On the final leg of another journey, with the evening light fading, the painter made his way down the hard, packed road that would take him home. As he approached, he saw his neighbour in the front yard tending to her vegetables.

Odd time of day to be gardening...

Normally he would go out of his way to avoid an interaction such as this, but she lived next door and he couldn’t go undetected if Grelda was outside. He readied himself for conversation.

“Hiya, Paint,” she said gleefully. The painter should have been used to it, but he felt his eye twitch and his lip snarl.

“Good evening, Grelda,” he replied politely after allowing for a reset of his facial expression. Like most of his life of late, everything seemed to have happened before. Grelda ignored the awkward greeting and revealed the reason for her late-night adventures in horticulture.

“There was quite the rider waiting on you earlier today. He banged on your door, but I told him you were out, likely not back till past dark,” Grelda said, giddy with excitement and curiosity.

She doesn’t miss anything, does she?

The painter was once again perturbed both by how predictable his trips were, and how precise Grelda was in her estimation of them.

“He was quite the specimen. Tall as oak. And his horse!” she exclaimed, looking skyward. “A beautifully pale creature. White as milk. The man and his horse were both outfitted like nothing I’ve ever seen. All his rigging was gold. His armour was brilliant shining silver. He wore a deep hood, though. Couldn’t get a look at his face. Not sure why you’d ride around in that sort of regalia and hide your face.” She laughed and then took a much-needed breath, hoping the intermission would compel the painter to fill it with details. She was left wanting though, as the painter got lost in his own thoughts.

Grelda went on describing the brilliant white rider, though the painter paid her little attention as he unpacked from his trip. He turned to walk around back to stable Tolo for the night. Having been her neighbour for fifteen years, he knew Grelda wasn’t about to stop. He patted Tolo on her neck as they started walking.

“Probably a mistake,” was his only offering. “Well, goodnight, Grelda. I’ll be turning in for the night.”

There’s no reason for anyone of import to call on me.

Just as he was about to slip from Grelda’s view, she continued.

“Not so fast,” Grelda scolded him pleasantly, shuffling towards him. “The rider left this for you.”

Grelda handed the painter an envelope. The seal was vibrant purple and the symbol was like nothing he had seen before.

He scratched his head and again said goodnight to Grelda, who lingered, expecting more. He turned and walked Tolo around back. If he’d been paying attention, he might have heard Grelda huff and grumble before shuffling back to her house.

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He sat down at his table and inspected the letter before opening it. The material was soft white, and even as a purveyor of the visual arts, he couldn’t make out what it might be. He carefully sliced open the envelope and found a note with just one line of text.

Check the spot where you keep your last original piece.

The blood drained from his face.

How could they know about that? And where I keep it?

He stood slowly and moved towards the far side of the room. The now solitary man who’d spent the last five years by himself, suddenly didn’t feel he was alone. He moved a bag to one side, pushed a wooden chair to the other, and removed a loose floorboard near the corner of the house. Reaching inside, he pulled out a rolled canvas. Emotion poured over him before he could unfurl it. He held one end with his left hand and slowly worked the roll upward with his right. As he went, the familiar painting of the pond with the gloomy sky began to appear. However, on this one, there were large swaths of yellow paint, more vibrant on the picture he held than on the wall, though they were of the same jar. This painting had been safely stashed away from the ravages of time for nearly five years. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at it. It was ugly and beautiful and comforting and agonising all at the same time. It had stayed on the easel until long after his wife had left. When he’d finally taken it down, he’d carefully removed it from the frame, rolled it, and stashed it safely under the floorboards. Though he never looked at it, the painting was his most treasured possession.

Still lost in his emotions, he remembered why he was looking in this spot: the letter with the unfamiliar seal. He stuck his hand in further and fished around. The first thing his fingers met was a plush-velvet purse full of lords. With the drawstring loosened, he peered inside. There was a kingly sum and many times more than he would earn in a lifetime of message board labours. All of a sudden, he felt quite strange, having such a fortune. With his shoulder nearly level with the surface of the floor, he found another letter, this one with the same strange, purple seal. Sitting at the table, he opened the envelope and found another note inside.

Greetings,

This letter serves as notice that you have been officially commissioned. The sum you find yourself with represents one third of the total remuneration. The final two thirds will be paid upon your completion.

We will send a ranger for you tomorrow. Be packed for a long excursion and be ready to depart just after dawn. There’s little time to waste.

The letter wasn’t signed, and other than the purple seal, there was nothing to reveal its sender.

“A commission?” he said to himself. “Who in their right mind would hire me? To paint ponds?” He went back over every word.

You have been officially commissioned.

We will send a ranger for you tomorrow.

The more he thought about it, the less he felt like he had a choice in the matter. The combination of the wording and the fact they seemed to know very private details of his life made this seem more an order than a request.

The word ‘we’ had him perplexed.

We will send a ranger for you tomorrow.

He looked around the house at the countless copies of the same painting. Each was a memory of his very last moment of lived happiness, the exact moment when the dark clouds revealed their direction and came straight towards him.

If they know about the painting, they know I’m not well. They know everything, and they still want to hire me. Who are these people? Who is ‘we’?

He tried to come to a sensible conclusion. Pacing the room, his thoughts moved from the clandestine nature of the job to where it may take him.

They’re sending a ranger...

His first feelings of reluctance and confusion subsided, and he was filled with an unsettled feeling. The term “ranger” came with many implications, but leaving his boundary was the first that came to mind. Everything was a complete mystery, but it offered him a new approach to break his confinement.

He resolved to go.

Already packed from the trip he had just returned from, he grabbed the satchel his wife hadn’t taken and tossed in what few items and food remained in his possession. He thought back to the day his wife left and her heartbreaking stoicism. With thoughts of his former family, he carefully rolled his son’s painting and reverently placed it in the bag. The idea other people knew about the floorboards made him uneasy, and if he was to be gone on a long excursion, he wasn’t about to leave it behind.

He surveyed the house once more. The chair in the corner, the kitchen table, and hundreds of masterpieces were all that remained. He thought about hiding his work, but there was nowhere to put them. It had been a long day, an intense evening, and his body called for rest. Despite the mystery the next day held, he lay down and drifted to sleep.