Part 8

          I've reached the gallery, so pull out my headphones and slip them into my bag with my iPod.  I double-check the times on the door - open all afternoon and evening today, as I thought I've got plenty of time.  Admission is, as usual, free, but there's a donation jar by the door I'll drop a few dollars in on my way out.  I push open the door and hear the familiar light jingle of the bells attached.
          "Hello!"  There's an older woman behind a desk in the corner near the door, a book in one hand.   "If you have any questions, just let me know."
          "Sure, thanks!"  But I think I've already spotted the area I want - the warm rich blacks of Derick Reese's photos are on one of the nearer walls.  I'll check out the rest of the exhibit, but make a beeline for Reese's work first.  It doesn't look like there's anyone else visiting the gallery, but it's about dinnertime and the middle of the week, so I wouldn't really expect there to be.  It's not a very large gallery, just the size of most of the little stores in the old buildings that make up the center of town, but that gives it a much cozier, homier feel than the gallery on campus has.  The ceiling is much lower too, and I've always liked that they've left the old wooden beams exposed.
          It looks like there are a good two dozen photos of Reese's in various sizes hung on the wall, as well as the album I'd flipped through at Town Hall sitting on a little table beneath them.   I start at one end, looking closely at each photo before moving on to the next.  Naturally I'm anxious to see if there are any new ones of the Masons, but I also really like the guy's work in and of itself, so I'll take my time going through them.
          A young boy in a striped jacket and top hat, no more than seven or eight years old, faces a lion, both of them in profile. And that's definitely a real, living, actual lion, it's a little blurred in places where it wasn't sitting perfectly still through the exposure time!  The kid is holding a whip, but the big silly grin on his face makes me think he's just play-acting the part of a lion tamer.  Which makes me a little concerned about the safety of the situation.
          A young lady, maybe thirteen or so, sits in a lawn, her vast skirts spread in a circle beside and behind her.  She's peering intently at the ground before her, fingers searching - and the camera must have been set right on the ground, it's at a low enough angle that the clover covering the ground is in clear focus right at the front of the frame.  I love the clarity that these old images can have, the nearest clover leaves are almost sharper than life, with such a richness of contrast between the highlights and shadows.
          And, oh, there's Evelyn!  I break into a wide smile - and am self-conscious for just a moment, relieved there's no-one else in the gallery to see my grin of recognition for a girl it shouldn't be possible for me to know so well.  It's the photo of her leaning toward the fountain in the Mason gardens, the dress with the huge bow, her hat on the ground behind her.  This is a larger print than I'd seen before though, so the details are even more striking - the intricate design of the fountain, the slight transparency of the layers of her dress, I can even make individual hairs of her shining curls in places.  I lean in closer to the image, trying to decide - and I think it's got to be a new print from the original negative.  No, certainly not a film negative, probably glass plate?  It's insane to me how complicated those were to work with, but the results are just stunning, and I'm so glad there are still people out there who keep the art alive.  (Clearly, they have way more patience than I do - while I truly love those moments of absolute magic when a photo starts appearing from the blank page in the developer bath, it takes an unreal amount of time to develop film and make prints.  I can't even imagine having to deal with individual breakable plates!)  There's a small tag below each photo, giving the approximate date and name of the subject if known.  I lightly trace over the name "Evelyn Mason" with one finger, smiling to see her name out here in "the real world" (though her world is, obviously, just as real as my own - it's only another time, it's still the same ground I stand on every day).
          Each photo on the wall is striking in some way or another - the expression of the subject, the composition of the figure against the background, the angle of the camera, the way the light's falling.  Most of them are taken outdoors, which I have a feeling was pretty unusual for the time, usually portraits from that time were done in the much more controlled environment of a photographer's studio.  (Though I've always wondered what kind of lights they'd have used that would have been bright enough - nowadays there are such bright lights, and reflective panels, and everything else, it's almost blinding to be in there.)
          And then I'm frozen in place.  It's Meres - and at first I thought it was the photo I have a copy of already, but it's not, though it's clearly another shot from the same session.  He's still standing in front of the Grecian pillars (with this larger size print, it's clear they're a painted backdrop), and he's still holding a rose, but...
          He's not looking at the camera - which I'm almost grateful for, I'd be stuck here for days.  But his expression... The vase filled with flowers has fallen over, spilling the blossoms across the table and onto the floor, the water pooling around them.  He's on one knee, curled forward a little, the hand with the rose fallen against the floor - the muscles in his hand are visibly taut, clenched, I can almost see them trembling with the strain.  His jacket has fallen askew, the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned, and some of his dark, dark hair has fallen loose from its smooth composure of the earlier shot.
