• Published 1st Dec 2013
  • 725 Views, 23 Comments

Wayfarer - The Plebeian



A picture is worth one thousand words.

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XX

They have quite nearly arrived. A vague skyline rises far in the background made of various greys. Above lies a dash of grey, with a small hint of yellow. It is hardly a glamorous place for its looks, but something beyond the visual attracts the eye to those buildings. They are far off, and a single tree, much closer, blocks out much of the city behind. It is a small oak, quite lonely in the rolling plains around Fillydelphia.

Curiously, it stands amongst a field that sustains no more than amber grasses. Its greens are quite lovely in the summer sun, and they cast a faint tinted light onto the ground below. The wayfarer’s large blanket is spread out over the grass, a clean white sheet that crushes a few of the long fibers underneath. An easel is set up just within the tree’s shade, as the sun approaches the height of evening. Both of their bags lie plainly on the sheets, helping to weigh it down against a soft wind. From the artist’s bag protrude a pair of bread loaves, one halved and clearly munched-on.

The wayfarer sits still on the blanket, a smile painted over his face, wings folded and eyes wide with excitement. The artist sits at her easel, brush held in her mouth, a smile forming up at the corners. She paints the scene stroke for stroke on her canvas, capturing the colors quite excellently. She is caught-up in her art, calm and serene as she paints.

She has decided to paint him, and the very concept excites him. He has considered many times to ask her himself, but has wanted her to decide when she thought she was ready. Art cannot be rushed, after all. Still, he is anxious to see what she sees. Truth be told, he has never focused well on his reflection. It seems alien to him. He might not even recognize himself, should he be asked to find his vibrant blues in a crowd. He finds his form ordinary, not necessarily muscular or weak, but just enough to suit his lifestyle. Anything more seems rather pointless to waste on a life of flying around anyway. She takes her time, and he slowly regains the patience he has felt for hours in the sky. He waits solemnly, marking the scenery behind him.

He has met the tree before, though its story remains unknown. All he knows are that no trees – especially the oak – have ever been fond of Fillydelphia’s barren plains. It casts a wonderful shade, perfect for their picnic. He has fed the tree a bit of water, for it must be so dry in these fields. He wonders how she will depict the tree. He wants to remember it, as much detail as he can. Something about its broad shady branches seems to welcome and nurture wayfarers like himself. Perhaps it has been planted by one, long ago. He has never met another like him, yet he always attributes it to the low chances that two should collide.

Perhaps he truly is one – now two – of a kind. It both attracts and disappoints, that only they should find beauty in travels, when there is so much to see, so much well-fashioned Earth all around. True, he has found another wayfarer at heart. With that, he is satisfied. Indeed, it has been quite a lovely happenstance. Such a thing he could not credit to coincidence, however. He has always understood that fate has its dealings in everything. Perhaps the tree is one of fate, a fated stray. He feels compelled to pay it tribute.

He holds still very well, she thinks. That is, when it is demanded of him. Her smile broadens. She knows enough of him now. Her knowledge is not perfect or exact, but that is one reason why she paints. As for the wayfarer, every painting should be revisited, to see what else might be seen. Paintings, however, are not so easily-amended as memories. As well as she may try to find the tree in the same light, the same season, the same date, it will not be anything near the same as when she first paints it.

He looks quite charming with the green light on his coat. His eyes are always so wide, she remarks to herself; it is almost amusing to paint. She has always imagined portraits as things painted with a sense of formality, and here he is, eyes wide with excitement, with a grin like a child’s all across his face. She imagines any moment that he might stick his tongue out. It is charming, still, and she still finds herself staring into his eyes. It only makes his smile wider, and she barely musters the will to suppress her laughter.

The tree is quite remarkable, she thinks. Upon seeing it, she knows she must paint it. It is so singular, so picturesque. Yet, as she paints it, it becomes something more. It sways at an even tempo, and she realizes it is precisely like a heartbeat. It provides just the right shade to bring out his vibrance, and the more she paints it, the more she hears it whisper to her. She cannot make out the words, though, for a long while. She has already finished the wayfarer, and commits to spend more detail on the tree. As she thinks of the sound it makes, she makes sense of it.

The voice is warm like the sun’s morning rays, befitting the wonderful green of the leaves. The more its whispers fade in her mind, the clearer the words become to her. She holds the sound in her memory just long enough to discern what the tree must say to her. Its cadence is as slow as time itself, as light as the leaves it bears, should one break away. In the quiet nurturing voice, she finally pieces the words together, “Giving is my legacy; your memory my reward.”