by Cath Barton
Mr Hieronymus Bosch and I were both sworn members of the Confraternity of Our Blessed Lady, a society in which men can surely trust one another. No need for a third party to act as broker; we shook hands on the deal ourselves. His eyes, I noticed, were granite-grey and the left one sparkled as if there were flakes of a precious metal contained within the iris. After the deal was done we repaired to a tavern on the market place where I hold an account. It was a most convivial evening and I recall little of my walk home. I woke with a muzziness in my head that took time to clear, but when it did I remembered our agreement and smiled to my wife over breakfast. She merely raised an eyebrow. I had no need to speak and I was to regret that I did so at that moment, and with such frankness.
“My likeness,” I said, puffing out my chest, “is to be included in a new painting by Mr Bosch, an altarpiece for the chapel of the Confraternity.”
“If you think it wise, my dearest,” she replied. “People say…”
I cut her off by lowering my eyes and lifting my spoon to my mouth. Perhaps I should have listened to her, or pointed out that this was not about vainglory on my part. Sadly, I did not.
Some months later the sittings began. I left home before the morning mists had cleared on the polders, walking across town to the market place and down the curve of a lane to Mr Bosch’s workshop. I was surprised to find several men who I took to be his apprentices already at work there, copying from large volumes open on a central table. A nervous youth offered me small beer, which I declined; my wife does not like me to return with that smell on my breath. I was directed by Mr Bosch to a chair by the window, which overlooked a narrow canal. The figure he was painting, he told me, was to be shown kneeling before one of the saints, but there was no need for me to adopt the posture; it was merely the likeness of my face that he wanted to capture, and he instructed me to sit so that the light fell upon it.
The room was peaceful. The painter worked in silence, brow furrowed in concentration as his piercing eyes flicked from my visage to the board on his easel and back again. His brush moved easily between his long fingers and from time to time he wiped it on his painting smock, a coat of many colours that swamped his diminutive form. From outside there came the occasional splish-splash as a small boat passed below the open window, and now and then a shout from a boatman to a fellow on the bank. No other sound, apart from a sudden bee, attracted by the sweet herbs upon the window sill. Mr Bosch took no notice as it buzzed close to my face. I closed my eyes.
“Please,” he said. “Eyes open.” His voice was sharp.
I opened my eyes. The painter was studying me intently, that left eye seeming to pierce my very soul. The bee was close. I held my breath till it departed and the air in the room was once again undisturbed. Such were the small dramas of those mornings. It would take, Mr Bosch told me, six sittings to complete the work.
“The man is meticulous, if nothing else,” said my wife when I came home at midday.
I knew better than to rise to her provocation. Or to those of the others who drank in the tavern.
“When will we see this masterpiece?” they would ask me. I ignored the curled lips, the half-closed eyes, the looks surely being exchanged behind my back.
It was a summer of unusual heat. I took to retiring to my bed after my midday meal and had curious dreams, full of strange creatures and disputations. I was loathe to tell my wife of these disturbances, for she would likely accuse me of drinking small beer in the morning. Instead, I told Mr Bosch.
“That is,” he said, pausing in his work, “most interesting.”
He went over to a table and spread out some papers on top of it.
“Come,” he said.
I saw there the creatures from my dreams, monsters in many shapes.
“This one,” he said, picking up one of the thin sheets and carrying it over to the window where the light could show its details, “is called The Battle of the Birds.”
The sheet was covered in swirling bodies, flailing wings. I felt the birds were malevolent and could fly off the paper and circle our heads, if they chose to do so.
“You must on no account speak of what I have shown you,” Mr Bosch continued, as he stacked the papers back into a neat pile on the table. “I implore you. There are those in this town who choose to misconstrue my work. For whatever reason.”
The painter’s words hung in the air, their meaning clouded, and his face looked suddenly strained. His usual composure was gone and it was as if he had become an old man, his eyes dulled. I gave him my word, but that very night I broke it. I told only one man, someone I thought I could trust, but next day a fellow I barely knew called to me in the street.
“You and the painter are conjuring demons, I hear.”
