immense and muscular. Each of its huge, clawed hands held one of Grampion's wrists prisoner. There was a brush in each hand.
Grampion turned and saw me. I was shocked at his appearance. His face was flushed, his eyes bulging and red, his expression one of desperation born of complete exhaustion.
'Help me, Malcolm!,' he pleaded, his voice hoarse, the words painful. 'For the love of God, make him stop!'
My gaze moved from the thin, drawn specter of the painter to the demon who would not let him rest, who drove him to brilliance and madness and near death. At that moment he, Clamad, noticed me. He let out a threatening growl that turned unexpectedly into something else. Something at once less and more inimical.
A flicker of interest.
I turned and fled screaming from the studio, from that accursed house, down the road outside, my path lit only by the moon. I fled past my parked car and did not stop running until I was aboard a city bus and on my way home. The other passengers stared at me. I did not see them.
I saw Grampion several times after that. He was always unnaturally subdued-in my presence but unapologetic. Only I knew the real reason for those circles around his eyes and the nervous, jittery movements of his body. Clamad rode his shoulders as always, asleep as always, each time seemingly a little plumper. I wondered just how he fed off Grampion, for it was evident that he did, but by mutual consent we restricted our subsequent conversations to art and related topics.
I've given up art for art's sake. Now I make my living in advertising, where there is little need for the dirty inspiration a muse like Clamad can provide. But every so often I will see a thoughtful shadow flitting about the room, probing the work of Mark or Jillian or Carrie, searching for promise, for talent, for a victim.
I avoid mirrors.
THE THUNDERER
The wonderful thing about English (the rotten thing is spelling, but that has nothing to do with this story) is that it's like a big vacuum cleaner. It sucks up everything, useful or not, and compacts it in one place where you can pick through stuff at your leisure, sorting out the useful from the lint and dead things. Not only individual words and phrases but patterns of speech as well.
Not long ago The Economist magazine did an extended survey of international English, remarking on its versatility and ready adaptability to the needs of today. The gist was that a supplier of raw materials in Bombay could talk to his dealer in Singapore to ship via Kenya to London and New York even if he couldn't talk to his neighbor down the block. Putting Urdu and Hindi aside, neighbors would end up conversing in English.
Because the English language lives while others wither and die. In English words are never thrown out with the garbage. More often than not they're resurrected and given new life and meaning. Witness 'gay,' 'cool,' and 'gas' as examples of old words given new meanings. Sometimes a word can acquire and dose several meanings in a mere lifetime, such as 'bitchin'.' Words are discarded as rapidly as new ones are invented to take their place, so we have 'rad' replacing 'reet.'
Speech patterns can be as fascinating as the words they employ. When stirred together, they form a linguistic gumbo that can create a mythology all its own. Plain everyday talk can suggest any number of phantasmagoric possibilities.
'His feet big and flat-bottomed like heavy pirogue. His legs, dey thick as oaks and tall as slash pine. His body one great slab o' rock that flake off side o' tired old mountain an' de arms hang from dat like twisty cypress.
'He got a cane field full o' hair and skin de color o' de best bottom soil, cloud-big cheeks all sunk in and eyes
