The Three Legged Wicked Eyed Horse

The Story of the Three Legged Wicked Eyed Horse ended up being longer than I intended. It’s the story of a young man who gets transfixed by a painting and it leads him to another world.

 

It glared at him from canvas, a living demon in paint.  The first time it caught his attention (how could it not?) He stopped in his tracks and stared back.  It made him uncomfortable, the wild frantic stare of a horse caught in time.  A sick creeping feeling curled in his gut, he felt the horse in the picture was accusing him of its own imprisonment.

 

Quickly turning on his heel, the man with auburn curls left the spot and tried to focus on another artwork but everything he looked at brought back those wild eyes.  Even when he stared at a blank wall trying to clear the image he could not.  It pulled him back with force as strong as gravity, he could not resist; there was nowhere else to go but back to the painting.

 

Somehow he hoped he had imagined the fear, an irrational fear born from the uneasiness he had woken with that morning.  He told himself he was neurotic and being weird, he’d had nightmares lately of being chased and this made his waking hours uncomfortable.  Not wearing pyjamas meant that the light cotton sheets on his bed became soaked in night sweats, his skin pricked as if he had developed an allergy.  But he had not.

 

“Thing’s only got three legs.”  Another man with broad shoulders that smelled of tobacco and beer breathed heavily beside him.  How could he even have noticed the legs when the eyes that bore into your very soul were the most remarkable feature of this painting?  He said nothing, hoping that the man would leave him to this devil that compelled him with fear and attraction.

 

“Bloody hideous, bet they don’t sell that.”  He held out his meaty lump of a hand.  “Russ Devine, art collector.”

 

“George er George Walford.”  George wanted to be left alone so he turned slightly away from the man and reached in his pocket for a mint.  Russ Devine didn’t want to be left alone though, he wanted to complain about the picture.  He wanted to know why this idiot had become so transfixed. 

 

“Oils, it’s painted in oils of course.  Thick and clumsy if you ask me, garish use of colour, the blues are too bright for my liking.  Angles are awkward, and whoever saw hooves like that?  Some devil worshipper must have done this one.  It’s amazing the rubbish that turns up at these places.  Been in some Aunty’s attic for decades I suppose and now they are foisting it on the poor unsuspecting public in the hope of making a few bob.  Tragic.  Bet they’ll never sell it.”  Russ Devine stretched his arm out to lean huffily on the wall next to the painting.  His heavily browed eyes rested upon the young man beside him and George shuffled his feet uncomfortably aware he was being appraised.

 

“I suppose you’re a student or teacher?”

 

George sighed inwardly, why was it so obvious to others what he was?  Why couldn’t he be mistaken for a racing driver or accountant?  “Mmm, teacher.”

 

Russ Devine grunted with self-congratulation. “Thought so; stand out a mile, teachers.  I suppose you teach history of art or some other cop out of a subject.

 

George taught English and business studies to disinterested fifteen year olds in a barely mediocre comprehensive always in fear of ‘special measures.’  He didn’t like his colleagues and could count the number of pupils he had any time for on one hand.  Right now he didn’t want to get into a conversation with this blustering know it all.  “I don’t teach art of any kind,” he said softly without looking at Russ Devine.  Taking a step back he longed to make his escape but the horse glared as if daring him to turn away.

 

Russ Devine stood watching George; he’d crossed his legs putting his full weight onto his right arm.  “So,” he said, “what do you teach then?”

 

“I’ve got to go.”  George couldn’t move; he stood gazing at the horse. 

 

“Well are you going to put a bid in for it or what?” 

 

“A bid?”  He hadn’t thought of buying the painting even though he could barely tear himself away from it.  Perhaps he should.  A corner of his mouth curled upward as he thought of his looming credit card bill; that would prevent him doing anything foolish, like actually bidding for such a freakish painting.  “It’s not my thing.”  For a moment he thought about what his ‘thing’ was.  Dull seascapes given to him as a moving in present from his mother who’d apparently bought them in an upmarket department store.  She hovered while he hung them to ensure they were straight, and he thought sheepishly, to ensure that he actually did bother to put them up. 