He laughed and his face twisted into cruelty. I put my head down and hurried on, sick with the knowledge that this rumour would now spread as quickly as a fire through thatch. And would be as merciless.
The final sitting had been arranged for two days hence. The painter’s boy arrived at my door with a message.
“My Master,” he said, “is sick. You are not to come today.”
There were three deaths reported in the town in as many days. Old men, all of them, but people whispered of a curse. I was afraid and did not venture out to either market or tavern. I slept badly and my mind was invaded by monsters at all hours.
After a week the painter’s boy returned.
“The Master,” he said, “is recovered, and bids you come tomorrow.”
I arrived at the workshop at the usual time. Mr Bosch greeted me politely but we were as different people, a silent enmity between us because of my supposed betrayal of his confidence. The table where the pile of drawings had been was bare. I did not dare speak of them.
The morning passed. The painter laid down his brush.
“Our contract is complete,” he said.
He invited me to view the work. I was portrayed in the centre of the canvas as he had promised. The likeness was remarkable, but I was dismayed to see that the painting as a whole was far from finished, the figure of the saint to my right only roughly drawn, the background a mere sketch. In the foreground, bottom right, was the merest suggestion of some kind of animal, while in the opposite corner, an angular and bristled monster stood snarling. I wanted to question the painter, but he was already holding the door open, bidding me leave.
I sent him the agreed sum of money and put the whole affair from my mind. I was, in any case, preoccupied with my business in the following weeks and months. My sleep was, in due course, restored and all was as before, except that I refused to join in any conversation about Mr Bosch. I heard nothing from him until we found ourselves in adjacent seats at the annual dinner of the Confraternity. We were polite and guarded with one another. And then came the inevitable question, from a man sitting opposite, a sharp-nosed fellow with a receding hairline, who I recognised as someone who frequented the tavern on the market place. He rolled his shoulders before speaking, as if squaring up for a fight.
“So, Mr Bosch,” he said, “when will we see this altarpiece which Mr van Aaken here has so generously commissioned from you?”
He squeezed out the word ‘generously’ as a languorous challenge. I felt sweat break out on my brow because of the flapping of birds inside my skull, rousing fears I could not name.
“It is complete,” replied the painter, “but for a few touches. And you will understand,” he said with a hard smile, “that the oil must be allowed to dry completely before the work is displayed.”
He emphasised the word ‘completely’ as if returning the sharp-nosed man’s challenge. Both returned their attention to the meat on their plates. It was, in truth, a little tough on that occasion.
The unveiling of the altarpiece was announced for a service in honour of the saint which it depicted, John the Baptist. I had my wife trim my tabard with fox fur for the occasion. A discreet touch, nothing too ostentatious.
The church was full. Two trumpeters at the west end announced the ceremony. On the closed altarpiece were sombre representations of scenes from the Passion of Our Lord, with Our Lady in subservience. Then, to a further fanfare, came the opening of the doors. The scene was, in contrast to the outer panels, a blaze of colour. The saint, dressed in a carmine robe, was pictured reposing in a peaceful landscape and meditating upon the finely-drawn figure of a lamb in the foreground. In the bottom left-hand corner, the monster still snarled, darkly. I had expected to see my likeness in the centre, but instead I beheld an extravagance of green, topped by a bird pecking at the innards of a giant pomegranate.
At the end of the service people crowded round to view the details. I forebore to join them. I did not wish to hear their ignorant judgements or be called on for any explanation; let them ask the painter for that. It was, I suggested that self-same day to my wife, time to think of moving to a larger town, one with more opportunities for commerce. She knew better than to argue. My business has flourished in the city in which we now live, and I have met an up-and-coming artist, a man who understands society and follows the expected conventions in representation of men of my standing. I am confident that we will soon strike a deal. Mr Bosch is yesterday’s man.
Cath Barton lives in South Wales. Her most recent publication is a pamphlet of short stories, Mr Bosch and His Owls (Atomic Bohemian, 2024). Her prize-winning novella, The Plankton Collector, is due to be republished by Parthian Books in March 2025. She is working on a novel based on the life of her aunt, an internationally-famous circus artiste. https://cathbarton.com https://x.com/CathBarton1
