The Last Peaceful Night

Rain was pouring down in the streets of Paris; lighting flashes bathed the streets in a brief white light. The year was 1914, mid-summer night rains were to be expected this late into July, however a curious tingling crept at the edges of his consciousness. A foreboding aura hung in the air like a stubborn stink refusing to leave the nostrils in peace.

The rain pelted against his cloak as he walked down the streets. He didn’t mind the storm though. He relished in the chaos, after all this storm is nothing compared to what was coming. He could feel it, every part of his being sensed it. The great war will begin soon, for it is because of the war that he has come the France.

Montmartre was quiet this evening, the storm forced everyone either into their homes or into their speakeasys, for there they drowned their sorrows with the green fairy into the early hours of the morning. It occurred to him that only criminals and nefarious types would be seen about the streets in this weather. ‘What about spies?’ He asked himself, if he could even be called one. That’s what they told him he is to be, for his actual expertise lay in history and the arts. He was a professor in Amsterdam less than a month ago. ‘And now I walk the streets of Paris finding art for the Germans. The world must have truly gone mad.’

He had no comprehension as to where he was, no name, no location nor landmarks to follow. For this piece of art remained an enigma, a myth. ‘This is meaningless.’ He growled. ‘This storm will be pick me up and throw me down in some frozen pond at the edge of the world.’ He was at his wits end, wet and cold, lost beyond hope, suddenly he lost his footing and fell to the streets. He sat on his knees and stared at his hands covered in mud. Defeat settled in, despair came for him and stared gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. He felt it first, a slight vibration in the air that brought a voice with it.

It cut through the storm like an angelic choir. It was a woman’s voice, warm and classical, defying the elements to grace his ears with its comforting tones. The blood in his veins warmed up as his limbs moved by themselves and carried him in the direction of the song. Then he saw a door, hanging half open a golden-brown light emanated from the portal, and the song which called him through the rain came from inside. Above the door hung a cast iron sign, swinging in the storm, “L'étang gelé”. ‘The Frozen Pond!’.

She sat on a black stool with her legs crossed smoking a cigarette in a long jade holder, a glass of absinthe in her hand. The room was full, it always was. Her green silk dress cut high up on both sides; the skin of her legs caught the warm light magnificently. Adaja Gervais always attracted a crowd. But she wasn’t here for that, she didn’t care for the fame nor did she care for the attention. Tis the painting she was here for and the very reason she sung here every night. For it found her at the age of fourteen, and she never left.

For she knew what the painting was, she knew that it was not merely paint on canvas but something much more significant. Something from another time, long forgotten by the people of today in their desire for industry and machines. They have forgotten about the magic in this world, they believe that the green fairy is an illusion. And none of them knew what awaited the world, that this may be the last night of peace any of these people would ever know. And so, she sang, the old folk tales and magical stories from myth and lore she sang to the people every night. And she waited for the one she loved, the one she has loved for aeons.

She sensed it then, a memory in the air from a time long ago coming closer to her. A familiarity of energy emanating and intensifying every moment. Unexpectedly the door burst open, a stranger walked in, drenched and covered in mud, a cloak pulled low over his face and a dark beard.

He pulled his cloak back as all eyes fell on him, but no awareness did he have of their suspicious gaze for he stood enchanted by the beauty in the green dress. Her hair was the richest auburn, her eyes pure blue. Her voice flowing in the air sounded as if it came from the past. He realised that she was singing to him, yet there was something about her. He felt he knew her. She finished her song; the room echoed with the final vibrations of her words and fell silent.

Only then did he realise the suspicious stares. He made his way to the bar where a middle-aged man stood casually drying of glasses with a cloth. ‘A glass of whiskey if you please barkeep.’ He said in his thick accent. The man stared at him with a portentous look, whether it was due to suspicion or offence he could not be sure. He snorted and spat on the ground. ‘We do not like strangers. There is a lot of talk about!’ He replied.