 

“Yup, ‘cos it seems like you can’t bear to take your eyes off the damn thing.  Piece of crap, it really is.”  Russ Devine stuck a finger in his ear and twisted it.  George glanced at him out of the corner of his eye hoping Russ didn’t do something disgusting like rub earwax on the pristine gallery wall.  He wouldn’t put it past him.  Now he felt challenged, perhaps he should buy the painting but wouldn’t such a powerful demon bring bad luck or make him nervous as he moved around his innocuous bachelor pad?  It certainly wouldn’t help with bad dreams; it would more likely encourage them.  The horse in the picture grimaced showing yellow pegs of teeth, long and dangerous.  White spittle hung at the corner of its mouth.  Why the hell did he feel he shouldn’t leave it here?  Was he worried what might become of the person who carelessly purchased such a dangerous piece? 

 

George shifted his attention to the horse’s legs.  Three of them, not because this horse didn’t really have four legs but as it reared one of the legs had been obscured, well according to the artist’s eye.  George wondered how the artist had felt when he had completed such a ferociously evil piece.  Or she, yes that was a possibility, though the sheer power and dangerousness of the artwork suggested no femininity, he could not rule out the fact this picture may have been painted by a woman.   

 

As if reading his mind, Russ Devine pushed away from the wall and stuck his face in front of George’s “course, could be a woman painted this monstrosity, some bitter bitch full of angst!”  George recoiled at Russ’s tone and the fact it appeared he had the ability to read minds.

 

“Oh, well it could be I suppose.  When do you think it was painted?”  He asked in spite of himself.  He really didn’t want to carry on a conversation with this revolting man but not talking him to him meant stepping away from the painting and the more he hated it the more he liked it and the less he felt like leaving it.  And they say women are complicated, he thought to himself.

 

Russ Devine smiled.  His teeth weren’t that unlike those of the horse except for the tobacco stains and lack of spittle.  “Can’t you tell it’s modern?  Perhaps thirty years old, certainly no more.  He stuck his forefinger on what appeared to be a scribble of a signature in the left hand corner.  “See here, I think I can make out a seven, probably around seventy-six.  Oil takes forever to dry, sometimes up to a year.  Bloody pain in the arse to work with I should think.  Some artists show their work still wet.  Can’t afford to starve while waiting to earn a buck.”  He laughed into his hand like a naughty schoolboy. 

 

Allowing himself one last thirty second gaze at the painting George then turned on his heel and walked away without so much as a ‘cheerio’.  It was something he did with cheeky pupils when they’d pushed their luck too far.  George’s young looks and soft curls made him a target for the bullying types but ignoring them always seemed to work and cause the least amount of stress.

 

As he lay in bed that night, this time wearing a t-shirt and shorts because he was sick of waking up entwined in clammy cotton sheets, George thought about the picture and decided he either needed to go back and buy it or at least find out about the artist.  He thought about his own reaction and Russ’s behaviour.  Why was he transfixed and Russ so interested in his feelings about the painting?  George was used to ignoring things, piles of paperwork needing to be marked, dirty dishes, pretty sunsets, an adoring mother and manic father, foul mouthed pupils and patronising colleagues.  George always managed to find a way to shut out what he didn’t want to see or know, it was how he survived without ‘going round the bend.’

 

No sooner had his head hit the pillow than the phone rang.  It was his mother.  “Just wanted to say night night.”  A searing jolt of fear shot through George’s too lean body.  His mother always fussed and fetted him but ringing to say ‘night night’?  That hadn’t happened since he left home, why now?  He shivered and reached for a sweater thrown down by the bedside.  “Er Mum, can we talk for a minute?”

 

“Of course dear.” She sounded delighted and eager.  George realised he rarely gave her the time of day.

