My Sanctuary

In my line of work I tend to come across some rather remarkable discoveries. I strive diligently to preserve the documents and other articles which I find. This work, slow and tedious as it sometimes becomes, is often very rewarding. I recently came across two letters, from very different people who lived very different lives, which I find endlessly fascinating. Allow me to share with you these narratives.

***

To my love,

My date of birth is February 18, 1980.

I still think some day I will wake up and find that this has all been a dream. By profession I am an advertiser though I was long since forced to retire from that field and become a homemaker. I married a man my own family never met. I grew up in New York City, attended college out west, and embarked upon my chosen career. Life was comfortable in San Francisco, where I took my first job with an advertising agency. I had a nice apartment, a good roommate, and a boyfriend.

I still miss Brian. Im sorry, Brian is was my boyfriend. I miss his hand in mine, his warm breath as he whispered in my ear, laughing at his corny jokes which never seemed to get old. Most of all I miss his eyes. They were unlike any I had seen in all my life. Clear as glass, blue as the sea, and with a depth and love Id never experienced. He loved red and pink flowers, roses, carnations, though he never could perceive their color. He was red/green color-blind. Curse the artist for catching that moment!

I often wondered in my strangely long life if Brian ever found the painting whose sole figure looked just like me. Did he find it and cherish the love he lost? He and I were to be married, you know. My parents loved him, my siblings adored him. His family loved me. They still dont know what happened to me. I dont know what happened to me!

I should go back to the beginning. Well, the beginning of my narrative. Or is it the middle? I dont know anymore. My name is Kate Dulath. Its different here in Europe. Different than the United States, that is. I live here now, still wondering what happened. I will live in Europe forever, long past the deaths of all my loved ones, all who I ever held dear in life. Did I live one life or many? Am I alive? Barely. I write this narrative with the breath of one about to meet her God. I lived the best life I knew how. I hope that is enough for Him. Will He explain to me what happened? Will He tell me why my path led here? I do no know. It is impossible now, after all these years, to write in the manner to which I was accustomed in college. I have to suppress my knowledge, my intelligence, hide the truth I know. I must avoid scaring those around me. That is why this will be hidden away where none can find it. Then will I die in peace, knowing my story may one day, God willing, reach believing readers.

Now to the day which ensured my immortality.

I still do no know how he did it. How did he capture me on canvas when I thought no one knew my private retreat? He, not the artist, but another "he" (there I go again with things that I should not know) did not sorry, didnt know why I asked for only red and pink flowers in the garden. He didnt know, either, that I transplanted many of those flowers to a hidden grotto I discovered while wandering the countryside.

The countryside. Sounds strange, right? There is no countryside in San Francisco. But Im not in San Francisco anymore. No, San Francisco doesnt exist in the way I knew it. Together Brian and I explored its depths. How many times did we go out to the Golden Gate Bridge to enjoy the city lights? Too many to count. We saw every Broadway musical that stopped in town on tour. My favorite was The Phantom of the Opera, but Brians was Thoroughly Modern Millie. I am trapped in a world of darkness, all hope long ago faded; hope of ever returning home to San Francisco. I have no chance of feeling Brians arms around me again. Not in this lifetime anyway.

Perhaps Brian is waiting for me in the heavens even now and we will be together there. I shall join him soon. Then will I be free of the restraints of the life dealt me by the hand of God. Back to the day. No, not the day of my last private retreat, but the day this happened.

I still wonder if I have been abducted by aliens. That must be it. I was only asleep for an hour. When I woke up, all was different around me. I felt as one transported by a cyclone or some other extraordinary means. Maybe I hit my head and I am in a coma. Yes, that is more likely.

I know this narrative is really not that. It has no flow. My English professors in college would rip this to pieces for its inadequacies. My story must be written down before I die. Maybe he will read it someday. That day, the day I was captured on canvas as though in a photograph. My secret grotto, not really a grotto. Rather, a hidden garden within the walls of my new home. Not in the home itself, but on the grounds.

