The Painter of the Poor

Tale of Whispering Oaks

The Painter of the Poor

Draft_2

By: Chase L. Currie

“He burns with a loving passion for life and the arts.

He was the greatest artist my eyes had lie upon and I shall never forget him.”

-The Imperial Bard Gulydin Songleaf

In the year of our Lord 956

            It was a short winter that year, and travel to Whispering Oaks was much easier for the time being. Many squirrels were heading to the capital of the realm for an early spring, for work and the start of the college. It was the time of year for new beginnings and adventures.

            Even the trees of Sherwood Forest felt the warm touch of life and summer to come. They were shedding their leaves like a long yawn after a deep sleep. The land was wrapped in beauty and sunlight as Arailt Dawnleaf travel to his new life. He smiled at all the green, all the beauty of what he saw from the back of the wagon. He was in awe at the life being breathe from the sun into the world longing to paint all the burning colors before him. He sketched as quickly as he could on the bumpy road to the city.

            He spends all the acorns he had to be on this trip. He even had to borrow few acorns from the Art Guild in Lionheart Keep to make it this far. Acorns he would have to pay back within two years’ time, but he had no doubt he would keep to his word.

            Whispering Oaks had the Imperial Salon the holders of the art for the realm. The Salon was run by Master Bards and Artists all with the same vision for the arts within the kingdoms. All Nobles and Lords followed the standards of the Imperial Salon and to be an artist that was remembered throughout time one had to be blessed by the Salon.

            It was Arailt dream to be trained by these masters and one day, he dares thought, was to be one of those masters walking the halls of the Imperial School of the Arts. He would change the way the Emperor and the realm saw the arts. He would bring it down a little to the average squirrel or squirrel like his father; who loved paintings but was too poor to have any hanging on his walls. He was a poor farmer hanging his son’s artwork on his walls as if their hut was a gallery in the cities.

            Arailt did his duty by spending the last six years as an apprentice in the Painting Guild. He made paints into the late hours of the night, build canvases and clean brushes for hours by the orders of his masters while all at the same time painting when he could. Most of his masters liked his work, but they were unsure about his style.

            They said it was too unclean and not the standard set by years of the Salon command. What he did for color was unique compared to anyone else. The hues were bright and playful and warm with an intensity which hung in your eyes long after you walked away from the painting. His brush work was quick and messy as if he couldn’t take the time to slow down and smooth out the paint. But all his masters praised his work as the next great thing. They loved his painting, and many of them had his works hanging in their houses and studios.

            He understood how to clean up his paintings, smooth out the work and bring in earthly colors to give a realist view of the world. He could easily follow the rules of the Salon and paint Lords and Ladies for his duty. He painted many scenes from the Good Book in the style of the Salon. But the Salon, Arailt felt, needed a change. It was time for something new, something better and he could bring in that new style.

            The wagon came to a stop. There many squirrels around them all rushing into the gates of the city but Arailt wasn’t watching them at all. He was staring up at the Great Oak tree. The tree so giant it hung over the whole city and at the top of the branch was the Knight Academy. A stone castle over watching the city below keeping it safe and order. He had heard stories about how big of the tree was, about how it reached out to the heavens and touched the sky and it was all true. He wondered how long it would take to climb the tree, hours, days? He didn’t know.

            “Hey,” the old master said shoving Arailt, “you’ll have to walk from here, get your stuff and go, son.”

            “Yes, sir,” Arailt said gathering this stuff which was mostly painting supplies and a few changes of pants. He tossed everything on his back and jumped into the river of squirrels yelling back at the wagon squirrel, “Thank you, sir.”

            “Good luck, son,” the old squirrel shouted back pulling his wagon away from the gate.

            The river of squirrels started to push him into the city, down the street, and to the large market. The smells and sounds of the market were overwhelming; there were some Bards playing songs somewhere in the market and the heavy smell of freshly cooked food hung in the air. The food pulled Arailt closer to the market. He hadn’t had anything hot or freshly cooked in weeks being on the road. His stomach begged him to find something good to eat which would be easy right now, but he didn’t have time for seeing the market.

            Or he couldn’t stop with all the squirrels pushing him around. They keep pushing him down the road like a raging river; he had to get out of it. He pushed his way from the center of the crowd onto the side of the road. He sat down on for a second to catch his breath for a moment.

