Chapter 2 The Mural

Helen woke to the sound of waves pounding on a shore. Before opening her eyes she sensed that her room was full of dull, grey light, muffled by gauzy curtains. For a moment or two she was quite at a loss; where on earth could she have arrived? Then memory flooded back-John Wolfe's queer arrival, his odd talk, and the amazing mural. After changing into her work clothes – faded jeans and a shirt she didn't mind getting paint on – she headed to the dining room where Sofia greeted her with a smile. "Breakfast is served," Sofia said, motioning for her to sit down at a table piled high with fresh fruit, warm pastries, and coffee that smelled heavenly. Helen sat but she felt comfortable in the large empty room. "Will Mr. Wolfe be joining us?" Sofia nodded. "Mr. Wolfe rarely takes his meals here, he likes his solitude in the mornings." Helen nodded again. Not that she'd have expected John Marquand to be one of those men who felt like indulging in idle chitchat over a cup of coffee. When they finished, Sofia took her down to the chapel. The building's age showed more in the sunlight than it had at midnight. The stone was all pitted and old-looking, ivy growing up along the corners as if nature intended to reclaim it. Inside, the mural was brighter than Helen had realized, though age had muted it. The colors were pale and fragile, and spiderweb cracks wound through them like varicose veins. She set her bag on the floor to take a closer look. In the center, a man and woman floated in choppy waters. The man's hand reached for the woman-either to catch or stop her-but there was something of resignation in her expression; she was already lost. In the distance was an ethereal wreck of some great ship. It made Helen feel unbearably sad for both of them. She got her notebook out and started to draw. The ceiling was too high for her to see anything properly, but she could make out lighter areas where the paint had peeled away altogether. There was someone in front of her and she looked up. 'What do you think?' said John. "It's beautiful, but... heavy. There's so much emotion in it. Whoever painted this wanted to tell a story." John took a step closer, studying the mural with unblinking eyes. His voice barely reached her ears. "Do you think you can bring it back to life?" "I will try, but it can be a bit much to fix, and i'll need some time." He nodded without any visible reaction. "I'm in no rush, just don't do anything that could risk you." "Careful?" she asked, her head canting slightly. "Some things just isn't to be fixed," he said like a riddle, and he walked out of the house, trying not to look back. "You keep your mind on what you're supposed to be fixin." He didn't know if she could understand him across forever and he tried not to think that far ahead but didn't know how in the world to stop it." Before she could ask what he meant, John turned and left, his footsteps echoing through the chapel. Shaking off the chill that ran down her back at the sound of his retreating steps, Helen returned to her work. She took a stiff-bristle brush from one pocket and scraped grime from the white marble wall just to the right of an ornate altar depicting some kind of monster being fought by a man on horseback. The monster's mouth was open and flames billowed out in yellow and gold flames tinged with fiery orange. Helen spared only enough time to consider how odd it was that she had never noticed this mural before John pointed it out as she quickly worked to free more colors from beneath their tomb of accumulated dirt.) She leaned in closer, brushing away the dirt to expose the script written in a language she knew enough of to recognize some of the words: love, betrayal, curse. Her stomach dropped. The mural wasn't simply a mural. It had been hours, but Helen hadn't felt the cold or noticed how much darker it was in the chapel. When Sofia came to the door of the chapel, she looked up and spoke softly, "The day is almost over. You should come inside." Helen glanced at her watch and jerked it to her face, as though checking that it still worked. "You're right," she sighed regretfully. She closed her portfolio and put away her pencils, glancing around one last time before following Sofia back to the cottage. Back at the manor Helen moved into the small study next to her room, going through the pictures she shot of the mural. She couldn't get one word out of her head; inscription. What could it mean? And why John had hinted not to get too carried away? Needing a break, Helen wandered the halls of Wolfe Manor trying to clear her head. The place was intimidating enough by day but at night with low lighting casting deep shadows on the marble floors, it felt no more than a prison. Room after room of antique furniture and books passed by, sterile and uninviting much like their owner. In one hallway she came across a door that was cracked open only slightly, but it was enough for her to peer inside and get a glimpse. Curiosity prodded her to push it open, and she did so quietly, cautiously. It was a gallery room. She had never really known what that manor used to be before the Wiltshire's were in possession of it. But if this place had indeed been an art museum at some point then the rumor would definitely make sense. Art covered every single space on the walls and even spilled onto the floor – sculptures at least three or four deep lined up in rows, paintings stacked on top of one another with just enough space to breathe between each work. All other parts of the estate seemed practically abandoned except for these hallways now filled with art. But these halls were not like those Helen saw when passing through her uncle's apartment building while he worked late into his laboratory hours. This hallway...everywhere else here...it seemed nothing ever changed. Nothing aged. In fact everything felt downright dusty...but not this gallery room! This unseen piece of heaven as far as Helen was concerned was alive compared with everything else in Willing House! There weren't any old paintings either. Old-looking ones yea – they couldn't account for how much wiping dust away could have fooled her but still seeing before what time could do to paint... No these works appeared freshly painted! Recently brushed displayed styles sometimes seen around though usually more generic modernism too: but styles mostly gone save in pictures found within textbooks glowing onto monitor screens! And there wasn't just zagat rating new. Stylish looked poked and prodded seven times out of ten obnoxious abstract as always whether from those wishing themselves painters or pretentious college graduates scammers both who insisted they were: All wrong! For among all this postmodern monstrosity vaguely familiar sure literal WTF-inducing posts loomed rightly immersed in mind-bending fifteen-minutes-of-fame art movements intriguing enigmatic surrealism. And for some reason Helen wasn't near as curious to find out the reason none at all as she knew she should have been. "Like it?" Helen jumped and spun around to see John in the doorway, his solid frame taking up the entire space. She blushed at having been found out. "I'm not prying," she rushed to explain. "Not at all." The words came out crisper than he intended. "It was my sister's vault. She was an artist." Helen's chest constricted. "Was?" John's jaw tightened, and for a second she thought he wouldn't answer. "She died several years ago. This was her sanctuary." "I'm so sorry," Helen whispered. He nodded, and his eyes drifted to the painting she had been looking at. "She did this one a few months before she died. It's one of my favorites." Helen wanted to ask more, but felt that John had already told her more than he'd intended. Instead she looked back at the painting and let the silence grow around them. Then John spoke again, his voice softer. "The mural in the chapel was one of her many manias. She thought it had secrets ... or peace. I don't know which." Helen looked at him quizzically. "Answers to what?" John's expres- sion grew more serious. "Questions you don't want to know the answers to." With that, he turned and left, leaving Helen alone in the gallery. Staring up at the painting of the woman on the cliff, a shiver tingled down her spine. That mural wasn't just paint on a wall; it was part of the Wolfe family's history, and whatever secrets it held were linked to John in ways she couldn't yet understand. But if you want me to keep going just let me know!