Is this a holodeck somewhere? Some sick persons idea of a joke? Am I alive? My garden was my sanctuary, my shrine to both hope and to Brian. That day was my last day of freedom in my life. I was married that afternoon. I did not love the man I married, but I could not remain single. I no longer lived in that house so I couldnt ever visit my sanctuary again. Im sorry for the disjointed nature of this letter. Im tired and will soon pass through that veil which separates earth from the heavens. I must rest.

My husband is dead. Gone fifteen years. Children, we had one. She has a husband of her own, and a family. Eric and I sailed to Italy after our wedding. Flying was no longer an option, not for me. I had a much different wedding gown selected for my wedding to Brian. It was beautiful. This dress, the one I was married in, was oppressive. Its long sleeves and the colors were the elements I hated the most. Shouldnt I have been married in all white? The colors of this dress were fitting. Gold about the neck, a gold collar of oppression I would wear the rest of my life; black, the color of my insides. Am I dreaming?

The day I was married I imagined it to be Brian whom I was marrying. I thought of him every minute of every day of my life. My husband never knew that he wasnt the one who made me smile my most genuine smile. I digress, though. I feel the ever-pressing need to get this out. My life has been a nightmare since the day Brian and I were parted.

As I said, I was only asleep for an hour, if that. My couch was my favorite spot to nap in. It was an overstuffed one, very comfortable. The day I fell asleep and woke up to a different life was in the winter. When I came back to the world I didnt have my favorite blanket. My dog wasnt there. Did Brian take care of Jenny after I disappeared? Did I disappear or did I die? I must have disappeared. I still like, though, the thought that I may be in a coma. If Im in a coma, in some stark white hospital room then maybe I can explain away my life since that day.

How did I end up in a coma? I will speculate. No, I will return to the day of my capture on canvas. My husband exclaimed how beautifully the artist had captured my soul. He really did put the final nail in the coffin of my soul with that painting. I could no longer bear to look at pink or red flowers after that painting. It hung in our home for a while, but one day it and the artist disappeared. No one could find him, or any trace of him for that matter.

What happened to the artist? Who really knows. That painting hangs on a wall somewhere now. Or maybe not. Perhaps the artist knew the truth to my story and felt ashamed for capturing me on canvas. That would explain why he reclaimed the painting and disappeared. Those steps behind me, they lead to my enslavement. Oh, not a proper one as the real slaves of other countries. No, my enslavement in this world I was never to escape. The grass was soft beneath my slippered feet. Well, it wasnt really grass proper, but tiles laid over grass which peeked back through the grout and mortar lines. The flowers smelled of new life, the one I left behind, not the one I was about to embark upon. My hair bound in that blasted braid! I refused to let him undo it. No, Brian would be the only one to ever run his fingers through my hair.

I miss my flowers, my sanctuary. I miss my life of freedom with Brian. Had I a son, I would have named him thus. Would I, though? Or would it be too painful? I cannot say for certain. I feel Deaths presence in my room. I will conclude. The day that painting was made was the day my soul died. My body died forty years later. My name is Lady Kathryn of Relden.

I died on April 30, 1855.

***

This first narrative would seem to be either the delusional rantings of an elderly woman or the truthful narrative of a life destroyed by time travel. Is time travel really possible? Many men on this earth would like to believe and hope so. Following is the second letter which I discovered as I renovated the manor house my foundation purchased a year ago.

3 July 1901

My friends and colleagues,

Something extraordinary has happened to me. Man has long desired to go beyond himself, to transcend his appointed time and place. The creative urge within us all drives these feelings. My own painting sufficed for a long while to allow me to do this.

For many years now I have been painting. My chosen style has been a more classical one, opting for traditional scenes and subjects. After a while my mind began to turn to more transcendental matters. I started to question whether man could not physically move out of his own time. As I strolled through a nearby wood, pondering this very subject, I was drawn to a curious tree which I had never before seen. I stood there examining this tree for many long minutes before a strange design carved into the very bark caught my gaze. Before I could stop myself I was reaching out to trace the pattern with my fingers.

As I touched the bark, my sight went dark. I felt as though I were spinning in place. As my vision cleared I noticed no difference in my surroundings. Feeling ill, I turned to retire to home. I walked the path which I had previously trod many times; but when I arrived where my home should be, I reached only empty woods. In a state of confusion I continued on my path. I came to a small town comprised of no more than twenty or so buildings. One I determined to be an inn. There I took my rest, wanting to face whatever lay ahead of me with a fresh mind.