            At the moment, he started to take in the buildings around him. The houses and shops were made from a deep oak, and the roofs were the Royal Blue of Whispering Oaks, but the little details were what caught Arailt eyes the most. Each building had beautiful carvings of every mythical creature from legends on them. The carving felt real to Arailt he wonders if the artists had seen the creatures out in the wild before.

            He wanted to reach out to anyone passing on the street to point out the carvings, but he had a feeling no one would care. Most the squirrels in the city lived with the carvings every day, pass by them all the time and could care less about them.

            He studies the carvings wanting to know the names of the artists who made them. He knew the names were in the books at the art school. Most of the carvings were generations old, and the artists were long dead. He was sure most of the families of the artists didn’t even know they create such perfect prices of artwork in their city.

            “You are keeping looking up like that,” A deep voice said pulled Arailt’s eyes back to the world, “You’ll be an easy mark for a thief.”

            The squirrel standing in front of Arailt was a member of the City Guard, in a Royal Blue cloak, and light silver armor. He held a spear in one paw and a helmet under his other arm smiling down at Arailt. He said, “I’m Reason Armorclaw of the City Guard, and you are?”

            “I’m Arailt Dawnleaf.”

            Reason glanced over his cloak, a gray, red hue and asked, “Where you from, friend?”

            “Lionheart Keep, sir.”

            “Ah,” Reason nodded, “and what are you doing here?”

            “I’m an artist,” Arailt said proudly.

            “Oh nice.” Reason smiled again. “Would you like me to show you to the Salon?”

            “Well,” Arailt scratched his head, “I’m not in the Salon yet.”

            “Oh.”

            “But I do have a place to stay,” Arailt said digging in his punch pulling out a small paper and pawing it over to Reason.

            Reason read it with a cold expression. He folded up the paper gain and pawed it back. “Follow me, and I’ll show you the way.”

            Arailt starts to follow the guard down the road. “Do you do this for everyone?”

            Reason shrugs a little under his armor. “I try. It is a part of my duty but finding the time can be a little hard.”

            “Do all guards do this?” Arailt asked looking around to see if any of the other guards were doing the same, they were not.

            Reason chuckled a little shaking his head. “Sadly, no. It’s something we are supposed to do, but most the squirrels in my rank don’t.”

            “Oh,” Arailt said no longer sure if he could trust the guard, but what else could he do. He was in a new city and didn’t know anyone, and it would be nice to make a new friend. He hopes his friend wouldn’t stab him in the back like everyone back home warn him. “Too many thrives in the city,” The Masters would tell him. “Don’t trust anyone.”

            But this squirrel is a wearing the cloak of the City Guard, he had to be an honorable squirrel there was no way around it. He stepped to the side of the guard with a smile.

            “So what kind of art do you do?” Reason asked.

            “I’m painter,” Arailt said.

            “I love painting,” Reason told him. “My wife has been looking for someone to do our portraits.”

            “Well,” Arailt said before thinking, “If I have time I would love to paint you tow.”

            “Oh, how much?” Reason asked leading him down another side streets this time one covered in mud. There were no longer stones under their boots letting Arailt know he was now heading into a poor area of the city. “That seem always to be the problem.”

            “I’m not sure right now,” Arailt told him. “Let me get settle in before I start picking up work.”

            “Fair enough,” Reason said nodding. “Plus, when you get into the school you might not have the time.”

            “For helping me,” Arailt said shifting the weight of his travel pack, “I’ll make the time.”

            “Ah thank you, my friend,” Reason told him. “And once you get unpacked you’ll have to come over for dinner.”

            “That sounds great. I could use some good home cooked food.”

            Reason stopped walking turning to face Arailt and sternly said, “Your place is the third house on the left, the one with the green door. I have to get back.”

            “Hm, thank you again, Reason.”

            “No problem,” He coolly smiled and then said, “But look this isn’t the best block to live in so watch your back, don’t stare up at the tree too much, understand?”

            “I understand.”

            “Good,” Reason nodded putting the spear on his shoulder and placing a paw on Arailt shoulder. “I’ll come back tomorrow and check in on you and if you want to I’ll show you around a little. In the meantime, don’t end up dead, alright?”