 

“It’s just, well it’s going to sound silly.”  He knew the words would in fact sound crazy once they had left the darker regions of his mind but he just wanted to be reassured he wasn’t in deed going mad.  “I went to this art gallery place today and saw a painting.”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“It was of a horse, a wild-eyed creature.  Well, the thing is, well I couldn’t stop looking at it.”  He paused wondering how this was sounding to his sensible but fussy mother who thought art was simply to cover space on walls and ignored forever more.  “It was kind of evil and horrible but I couldn’t, well I couldn’t tear myself away.  Weird isn’t it?”

 

After a long pause his mother said quite simply and calmly “George, I’m worried about you.  You are so thin and your eyes are bloodshot through lack of sleep.  I think you should see a doctor.  Your work is so stressful and I’m not sure that teaching is the thing for you.”  Her voice remained even and soothing, just as calm as when she’d stroked his forehead before he fell asleep as a child.

 

“I, I can’t get it out of my head.  And there was this awful man called Russ Devine who kept insisting what a dreadful painting it was but he couldn’t seem to leave it either.”

 

“Come on George, that’s enough.  It was a painting nothing more.  Calm yourself.  Did you eat tonight?  If only you would work less and find yourself a nice companion.”

 

George had heard this before.  His mother wasn’t sure of his sexuality, thirty and no serious girlfriend, always a loner, never had a ‘proper’ relationship.  The word ‘companion’ was to tell him she didn’t mind either way but anything would be better than his insular life and these late night ramblings.  “Love you Mum” he said and hung up.

 

All day the next day George thought about the horse, the eyes, frantic wild orbs of anger, the bared teeth manically grinning, the sweating forelock, the raised legs kicking at some mystery demon.  He paced the staff room during breaks and stared off into space during lessons.  He would have to go back to the gallery and find out more.

 

As soon as the last bell rang, George gathered books and papers together shoving them into a rucksack left over from his own student days.  Mrs Stubbs, a short stern mathematics teacher threw a disapproving look his way as he bolted down the corridor, elbowing children out the way but he didn’t notice.  He didn’t notice the rain splats upon his face, as he tore out of the building desperate to reach his bike, nor the yells from a boy telling him he’d dropped his scarf.  George straddled his bike, pulled his wet matted fringe out of his eyes and pushed off weaving in and out of children reaching the gates as fast as he could.  Soon he hit the bridle path near his apartment, glad to be away from the heavy traffic he concentrated on his lithe legs turning the pedals as fast as they could.  As he pedalled he tried to remember the gallery opening hours, or more precisely when they might be closing.   Eventually he saw the white lights and wide glass doors of his target destination, glimmering white beacons urging him forward in the autumn dusk, a sailor to the shore. 

 

The doors opened automatically, George glanced back to where he’d left his bike, against the railings opposite the gallery; he hadn’t bothered to lock it in his haste but for now it didn’t matter to him.   The painting had been away from the main gallery in a smaller anteroom with a glass skylight, his eyes darted nervously around the empty room half expecting someone to appear and try to eject him, but no, finally after long hours of thinking about the painting, he stood before it once more.  It seemed even brighter and more challenging, this time he noticed the carved frame, a small scar curving near the right eye, eyelashes thick and black, the widely flared nostrils, he could almost hear the horse snort and whinny. 

 

“Russ said you might be back.”  A soft breath touched George’s ear and he flinched, in fact he practically recoiled.  “Disturbing, isn’t it?”

 

He hardly dared turn to look at where the voice came from but having been struck like a thunder bolt by the sudden awareness he wasn’t alone with the painting he turned sharply to see a startling woman of over six feet tall staring back at him.  All he could see for a moment was a bright red mouth in some kind of sneer; then he refocused on her long smooth nose, momentarily glancing up at her black eyes, he quickly looked away, not wanting to appear like a foolish schoolboy he stared back at her trying to show he wasn’t as thrown by her presence as he in fact was.  The woman stayed put, which made the lack of distance between them uncomfortable.  George wanted to step away but he didn’t want to be any nearer the painting either so he remained where he was.

