Brothers of the Moon

No Oil Painting-3

The morning poured in through his window like powdered gold. It was too much. He slapped his hand around on the bedside table until he found his sunglasses and didn’t even contemplate getting out of bed until they were on. For a few minutes, he lay there wishing the throbbing in his head would disappear. He knew it wouldn’t. He needed a plan. First the Panadol, some water, then the toilet; and if he survived that he’d try some more water, a shower and take things from there.

The rest of the day was spent lying around, talking on the telephone and watching black-and-white reruns of old television series. Only when night fell did his spirits pick up, but by then he was in no mood to go out or have people over. Tired of television and having nothing new to read, Jackson retired early.

Sleep wasted no time in arriving. And dreams weren’t far behind. There was a breeze blowing. It filled his room with the scent of summer flowers. It caressed his face. Outside, through the French doors, there was a full moon that bathed the world below in an other-worldly glow.

In the dream Jackson rolled onto his side. He could feel the sunrise of his senses despite not being able to open his eyes. He lay in silence, halfway between waking and oblivion, willing himself to go back to sleep, and when he found he couldn’t, he rolled onto his back and slowly opened his eyes. There were shadows on the ceiling, some that shifted slightly and large blocks that were darker and more solid. He kicked the thin cotton sheet off and let the gentle breeze tickle his naked skin. It was a refreshing feeling, and in his mind he smiled.

The dream continued. He realized he wasn’t alone in the room. Instinctively he knew where the intruder was. Looking to his left, he saw a figure standing by his bed, one that made him gasp and set his heart pounding.

“Who are you?” he demanded, scooting across to the far side of the bed to switch on the bedside lamp.

“Don’t turn that on,” said the man, but he was too late.

The man was tall. Perhaps six feet. His face was beautiful with dark eyes that sparkled in the light, a nose that was so perfect it looked sculpted and a neatly trimmed moustache that sat above his full, dark-pink lips. His body was slender and finely muscled, though it didn’t look like the mass-produced muscles one would get from working out at a gym. They were worker’s muscles, toned and natural.

The man’s chest had a light covering of hair that tapered down in a thin trail to his navel. From there, it fanned out again into a thick, curly bush that surrounded his pendulous c**k and disappeared into the shadows around his thighs.

“Who are you?” Jackson asked again.

“Don’t you recognise me?”

Jackson noticed the man’s eyes travelling the length of his torso to his groin, and while the intruder’s eyes were lingering there, he snuck another look at the intruder’s c**k, noticing that it seemed a little fuller than it had a few seconds ago.

“Of course I don’t recognize you,” Jackson replied, but that was not the whole truth. There was something about the man that looked vaguely familiar. He could never forget a face so physically stunning.

“Have another look.”

The man stood with his arms out, presenting himself; inviting Jackson to examine him properly. He took a step to the side where the light could more fully do him justice.

Jackson studied the intruder’s face, happy that his eyes had been given permission to linger there, to drink in all that perfect, male beauty. It was then, and for no reason at all, that his eyes went to the portrait on the wall, except it was no longer a portrait but a landscape of hills and rolling, green pastures. There were sheep and a river or stream that meandered at the foot of the paddock.

Jackson’s eyes returned to the intruder.

“And this is no dream,” said the intruder.

Twice Jackson’s eyes went from the man to the painting and back again.

“How is this possible?” he asked. “I must be dreaming. There’s no way this is real.”

“Shall I explain?” asked the intruder. “Can I sit?”

Jackson nodded. His hand grabbed the edge of the mattress to use as leverage in case he needed to get away in a hurry.

“I was put into that painting a long, long time ago by a woman who desired what she couldn’t have,” explained the man.

“Get out of here,” said Jackson. “How is that even possible?”

“There are many things I know that are possible without knowing how they are possible, but as the Lord is my witness, I was put into that painting by witchcraft and have remained there until this very moment.”

He looked around the room, studying each piece of furniture as though it was something to be wary of. “If anything, it is I who have awakened into a dream, a bizarre nonsensical fantasy.”

“But how did you get out? Why didn’t you get out sooner?”

“While ever the witch was alive, her dark magic held me in the painting. The fact that I am standing before you means that she has now passed on and is hopefully enjoying all that hell has to offer her. As for how I got out, I cannot even hazard a guess. Nor do I particularly care. I am out and that is all that matters.”

“What’s your name, anyway?”

The intruder opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. His forehead wrinkled and he looked to the side as though he had to think about the answer.

“Will,” he said. “It has been an age since anyone has used it. And how should I address you?”

“Jackson.”

Will nodded. “So tell me about this strange world I have stepped into. I want to know all there is to know.”

Jackson told him as much as he could think of to tell, and when he was at a loss for subjects, Will asked him questions which prompted him further. Finally, as dawn approached, Jackson began to ask Will about where he had come from and listened as he recounted tales of a small village in northern England that existed three hundred years earlier and of a witch who had been banished from it. There was dark magic and white, legends and superstition.

Then, as dawn broke to a cacophony of birdsong, both men yawned simultaneously. Jackson had yet another question on the tip of his tongue, but as he tried to recall what it was, his eyelids closed over his eyes and he slid into dreams, staying there until well into the following day.

He woke up alone in bed. Will was back in the painting, though in the harsh light of day, Jackson doubted whether the man’s nocturnal visit had even happened. After he went to the toilet, made a coffee and settled on the sofa in his living room, he rang Paula.

“You’ll never guess what happened to me last night,” he said.