            Arailt laughed. “I’ve spent some time in Wellstone so I can take care of myself but thanks. Also, I would love to be shown around the city a little.”

            “Sounds good,” Reason said padding him on the shoulder and walking away.

            Arailt made his way to the green door, knocked and waited. Nothing happens for a long time, so he knocked again. He looked around a little and through the window of the door to see if anyone was home, but he couldn’t tell. So, for the last and finally time he knocked hard.

            “What do you want?” a voice growled from the other side.

            Arailt yelled back his title and said, “I’m the one asking for the room. I have a letter from you about it.”

            “Pass the letter under the door,” the voice order and Arailt did as he was told. A moment later the door unlocked flying open to a short red squirrel with a big round belly and one eye. He leaned heavy on an old wooden cane with a duck’s head under his paw. He smiled big and said, “Come in Master Dawnleaf.”

            Arailt walked in as he closed the door behind them and locked it again. He strolled passed the artist saying, “I’m Aaron Tallears, but you already know that.”

            “I do sir, but it is nice to meet anyways.”

            “Let me show you to your room,” Aaron said climbing the stairs. “Dinner is at six always, and breakfast is at nine. You can have squirrels over just me know before paw. Also, no drinking in the house.” He stopped a few steps from the top turning to face Arailt. “You get drunken don’t come home.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Good,” Arron nodded showing him to the last room in the hallway. He pawed the key over and said, “This is your room.”

            “Sir?” Arailt asked before Arron hobble away.

            “Yes?”

            “I was told in your letter there would be a room where I could paint,” Arailt said.

            “Ah right, right,” Arron said fishing another key out and point to the next room across the hall. “You forget these things in your old age. There you go. Payment is due at the first of the month, son,” he said and started back down the stairs.

            Arailt waited until he was out of sight and open the room. It was a small room with a stool, a tiny table for paints, and a window filled with sunlight. The air lingers with the smell of oil paints, and the table had been used by another before. There were paint marks on the floor and walls. The deep hues stood out against the off-white of the walls, but Arailt didn’t mind. He stepped into the small the perfect room.

            He felt at home in the room putting his stuff down and setting everything up. The paints he had from Lion Heart Keep was set on the table. There was only a few who survived travel, and he would have to get more soon, but for now, the five colors would do. He pulled the stool close to the window as he undid his travel easel so the light would cast on his paintings.

            Once everything was set up Arailt slowly back to the doorway looking around the room with a big smile on his face.

            “You have it all set up nicely,” Arron said to him bring some hot tea up and glanced into space.

            “Thank you,” Arailt said taking the cup. “It’s everything I could dream for.”

            “You have small dreams,” Arron chuckled to himself. “Dream a little bigger.”

            “I’m trying to get into the Salon,” Arailt said. “I think that is big enough.”

            Aaron huffed. “Getting into a place where they tell you how to paint and what is good or not. Doesn’t sound like the dream to me.” Aaron walked away once again.

            Arailt drank his tea studying his studio, dreaming of all the things he could create in the room. After he finished his tea when into his bedroom to unpack the rest of his stuff. He sat down on the small bed falling right onto it and drifted off to the dream world before he knew it. He was waking by the worst nightmare he could have, begging for acorns of the street.

               He laid back down of the bed looking up at the ceiling thinking to himself. If he had to, he would paint for the squirrels in the city and make his living from the poor, but it was a risky game to do so. The Salon was the art of the Realm, and they had the right by law to stop any artist outside of their rank. They could make sure he would never paint again, not just by the reputation of being a low painter but by far worst means he dares not think about.

            When he made into the Salon, he would gain an allowance which was more than enough to paid rent ever month. The thought or realize set his mind back at ease, and he fell quickly to sleep once again.

            He stumbles to his feet for a moment and found his way down into the dark house. The old squirrel was in bed; it was somewhere in the middle of the night or the wee hours of the morning when Arailt came down.

            He stood in the dark feeling the night and smiling. He loved being awake when everyone else was asleep. The world was quite letting him only hear his thoughts. The quietness wrap around him like a blanket making him feel safe in the night.

            He let out a long stress-free sigh.