In the morning, I inquired of the inn keeper what town I was in. Nothing made sense for I was in my own town, though it was smaller than the one I knew. I took to an exploration of my surroundings, wondering all the while what could have happened in the span of an afternoon. The landscape was much altered from the setting in which I was accustomed to working. A short way out of town I came across a manor house. The owner was clearly well-to-do but not overtly wealthy. I circled around through the woods so as to appear to be coming from the opposite direction. From that side of the home the town was not visible. I called at the door and inquired of the servant who answered where one might purchase paints and other supplies. I told the maid that I had been traveling for many days and whether she might tell me the date. It was late May, not the month I thought it to be. No, I had wandered the wood outside my home closer to summers end. The maid graciously answered my questions and I continued on my way. As I left the home, my gaze fell upon a beautiful young woman, a daughter of the household. I knew in my mind I had to ingratiate myself to this family for at that moment I could desire nothing more than to paint this lovely being.

Tired of exploring, I returned to town and the inn previously mentioned. I asked the way to the apothecary that I might purchase my much needed supplies. Immediately after dinner I made my way there and acquired the items which I needed. As the apothecary filled my order I took the opportunity to seek the date among the papers on his counter. I finally found it to be 26 May, 1810. I marveled to discover this. Unless it were an elaborate jest, devised by a friend or foe, I had in actuality gone beyond my own time. Yes, my friends, it is truly possible to transcend the here and now, though I do not know for certain just how it may be don. This I do know: that I had this experience and I did do all which I am here telling you.

A few days later I managed to finally meet the man I assumed to be the girls father. I later learned that he was not her father, merely her benefactor. He had taken her in a year before when she had wandered into town, helpless and alone. Feeling sorry for me as well, he offered me lodging in his home. No artist of my caliber, he felt, should be forced to stay at a lowly inn. I managed to explain the absence of traveling clothes and a trunk containing other suits and garments. My gracious patron, for that is what he became, supplied me with all I could want in that time. I painted freely in that home, all the while looking for an opportunity to paint his ward. She was a quiet girl. I do not recall her speaking a single word in my presence. I never saw her smile, either. Even on her wedding day. That was the day I was finally able to paint her. But I must continue my narrative rather than jump ahead to its conclusion. Her benefactor, Sir Dominic, took me in as well and gave me studio space as well as accommodations. Sir Dominic would often ask me to paint various subjects for him, but never the girl. Always it was a landscape or a fantastical scene. I painted on condition of anonymity and he agreed.

Finally, about two months after Sir Dominic took me in, he asked me to paint the girl. Her wedding was to be soon and he wished to give her a painting as a present. Since it was to be a surprise I earnestly sought the opportunity whereby I might observe her without her knowledge and thus be able to capture a more meaningful and unposed moment. I followed her movements throughout Sir Dominics extensive grounds. Always she disappeared in the afternoon, whither I knew not. One day I followed her further than ever and yet she still evaded me. Then one day I managed to stay close enough to find her. There was a small garden of sorts near the rear of the manor where she stopped to smell the flowers. She did nothing but sit and look at them, stand to smell them, then sit and sigh a melancholy note. Never did she smile or laugh in the presence of myself or Sir Dominic. I determined that I would, were it possible, catch her in a happy moment. I took to observing her in the afternoons from a hidden spot within this private garden. But it would not suffice. She never abandoned her serious mien. As the wedding day drew closer, I knew I must paint or disappoint Sir Dominic.

At long last on her wedding day I was able to sneak my painting supplies into her little garden. I waited for her to arrive, hoping she would come before leaving for the church. As I sat there, behind some bushes which afforded me a clear vantage point but which obscured me from view of all which was before me, I began to sketch the scenery. At length she arrived. I sketched her figure, filling in the form with light and shadow, memorizing the colors of the scene. She stood smelling that same flower for many long minutes, allowing me the time to mix my paints on the palette. I began to color the canvas, layering and layering to create perfect shades of white, pink, and red. Many times as I sat observing this beautiful young woman I wondered why no other color flower seemed allowed in the garden. I assumed, naturally, that she had planned the garden as she visited it so regularly and with such a serious demeanor as to forbid any intruder. And yet there I was intruding on her sanctuary, her solace.