 

“Mmm, you look panicked.  Sorry if I scared you?” 

 

George shook his head feeling panicked and scared. 

 

“I want to tell you something.”  She put her face closer to his, so close he could feel her breathe in his face and it smelt sweet, like liquorice or aniseed.  She was so close he didn’t even know what she was wearing, he hadn’t seen, couldn’t see.  Peculiarly this suddenly became important to him so he glanced down.  It appeared to be a robe, a long robe with sequins in the shapes of tiny flowers, blue, cream and white petals on a purple background, unusual, exotic even.  As his eyes travelled down her body, she reached to her waist, pulled a cord and suddenly revealed her nakedness beneath the robe.

 

George stepped back, shocked and immediately embarrassed but these feelings were quickly replaced by fascination.  The woman had a scar running down her belly from beneath her right breast, it appeared to be an old scar because it formed a white ridge along her dark tanned skin.  He almost reached out to touch it but just stopped himself in time.

 

“Nasty huh?”

 

“I don’t understand.”  George heard his own voice, harsh and high.  “Why are you showing me?  I just came to see the painting.”

 

Her fingers rapidly retied her robe.  “Because that brute you appear so enamoured with did it to me.  Piper was my horse.  My Father gave him to me when I turned fourteen, he was five and when I was nineteen he attacked me.  When I say ‘attacked’ I mean he brutalised me.  I went to hug him one morning as I always did and he butted me with his head almost knocking me out, I lay on the ground dazed and he tore his teeth down my stomach, ripping my riding shirt clean open.  Piper had always been wild but he’d never done anything like that before.  I needed over a hundred stitches.”  She stared into George’s face with an expression of angry defiance.  He wondered why he should feel guilty; he’d only come to stare at the painting.

 

“So are you going to buy the damn thing and put me out of my misery?  I painted it and then I had him shot.”

 

George didn’t know what to say, his arms hung like lead weights and his head ached under the bright lights.  The horse had lived up to the painting and been a living demon but his temper had been rewarded in a most cruel way.  George couldn’t decide which he hated most, the horse, or this powerful angry woman confronting him when he had done no wrong. 

 

“I’m tired of people admiring him when he caused me so much pain.”

 

“And you feel guilty for shooting him, even so…” George stared at his feet, not wanting to look at the dead horse.  “So why have his painting here, if you hate him so much?  I mean who is going to want to buy him after what he did to you and when he looks like a demon?”  George began to feel annoyed with this odd woman in her robe who had shocked and humiliated him with her revelations both physical and mental. 

 

The woman ran spidery fingers through coarse hair, which hung limply at cheekbones carved harshly beneath sallow skin.  She resembled a ghost but her voice reminded him she was certainly of no other world than this.  “Guilty me? Why should I feel guilty?”

 

“Well it seems, I don’t know, kind of…”

 

“Weird to use him.  First I paint him, then I shoot him?”

 

“You said you had him shot.”

 

She looked away, her fingers interlocked, tight white knuckles straining beneath the skin.  “I said that so you wouldn’t think I was totally mad, the thing is, at the time, I was.”

 

George didn’t even know her name.  This occurred to him as he tried to read her expression.  Right now he should leave, the painting had been frightening enough without this crazy woman and her wild story.  Was it a story?  She seemed emotional and desperate enough not to have made it up. 

 

“It’s hard you know, to live with the knowledge you have killed a living thing, however bad it was, it was a creature of God.”  This she murmured heavily as she wiped her thickly lashed eyes.  “I’ve felt trapped for so long by the picture I created, I am desperate, desperate for someone just to take him away.” 

 

It occurred to George he’d never asked the price, but then he’d never had any intention of buying the painting.  “How much?”  He asked and his voice echoed round the gallery as if it belonged to someone else.