          His striking profile is clearly visible, and the bit of fallen hair does not obscure his lowered face.  And his expression tears my heart in two.  There's no way to describe it, no way I can explain the angle of his tortured brows, the thinness of his trembling lips, the shadows that fall over his temple and the contours of his finely-boned face, and his eyes...  There is such a depth of sorrow and grief and longing and utter, utter dispair in them.  It's in every nuance of every inch of his body, from the slump of his shoulder to the hand fallen on the floor, but his eyes, though they don't (thank God) look at me, have reached into my chest and wrenched my heart from me.
          All the confidence, the strength, the dominance over everything within his sight... it's all gone, stripped utterly away.  And a chasm has opened in his soul, and it's so dark and so deep that no ray of light or hope can reach him there.
          I'm crying.  I've been crying, apparently, my cheeks are soaked and I can see a few dark spots on the carpet below me.  I rub my eyes against my sleeve, and try to choke back the lump in my throat, but there's nothing I can do about the knots in my heart and stomach.
          Meres... what on earth happened to you?  I lift a hand toward him, fingers outstretched, but not quite touching the printed image before me.  And the air around me feels heavy - heavy, and warm, and thick, and I feel goosebumps rise all over my skin.  That feeling you get when there's someone standing near you, looking over your shoulder?  But it's so strong that I expect every moment to feel hot breath against my neck.  I shiver, hardly daring to breathe, my heart pounding.
          "Meres..?"
          I hear the bells on the door chime softly - too softly, and without the sound of the door opening or closing, as though a breeze has brushed against them.  But there are no open windows, no fan or air conditioning blowing.
          I'm trembling now.  He's here.  He's in my time, and as a ghost or a spirit or a half-transition between his time and mine, I don't know, but he's here, I can feel those eyes on me.  I don't dare speak and risk breaking the moment (or drawing attention from the volunteer at the desk), but there are so many things I want - I need - to ask him.  Meres, what happened to you, I want... I want to know, I want to help, I want to do something to ease that pain, to replace the searing flames of the fire with the beauty that they stole away this world...
          Meres, you brought such beauty to this world, I can't bear that it was all taken from you like that.  That the legacy of your love was turned to such coldness and cruelty, and then burned to ashes.
          I feel my hair lift slightly and brush against my face, in a breeze that has no origin.  There is such sadness - and it's deeper than the house, it's darker than a relationship ending, it feels like a thousand lifetimes of seperation and soul-rending pain.  An old pain.  Very old...
          And for a moment, my vision blurs - but it doesn't resolve to this place, not in any time.  There are words being spoken in a language I don't understand - more gutteral, angular sounds and short phonemes, but the voice is melodic through it.  It sounds like a recitation, a proclamation, and then a flash of heat tears down my spine.  I cry out, gasping, falling to my knees.  I see hands reach out for me, then a voice cry out in desperation.  I see a face I don't recognize - but that I know I love, and care for, so deeply, a thin pale face of a frail man with eyes as deep as Meres and Azal's - and it falls away into darkness.  There are other glimpses, flashes, and I don't understand what I'm seeing, but there is beauty and there is death, and worse than death - there is the life that continues after the death of all that you love.  Everything taken away, to where you can't follow.
          "Miss?  Miss, are you alright?  Should I call for help?  Miss?"
          I blink.  And blink again, my lashes fluttering, trying to blink the tears away enough that I can focus my eyes again.  The vision is gone, and Meres is gone, I can't feel him any more, and I don't know if I'm relieved that the impossible sorrow has lifted (a little, not much), or bereft that he's left.  My back feels fine now, but I'm on the floor, on my knees, curled over as if it's still on fire.  I'm still shaking.
          "I... I'm alright, I'll be fine in a moment."
          "Are you sure?"  The woman is visibly upset, and deeply concerned.  "You sounded like you were badly hurt, did you fall, or...?"
          "No, I... you know, I haven't eaten hardly at all today, and I've been on my feet all day.  My legs just gave out and it startled me.  I'm a little shaky, but I'm okay."
          "I'll get you some water - there's a vending machine in the back, can I get you something?  Your face went completely white, honey."
          I reach a hand weakly into my bag, and pull out a couple of bills.  "Candy bar, if you could?  Just a bit of sugar back in my system, and I'll be alright in a minute.  I was going to go get dinner next door after I stopped here."  She hesitates, studying me, but I manage a smile and get my trembling under control.  "Really.  I'm feeling better already, I'll be fine in a minute.  Just shaken."
          Visibly relieved, both that I'm apparently looking better and to have something she can do to help, she gets up and heads toward the back of the gallery.  I pull myself into a more normal sitting position, and take slow, deep breaths.  I want so badly to linger in the memory of what just happened - but I know I need to appear normal for a few minutes, until I'm calm enough to leave.  I feel a little embarrased at the attention she's given me, I know there's nothing physically wrong with me.  Just a momentary psychic invasion, you know, happens to us all sometimes, right?