Nearly an hour we two sat in that garden, I painting away while she roamed from bench to flower, to stair and back again. I knew her figure so well I could paint it without her there, but the colors of the flowers and of the wedding gown which she wore needed to be perfect. A strand of hair broke loose from her braid at one point in this day but she was so quick to tame the unruly member that I could not paint it just right so I left it out. The painting was nearly complete; as complete as I could make it there in the garden. I sat and waited for her to leave that I might slip quietly from there, back to my studio chambers to complete the piece and take it into town to buy a suitable frame for it.

A cough at the top of the stair behind her caught both our gazes. Sir Dominic stood there, waiting to escort his ward to the church where she would be married to another local nobleman I could not tell for what reason the turn of her countenance seemed to me even sadder than it usually was. Normally a young woman is glad to be married, excited to be living a new life away from family and following her husband whithersoever he may lead. Not this young lady who never smiled, never laughed, never enjoyed the company of others of her same sex. In fact, I rarely saw her leave Sir Dominics grounds. As they left, I quietly gathered my things.

Upon completing the painting, Sir Dominic gave me funds enough to purchase a suitable frame. He felt the artists eye was much better at selecting such things than his own would be and so he trusted me to find it. It was framed and back in Sir Dominics home withing a fortnight and all that remained was to wait for the happy couple to return to London. They did so a month later and Sir Dominic called upon them the very day they returned. He invited me along and together we made our way to their home. Lady Kathryn, as she was called, greeted us with her usual reserve and quietude. We waited upon her husband in a parlor just off the main hall. She did not inquire about the large wrapped package which we had brought with us. It was not in her nature, it seemed, to be curious. When her husband arrived, the customary courtesies exchanged, Sir Dominic began his speech. He was a long-winded fellow indeed. At last he unveiled the painting. Lady Kathryns countenance fell, the painting upset her. Her husband, on the other hand, exclaimed over the painting, saying I had captured her soul and she would be his forever. Talk such as this was clearly upsetting the woman so I politely began to steer the conversation away from such observations.

My anonymity would not be protected for long. Lady Kathryns husband was so enamored of the painting which I had done that he began to tell all his associates and friends to commission similar paintings from me. I took solace in the wood outside the town. None could ever find me there for I knew every hiding place and copse of tree there was. One day I came upon that same tree I had before been examining. There was the strange and intricate design carved into its bark. I did not dare to touch it though for I did not know what would happen to me. As the days progressed, however, I began to realize that my name could not be hid forever and it must not be known prior to the date of my own birth. Otherwise I might be thought merely a copy artist, imitating the work of others but coming up with no original of my own. I took it in my mind to steal back that delightful painting with its red and pink flowers and the girl in her white and gold wedding dress. I bribed a servant in the household to let me in by night. The painting hung in the same parlor in which it was revealed so it was no difficult matter to reclaim it. From the house I ran for the woods and the tree. Anything was better than where I was at that moment in time. Unthinking, I pressed my hand to that design. The dizziness returned and I then found myself right where I started in this whole matter. I immediately turned back to town and happily discovered my own home and my own neighbors there. It did in fact appear as though I had returned to the spot from which I departed.

As I entered my home, my wife Esther greeted me. She gave no indication that I had been gone an unusually long amount of time. The clock on the mantel in the parlor indeed attested to the fact that I had been gone from this time frame for no time at all. These events are most curious to me indeed and defy explanation. I know they happened, that it has not been the dream of a troubled mind or the delusion of a deranged artist. I know none will believe me in this account but I know what happened and I cannot deny the experience I have had. I close my account to you, my friends and colleagues, and hope that you find yourselves in health and a believing disposition.

J.W. Waterhouse

***

This last letter would seem to indicate that this artist and his subject both traveled through time and space to be brought together as artist and muse. Further research is necessary to determine whether these accounts might actually be legitimate. This research may not be possible until many years in our own future when man might finally learn the secrets to traveling through time.