            Arailt found his way back up the stairs to his new studio, lite by a candle, and started to work. He works on a painting for his new living space something to hang on his walls to remind him of home. He painted to old keep he grew up near and saw every day of his life. The canvas was going to be a window to his past, and he needed a little bit of home in his new life. He could never forget where he came from. How hard he worked to get here and everything he sacrifice as well.

            He painted until Arron knocked on his door, the long night dead, and the sun hung high in the sky. Arron asked through the wooden door, “You care for some lunch?”

            Arailt slowly opens the door wishing he took a nap before now. Arron was smiling from ear to ear with nothing in his paws. Arailt said, “I would love some lunch.”

            “Ah good,” Arron told him pawing a list of things to pick up in the market.

            “What is this?”

            “We need some things,” Arron told him. “There is a City Guard here for you as well. He said he is your friend.”

            “Sir Reason?”

            Arron nodded. “I believe that was his name. He is going to take you to lunch and while you are out to pick up those supplies for us.”

            Arailt rushed down to meet Reason at the door; He wasn’t wearing his armor instead normal clothes and his Royal blue cloak. He turned smiling at his new friend who clothes were dotted with dry and wet paint.

“I thought you were coming later?”

            Reason shrugged and said, “I got off a little earlier. You want to get some food and see the city for a bit?”

            Arailt glanced down at the paper in his paw and nodded yes. “I do need to get some supplies. Let me get clean up a little.”

            “Sounds good, I’ll wait here,” Reason grinned.

            Arailt rushed back up, clean himself up as best as he could and when back downstairs. Then spent the rest of his day with Reason being shown around the city. They found a shop where Arailt could pick up some pigments and oils for his paints. Reason showed him his favorite butcher shop and Traven. Then he was shown by the city guard the quicks way to the Salon and a few more art supplies shops.

            They ended the day at Reason’s house eating dinner with his lovely family; a wife and two young boys wanting to be Knights and were in school right now. They welcome him in the house like he was a long-lost friend or brother. The boys, Robert and Giles, treated him like an uncle they didn’t know but were catching up on lost time. He enjoys talking to Reason’s wife Hester about books she has read and books he wanted to read. He found himself quickly falling into the family he was welcomed into.

            When the sun grew dark, and the candle light grew brighter Reason walking him back home with Hester welcoming back anytime.

            “Thank you for the lovely day,” Arailt said stepping up to the door of Aaron’s house holding a heavy pack over his shoulder.

            “Your welcome my friend.”

            “I needed to get some work down,” Arailt said hinting at Reason he needs some time alone for the next couple of days.

            “I also work for the rest of the week,” Reason told him. “Just let me know when you have some free time maybe we can get a drink sometime.”

            “I’ll keep that in mind,” Arailt said opening the door and going inside for the night.

            He was left alone for the next few days and painted like a demon. The was a new light to his work, new colors from the city. The pigments he couldn’t find any other places in the realm. He recalled the artists of the Guild talking around the colors in Whispering Oaks. They talked about the unbelievable hues from the city and Arailt now understood why.

            The colors were brighter than anything he had seen, richer in their colors, and carried a heavy visual weight on the canvas. It was as if someone had plunked colors right out of the world brighten them and turn them into dust to be used as a pigment.

Even the oil mixed with the pigment to make the paint was unlike anything he had used before in his life. The oil reacted to the pigment like magic allowing the paint go across the canvas like a bird in the wind.

Arailt once read back in the Age of Magic many paints were binded with mana and the paints were the greatest thing anyone has seen. He saw one of these paintings in the office of the Guild Master of his home kept. The reds and oranges burn like a fire were put into the paints, and the deep blues rushed like water and moved a little with the blowing wind. The painting was of a ship on the sea with the red and orange arms of the Lionheart Keep.

Arailt wished he could paint with those hues now, like every artist in the realm, but the law forbade any more of these paints from being made. He heard rumors deep in the halls of the Guild about some of the paints still hidden in the Guild somewhere.

“You still working?” Aaron asked opening the door to Arailt’s studio.

Arailt looked back setting his paint brushes down and said, “I can take a break.”

“Well, you might want to take a long break,” Aaron told him early in the morning. “The Salon opens for submissions today?”

“What?” Arailt jumped to his feet. “That is today? Crap.”

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“No, no, no,” Arailt said running from his room into his studio looking around at his paintings. “I’m not ready.”