 

“You don’t want to buy it.  Now you know my miserable story it is even more unattractive to you.”

 

“I wanted to know.”

 

“No, no, you didn’t.  This is no joke; I desperately need a serious buyer.”

 

George shrugged.  He’d had enough.  This whole scenario had worn him out and he wanted to leave.  “Ok, well I can’t help you then, I’m sorry.”

 

“But, but you wanted to know how much.”

 

“Like you said, I’m not a serious buyer.  I just became, er entranced by the painting.  Now I know the story, look I wouldn’t ever have enough money anyhow.  Best I go.  Sorry.”  George turned to leave but she grabbed his arm with both hands.

 

“Please take it, please take it from me.  I can’t bear to look at it another day.  Please, take it, I beg you.”

 

George stared at her disbelievingly, “I can’t just take it.  It’s a great picture, someone will buy it one day.”

 

“Listen to me George, it will be worth a lot of money, just take it. You will be doing me the greatest favour.”

 

“But he’s an unknown horse.  It will never be worth a fortune.”

 

“He will, he will, trust me.” 

 

She had begun to unwire the painting already, carefully pulling the heavy ornate frame from the wall.  “You came on your bike.  I’ll give you a lift home.  I don’t live far from you.”  Releasing the wire that had been holding it with utmost care she gently placed it on the floor, leaning it against the wall.

 

“How do you know my name and where I live?”

 

“Trust me George.  Wait here, I’ll go and get my car, just hold him.”  With this, she thrust the heavy painting into his arms and disappeared to the rear of the gallery, her flowered robe billowing out behind her as she fled.

 

George stood transfixed, he watched her go but then his head swivelled back to the painting of Piper, even more fascinated now he knew the horse’s name.  He imagined the scene of the young girl reaching out to her beloved horse only to be mauled for her display of affection.  Piper glared back with defiance, his eyes showing no remorse at all.  George wondered how it felt to do something so terrible and yet not be touched by it; even an animal must experience some realisation of the consequence of its actions, surely? 

 

Although the gallery felt cool George felt hair prickle on the back of his neck and a hot flush creep across his face.  Why ever had he felt so compelled to come back here to see the painting?  Looking for adventure?  Well he’d certainly found it.

 

The woman returned waving both her hands frantically “pick it up, quick now, the car’s on double yellows.”

 

George stared stupidly at her for a moment before turning to lift the painting from the floor.  It lay heavy and awkward in his arms, what would be the consequence of his actions now?  He knew that if this led to trouble he wouldn’t be as defiant and untouched as Piper even though his actions weren’t causing physical harm to anyone.  It was the first time he acknowledged to himself that he might experience trouble from his encounter with this bizarre woman and her evil horse; it made his stomach churn and his ears rush with blood.  “Look, I want to leave it.  I don’t want to take it, please let me just leave it.”

 

“No time, c’mon, don’t just stand there like a bloody lemon!”  Her eyes flickered with anger and for a moment George could see an expression similar to Piper’s fury contort her face.  She seemed to be in a panic and despite his fear, George responded to her command.

 

Now, almost ten years later George turned to Madeleine and smiled.  “You still make me do things against my will.”

 

Madeleine leant towards him and kissed his cheek “but the difference is you don’t get so worried.  Who’d have thought a twist of fate could bring such riches?  This yacht is gorgeous darling; you have such taste for a boy who was once just a poor little teacher.  It’s a shame that Piper brings such bad luck to people, I’m glad we offloaded him quickly.  That poor banker whose fraudulent little schemes backfired must have rued the day he bought old Piper and now that widowed heiress, what a freak accident!  Poor husband shot by a fellow hunter because he tripped.  Just as well our Three Legged Wicked Eyed Horse keeps coming back to us, he fascinates people so much doesn’t he?”

 

“Seems I’m the only lucky one so far…” said George taking another sip on his Mojito but keeping an eye on the horizon where storm clouds were gathering…