‘That is no way to treat a customer Gustav.’ Said a voice, her sweet French accent perfectly pronouncing the English. ‘Certainly not a weary traveller seeking refuge from the storm. Come now we shall have two glasses of the green fairy if you please. Nay we shall have a bottle.’ Gustav blushed and gave a slight bow. He cast a final glance at the stranger and moved to get the drinks. The stranger turned to see Adaja walking up to the bar coming to stand beside him. Her aroma was rich and beautiful, her eyes intense and piercing yet her smile was warm and welcoming. ‘Apologies for the dour reception darling, for we don’t often see new faces here, especially a Dutchman. My name is Adaja Gervais. And who might you be?’ For a moment he couldn’t find his voice, he stood awestruck by her radiance. ‘Pleasure to meet you Adaja, I am Jean. Jean Vandenberg. Allow me to express my sincere gratitude for your heroism.’ He took her hand then and laid a kiss upon it.

She smiled at him, took the glasses and bottle from Gustav. ‘Follow me.’ She said as she gestured for Jean to follow her to a table on the far wall underneath the painting. Only then did Jean notice the painting, the very piece of art he was sent here to find. The absinthe felt cool as it slid down his throat, he poured another. ‘Tell me Jean. What brings a handsome man from the Netherlands to the streets of Paris this evening?’ She said, her voice sweet and melodious. ‘My business I must keep to myself Adaja. What I can tell you is that it involves this very painting we sit underneath. I am a professor of art and a scholar.’ She looked at him with a knowing expression.

‘Do you know what this painting is?’ She asked. ‘You say you are a professor of art and yet you call it a painting when it is in fact so much more than that.’ His face lit up with intrigue at her words. ‘I must admit that I do not. Nor do I know the name of the artist whom created such a masterpiece. Just that I was sent to find it. I thought it a myth.’ He said as he finished his second glass. She looked at him and smiled. As if somehow, she could read his thoughts. He felt the fear rise in him again, if he was to be discovered as a spy the consequences would be dire.

‘I know who it was that sent you here Jean, for I have seen the start of the great war and I know too that you have been sent here as an agent of the Germans.’ His eyes went wide as she stated the truth so absolutely and so openly. ‘Fear not dear Jean for I see your heart and I know that you are good and pure. You think you serve serve the side of evil in the coming calamity? There is no good and evil side in this, it is ungodly. I know not how you came to be in the service of those who seek to destroy history and enslave the people of Europe, you must have your reasons which are not for me to judge. You and I have known each other in previous lives and it is no mere coincidence that you have entered this establishment this evening.’

She reached over to him then and stroked his cheek with her fingers, they were warm and a comforting energy flowed through them into his skin. She pulled him closer and kissed him. Her soft moist lips caressed his with the sweetness of a spring flower. And through her lips flowed memory. He saw their previous lives together, thousands of years flashed within his mind in mere seconds. He saw them at the French revolution, fighting for freedom, art and expression. He saw them together on the shores of a lake, Adaja in the garb of a priestess, and old man hooded and cloaked. He saw them at the prow of a great galleon sailing the high seas, the fresh wind and spray of the sea in their faces as they beheld Table Mountain on the horizon. Then he saw Adaja in a room, paintings and books everywhere. He was there as well, brush in hand he was working on a painting. Magical energy poured from Adaja’s hands into the artwork. Astonishingly he realised that the painting he was working on was the exact piece which now hung above their heads!

He fell back in his chair, tears streamed down his face as he came to realise that they had shared so many lifetimes together. ‘My love, forgive me I did not know. I remember everything. And the painting! I painted this piece with my own hands!’ He said incredulously as he looked up at the canvas on the wall. ‘I know my love; I have been waiting for you for years. And now on the eve of the great war you arrive.’ She pulled him closer and kissed him once more. ‘And the painting. You put your magic into it, it’s a portal! A gateway to another place.

‘My dear Jean do you remember why we created this portal? We swore to each other that we will find one another in the next life. We created this portal as a symbol of our promise and our love. We knew that we would meet again as we have done for aeons since the beginning of this world.’ They stared into each other’s eyes as time seemed to stand still and the rest of the world faded away. They knew the time had come. That they must enter the portal and return to Avalon.

Holding hands, they turned and took one final look at the world they were about to leave behind forever. ‘I love you Adaja.’ He said as they stepped into the painting. Then they were gone, as if they had never been there at all. Half a bottle of absinthe and two glasses the only remaining evidence of their existence.

The alarms went off in the streets of Paris, shouting erupted everywhere. As the storm raged, a different song was heard on the air. The bells rang in the streets of Paris. ‘War! We are at war!’ Was heard through the door of The Frozen Pond.