“Son, you are here. You made it this far,” Arron said. “You are more than ready, take some work and see what happens.”

“What do I take?” Arailt asked looking back at the old squirrel.

Arron shrugged a little. “Your best stuff,” he said walking away.

Arailt rushed through all the work he brought with him but not finding anything he thought was good enough. He whacked his head on what to show the squirrels who had the power over his dream but nothing was coming to his mind. If he picked the wrong thing, then it would all be undone. All his dreams would fall to pieces.

Then what would he do?

The question haunted him the hold walk to the Salon. He took his time, he all day, but his nerves caused him to slow down and question everything. He picked all the painting he has been told over the years were good. He didn’t think they were good but then again, he didn’t know of any of his work worthwhile.

Each step he took they gave birth to more questions.

What if all his Masters were right? What if his style was too odd?

What if he failed?

What would do with his life then?

When he got to the Salon, there was a long line of artists standing and waiting to get in. Arailt was a little shocked by how many were trying to get in; the line was around the block. He couldn’t even see the Salon from here. He wonders how many had failed before. He knew he could try as many times as he wanted until he gave up. The Salon would always look at his work and never turn him away.

He joined the line, pulling at his old pants and holding a pile of work under his arms.

“Hello,” a sweet voice said from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see a light blonde squirrel with bright blues eyes standing there.

“Hm, hey,” Arailt said back.

“I’m Hannah Clay say,” she said with a big smile on her face.

“Arailt Dawnleaf.” He couldn’t miss the magic markings running down her neck and disappearing somewhere under all her new clothes. The magical light burns a dull green against her perfectly blonde fur. The colors fought with each other to pull his attention to one another, and yet, it was beautiful eyes he noticed. The hues worked perfectly on her body as if the paw of the AllFather painted them.

He smiled at her dumbly.

“Is this your first time?” Hannah asked.

Arailt stutter the word, “Yes.”

“Oh, good luck then.”

“You?”

“Hm,” she paused for a moment, “it is my third, no, fourth time.”

If Arailt had any self-confidence left it dropped to the stone road shattering into whatever pieces was left. The line moved forward, and Hannah stepped on the creaking prices of Arailt belief in himself. He said nothing. He thought about stepping out of line running back to Arron’s packing all his stuff up and going home. Until Hannah said, “They don’t too much like my art.” She frowns deeply. “And the markings.”

Arailt didn’t say anything about the magical marking scaring her fur. Many squirrels looked down at anyone who bears any of those markings. The squirrel in question might not know how to will magic, but someone in their bloodline did. Arailt recalled being told once the bright the markings the closer the magic was being used, with Hannah’s markings being a dull green, her children or children’s children might not have any markings.

So, he asked the only question any artist wanted to hear, “May I see some of your work?”

“Sure,” Hannah said with even more excitement than before. She pulled out a small leather bound sketch book and pawed it over to him.

All the ink drawings in the book were nothing he had ever seen before. They were unbelievable good. The looked as if Hannah had reached out pulling real life into the pages of her book with nothing more than pens. He glanced back at the markings on her neck thinking maybe she used magic to do the work but they were very dull. If she did, they would be burning bright like a candle in a dark room. No, the drawings were made by her paw and mastery over the craft.

He flipped through every page watching every drawing grow better as she spent more time with the work. He couldn’t believe the Salon wouldn’t let her in. Why wouldn’t they overlook her markings? She was the best artist he had ever seen.

This was not good if an artist this great couldn’t get in then what chance did I have? Was the only question which lingers in his mind when he gave back the book.

He was speechless for a moment, and with her fading smile, he then said, “You are amazing. You put all my Masters to shame.”

She smiled big with a little red coming to her cheek. “Thanks. Can I see some of your work?”

“They are nowhere near as good as your stuff.”

“I’m sure they are better, let me see,” Hannah demanding sweetly to see what he brought.

Alright,” Arailt said giving her a large book of his colored sketches. She went over the work with the same self-defeating awe which had washed over Arailt like rain. She wanted to cry at how powerful the colors were. They hues kissed like the kiss of a true lover and brought joy to the heart like no other. She didn’t know colors existed like this and didn’t know someone could use them to this effect. She wondered to herself if an angel or demon had given him the ability to paint like this and almost asked but stopped herself from doing so.

She pawed the book back whipping a tear away hoping he didn’t see. All she could say was, “Wow.”

“Thank you,” he said smiling big. “Thank you so much.”

“Look,” Hannah said pulling some paper from her book and bending down to write something with her inkwell. She said as she wrote, “We should work together sometime. I think we could do some great things.”

She shot back up giving him the note with where she lived. “You can come by anytime. I want to learn how to use colors like you.”

Arailt took it with a smile and said, “And you can teach me how to draw like you.”

They talked and laughed for the rest of the time. The longer they had to stand in line the closer they became like friends.

Arailt stepped to the door where the two guards were waiting for him. He sighed waiting to be called in. He turned back to look at Hannah who mouthed, “Good luck.”

The next thing he knew he was walking down a dull hallway with no art hanging on the walls. The building was made from a dull marble, and there was nothing anywhere other than Royal Blue carpet under his boots. He met an apprentice half way down the hall who lead him into a room with four old squirrels sitting behind a large table. He was told to put his work on the table and to take a sit outside.

Arailt did as he was told.

A few moment later he was told to come back in with one of the old squirrels saying, “Master Dawnleaf?”

“Yes, Lord Master?”

“Return here in a week’s time,” the old squirrel order him, “to find out your result.”

Arailt bows a little and said, “Thank you, Lord Masters.” They waved him out of the room.

He was lead out through another path by the same apprentice. The apprentice opens the door to a street Arailt didn’t know before he could turn around to ask how to get home the door was shut in his face.

He sighed a little and leaned against the wall. He was going to wait for Hannah to see how it went for her, he was sure she got in this time. It took far longer than it did with him before she burst out through the door full of a fiery rage.

She was storming away as Arailt rushed up to her side. “Hannah.”

She turns to stare at him with tears pooling in her lovely blue eyes. She drops her head into his chest as he wraps his arms around her. The moment she felt safe within his arms she started to the let the pools overflow.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s my markings,” she told him. “They said they couldn’t have one of me in the Salon.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Will you walk me home?” She asked.

“Yes, of course,” Arailt said with a big smile.

He walked her half way home, but it quickly became she was walking him home because he had no idea where he was going. She left him on this road telling him to come by tomorrow and “We’ll go out to paint,” she said.

“I would love that,” Arailt said hugging her as they left each other.

Arailt went home, right into work, but there was an overwhelming joy that they took his work. It had to mean they were going to take him into the school. It could only mean something good.

He worked late into the night and passed out sometime in the wee morning hours. He was waking by Aaron letting Hannah into his room. She was back to her old self, the squirrel from yesterday, happy and joyful.

“I thought you asked me to come by,” Arailt said yawning.

“Yeah,” Hannah nodded looking at his new painting of the city at night with the street lights burning bright, “I didn’t want to wait for you to get up.”

All he could was smiled at her.

They spend the next week working together every day and every night. It was unlike anything Arailt had done before. He has worked with other artists before; it was a part of working in a guild but nothing like this. They together like they were canvas and paint made for each other. The paws and colors were in tune with each other like keys on a piano, and they both knew it.

And then the week was over, and Arailt was sitting in a chair in front of the four masters. He was calmer than before ready for anything. There was something great going on between him and Hannah. It was real magic beating in his heart.

“Mister Dawnleaf,” One of the old masters said dryly, “We have looked over your work, and some us enjoy it but -”

The ‘but’ was a nail into his heart because nothing said before the word matter. Arailt didn’t listen to the master words after he said ‘but.' They were not going to let him in.

It hurt.

It hurt more than he thought it would. He was sure he could handle any outcome and as he walked out of the office in a haze holding his work. Hannah was waiting for him. She hugged him seeing it on his face. He was not getting in. She warped her paw around his and put her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said still a little numb.

“There is next year.”

“So, I was told,” Arailt said in a cold haze. “No, no,” he stopped dead in his track turning to face her. “There is something wrong here. You are the best artist I know, but they won’t take you because what is on your fur. There is something else we can do. We can fix this; we change it.”

“Like what?”

“Other squirrels in this city like art,” Arailt told her, “Let’s sell out work to them.”

“You mean without the Salon?” Hannah asked.

“Yes, we don’t need them.”

She thumbed back to the school and said, “But they won’t let us.”

“Too bad,” Arailt said. “We can do it without them knowing.”

“We could get into trouble,” Hannah told him.

“Only if the catch us,” Arailt explain. “We do it underground. We don’t let them know, and we keep out names secrets.”

She smiled a little telling him, “You are mad, but I like it. I’m in.”

They spent the rest of the day walking around the city talking about how to make a living without the Salon. They ended talking about their plans with him taking Hannah home and then back to his place for the night. He had a new plan. A plan which will change his life and he couldn’t wait to start it.

He came in the door smelling Arron pipe smoke before seeing the old squirrel sitting the reading room. He lowers his pipe staring at him.

“Hello.”

“Didn’t get in, huh?” Arron asked.

“No.”

Arron stood up as he said, “Sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.”

“Come with me,” Arron order him heading into the back of the house. Arailt followed him into a small room he didn’t know was there in the first place. The room was full of all kind of paintings and covered the walls. There was stack upon stacks along the floors as well. Every inch of the room was covered in paintings expect for the tiny stool and easel.

“Did you do all of this?” Arailt asked looking down at Arron.

Arron nodded pulling smoke from his pipe. “I did.”

“You tried to get into the school?”

Arron smiled big. “No.”

“What? Why? These are great.”

“I paint for me and me alone,” Arron said. “It brings me joy and having someone tell me what I can and can’t paint sounds like Hell.”

Arailt walked around the room studying the landscapes in awe of the skill in the canvas. Everything was perfect and beautiful. “If you could sell them, would you?” Arailt asked never looking back at him.

Arron shrugged a little. “I don’t know, never thought about it.”

Arailt turn smiling big at him and saying, “Then I have something to talk to you about.”

They talked most the night about Arailt’s plan. Arron wasn’t sure about any of it. There was a law against what Arailt wanted to do, a law heavily enforced. The Salon was the only place anyone could buy art in the city and most of the realm. Arailt wants to unminded the whole things with his simple plan.

“We keep it underground,” Arailt said. “We only paint for the poor and squirrels we know, the only one we can trust.”

Arron pulled long on his pipe. “This sounds like a great plan, but they will find out, nothing stays underground for long, son,” Arron said.

“They won’t,” Arailt protested. “We won’t let them.”

The old squirrel sighed heavily with smoke pouring from his mouth, and he said, “Alright, let’s do it. I’m old and don’t have much time left.”

The first painting Arailt did outside the law was of Reason and his family. Soon after Arailt, Hannah, and Arron sold all their work in the house. The request for their work started to pour in, and for months and years, life was good. Arailt and Hannah fell deeply in love and was married in the fall before they moved in together.

Their paintings started to move throughout the city, and the Salon was never the wiser about the law being broken under their nose. The poor quickly gave the title to Arailt ‘The Painter of the Poor,’ a title he was more than happy to have.

One day, a year or so after their lovely wedding and late in winter a squirrel showed up to Arailt studio. He was nice, tall, powerful chest and shoulder which he carried with a hint of confidence. He smiled at Hannah as she showed him to her husband’s new studio on the second floor.

Hannah knocked softly on the door, and Arailt said, “Come in.” He was cleaning off his brushes when the squirrel stepped into the modest studio space. It was small, no bigger than his older room and could use a good dusting.

Hannah bows her head a little leaving the squirrel standing in the room studying all the paintings on the walls. There were more still lives, bowls of fruits and food, but some were paintings of the city and they were very good.

“Something you like?” Arailt asked.

The squirrel smiled over his shoulder and said, “All of them. You are as good as your reputation suggest.”

“Thank you.”

“And you are willing to sell them?”

Arailt shrugged a little. “Not really sell them, but a trade could be arranged,” he said with a wink.

“Ah.” The squirrel moved around the tiny studio. “I was wondering if you would paint my portrait?” He didn’t look at Arailt for an answer just study the wall of his work.

“Sir,” Araitl said, “I must tell you that you should go to the Art Guild or the Salon for your portrait.”

The squirrel sighed and said, “I can’t afford their request for my painting.”

Arailt nodded without him seeing and said, “I understand, but I must say it.”

“So, does that mean you can’t paint me?”

“I can,” Arailt told him. “We can trade for it if you would like.”

“I don’t have much.”

“How about fifty acorns then?” Arailt asked.

The squirrel turns to face him trying to hold his mouth in place. “Fifty?”

“Is that too much?”

The squirrel laughed, “No, not at all.”

“Then come by tomorrow before noon,” Arailt order him. “It will take a month to paint and tell no one about this.”

“Right. I will not tell a soul.” He held out his paw, and Arailt took it as the squirrel said, “By the way, I am Sir Gulydin Songleaf.”

Gulydin came back as he told three times a week so Arailt could work on his painting. They spend most the time talking, and he had a friendly relationship with Hannah. Most the time the squirrel showed up with sweet cakes or freshly bake acorns for Hannah. It almost as if he knew they were favorite things in the world. Even Arailt found him greatly enjoyable to have around and offer him to say for dinner a couple of nights, but Gulydin would say his wife wouldn’t be very happy if he ate without her.

The month went by faster than any of them thought it would, and the day Gulydin came to pick up his painting he sat up in the studio for most the day talking to Arailt about art. Arailt was a little shock to find out this ‘poor’ squirrel knew so much about art and artist, far more than Arailt had ever read about.

“You know,” Gulydin said drinking his sweet tea, “what you are doing here is great and brave.”

“Brave?”

“Going against the Salon,” Gulydin said, “Doing all this,” he waved around the room, “It is a good thing.”

“I just want to paint the way I wish to paint,” Arailt told him.

“And giving it to the poor?”

“Everyone likes art, not just the rich.”

“Yes, they do, and you are bringing it to them.”

Arailt smiled at him.

A hard knock came from downstairs with Hannah crying out as the door was pushed open. Arailt rushed out of the room only to find the City Guard pulling everyone out of the house into the road.

There standing in a circle of guards was an old thin squirrel holding his head high and wearing the golden paintbrush and pen of the Salon over his heart. He scowls at Arailt and Hannah.

“What is this?” Hannah yelled at him.

“You are under arrest,” the Master of the Salon said.

“For what?” Arailt asked.

“Undermining the law.”

They looked at each other with shock and terror on their faces. They knew one of the punishments for this crime could have their paws cut off.

“Brun all their painting.”

“No,” Hannah cried.

“Not all of them,” Gulydin said stepping out of the house as the guards spanned to attention at the sight of him. “I rather like the one he did of me.”

The Master stepped back a little, “Lord Songleaf.”

“Yes?” He winked at Arailt walking passed them. “Good thing I read the arrest reports today. I might have lost my lovely painting.”

“My lord,” The Master said, “these squirrels ar---”

“Making a small living for themselves,” Gulydin told him. “He only charged me fifty acorns for this masterpiece.”

The Master’s jaw dropped open.

“I know,” Gulydin said with a smiled. “Shouldn’t you be teaching a class right now?”

“But my Lord ---”

“Yes, I think you are late for your class, Master Gogh.”

“What about these squirrels?” The Master question. “These so-called artists.”

Gulydin glanced at them and then said, “Leave them be. They both have very lovely skills and are not hurting anyone.”

“What?”

Gulydin shot him a hard look telling the Master he wasn’t going to debate with him over this matter. “Yes, my Lord.” The master and the City Guard took off quickly.

“You are a Lord?” Hannah asked standing up.

“I am. My father is the Imperial Bard of the Court.”

“Thank you,” Hannah said.

“Yes, thank you,” Arailt said.

“Ah well, I like you work,” Gulydin said with a dismisses wave. “Plus, the Salon is dying anyways. I shall see you all again.” He smiled at them both. “Never know if I’m going to need more work for my walls.”

Gulydin went to Arailt’s house once a month for years until Arailt died of a sickness. He died at the age of forty-nine and the whole city weep. Hannah quickly became ‘The Paint of the Poor,” until her death much later in life. Both became Saints in the church for the great deeds to help the poor. A lot of their acorns went feeding and clothing the poor.

They never had children, but their works live on through the city and the portrait of Gulydin sits in his office all his life. He made sure to tell the story every time someone new came into his office about his friend Arailt and Hannah Dawnleaf. He wanted to keep his friend story alive forever.