Seized by Inspiration.

by
John Barley

Once upon a time in a world much like our own, but different in others, there lived a gnome. This gnome was a very stout well-rounded fellow, child size (at three foot seven and a half.) for a human, but quite tall for a gnome. This gnome lived in a very small and peculiar dwelling from a human perspective, but quite cozy from a gnome's. The entrance to this dwelling was long, and tunnel like, the rest of the dwelling was round and from the outside it very much resembled a hill. In fact, like many of the other dwellings in the area, it was built on top of a hill.
On this particularly sunny afternoon our little gnome had just finished his spring- cleaning, and was sitting on a small bench underneath his quaint little patio enjoying both a smoke from a hookah and the cool breeze.
He was a very fine character, both in moral and looks, in the gnome sense, which included short well combed brown hair and cheerful eyes and face. On his feet he wore straw sandals and on the rest of his body he wore loose cool threads of brown and green which he had sewed himself, for he was very skilled with a needle.
As he blew a fine white cloud of smoke, he thought of the fine crumb cake sprinkled with nuts, and topped with a wisp of cream he had just enjoyed for tea, and of the wonderful supper that he would soon indulge himself in within a few hours. As he continued to smoke, he thought about the most wonderful things that he loved to eat: steaming dumplings dipped in butter garlic, fresh brook trout covered in sweet sauce and nuts, and strawberry trifle sprinkled with poppy seeds. As with most gnomes, food was his favorite subject.
As he thought of these wonderful foods and many others, he at first did not notice the thin little gnome dressed like a scarecrow approaching him from the north, along the path that went past the base of his hill . The young barefooted gnome approaching was dressed in raggedy paint stained clothes and a floppy leather hat he had to repeatedly rescue from falling off his head, and on his back hung a very large overstuffed pack. Hanging on the outside of his pack were several small pots and tin cups, a frying pan, and various other utensils, bottles, and baubles. In every other available space (which included the insides of the pots, and cups and the travelers pockets, of which he had very many) were paintbrushes of various sizes, shapes, and, in some cases, colors.
Our daydreaming gnome heard the traveler before he saw him, for the noise of the tin ware and the baubles were making such a disturbing racket that our little cloud head nearly jumped off his seat. He then settled down and watched quite amused when he saw the pile of rags walking toward his home.
"Hullo there, nice day for a walk isn't it?" our relaxed little gnome said in the most polite way he could, for the raggedy little scarecrow was quite a comical sight. The thin little artist looked up, and then, as if a bee had stung him, he dashed to the end of the homeowner's stone path and held out his arm.
"Wait don't move!" he suddenly said. With surprising quickness he unslung his pack and, as if by magic, pulled out a small easel, pallet, parchment, and paints from within the pack. "Don't move, I've been struck with it, stay right were you are." The artist said half to himself and half to the bewildered gnome on the patio.
"Well I don't intend to, especially if you wish to paint me, however I would like to know the name of the artist who wishes to do so."
"Frudey's the name, and I, too, would like to know the name of my model," the artist said, hurriedly mixing paints, and beginning to paint as he talked.
"Pard, Pard Pipren, and I must say I have never been painted before, would you like me to pose or something?"
"No no, not at all dear sir not at all, just stay right where you are and try not to move."
"That I will do," said Pard relaxing, and taking a puff from his pipe. For a few minutes there was silence except for the chirping of the birds and the slight shuffling of Frudey's feet as he painted.
"So are you from these parts?" Pard said, although he rather doubted it considering the young gnome boy's clothes, and his full pack.
"No actually, I lived a league beyond the water."
"Lived, why do you say that, don't you live there any more?"
"Well its slightly complicated, but to put it bluntly I sold my house, and took on the life of a bard."
Pard was quite confused. Bards were traveling artist/musicians, but usually they were homeless. Yet this young boy claimed that he had sold his home voluntarily and taken up the life of a wanderer. Pard wished to know more about this strange choice of lifestyle, but he decided he would ask later, considering the boy was busy and that he might be a little touchy about it.
"Well then, may I be so inclined to invite you as a guest for supper young master Frudey?" Pard said, for it was a custom among gnomes to invite bards into their houses for food. The life of a wandering artist could be very difficult, and hungry. But of course he asked permission, for it was also a custom to not offer them food as if they were lazy beggars, for they were certainly not.
"You most certainly are, good sir, " Frudey replied, which was the customary answer of acceptance. ("You most certainly are not, good sir, but thank you" being the customary answer of decline.)
And so Frudey plied his brushes. Pard guessed he was a lad, considering his size, and the height of his voice, which still had a few more notes to drop.
Half an hour later, and after much chin stroking, brush waggling, and eyebrow raising, Frudey deftly nodded his head.
"Done," he said in a satisfied voice.
"Oh so soon, well may I see it?" Pard inquired. He arose, and started toward the path, and the artist's easel.
"Well of course. It's your painting."
"I beg your pardon?" Pard said, stopping in the middle of his path.
"Well you're in the painting, your hole is in the painting-" ("hole" being the common gnome term for the type of dwelling that the model, Pard, resided in.) "-And besides I could never be able to carry this painting around without damaging it, or having it ruined by weather, dirt, or stolen by bandits."
Pard was quite shocked by this sudden use of words, but he saw the sense in them and hummed in agreement. Frudey stepped aside to allow Pard to view the finished work at a better angle, and as soon as he laid eyes on it, the painting amazed Pard.
The painting included the hole, the hill upon which it stood, and the patio, and Pard sitting under his patio roof. However, he was not the center of the painting, and even he did not stare at his body in the painting very long, even though his clothes, and the hookah where done very well. The detail was marvelous, from the blooming berry vines growing on the entrance of his abode , to the well cut grass of the hill, and the gray cobblestones of the footpath. On top of that, Pard could see a small puff of white smoke near the patio which he recognized as smoke that he had puffed from his hookah all of it done in swirling bright watercolor. In the right lower corner of the painting Pard spotted the initials F.B.
"Marvelous, absolutely marvelous." Pard said after a minute of silence. "This is very well done, and you did it in such a short time." He said this in an astounded voice, looking at Frudey, who bowed respectfully. Pard added, "-Yet there is one thing I must know. I know what the 'F' stands for but what about the 'B'?"
"That would stand for 'Bartlow', sir."
And so Pard received the painting, and Frudey received supper, and the friendship of a good egg of a gnome. But this was only the beginning for these two. Pard arranged to manage Frudey's enterprises. Through friendship, support, and mostly through Pard's money and popularity (for he had quite a bit of both) Frudey's talent was revealed. Soon many rich individuals and organizations were clamoring to have Frudey paint for them. He painted portraits, cycloramas, and three murals that would make him famous beyond his years. In fact, a building was constructed specifically to house his third and last mural.

Ten years have passed (not so very long in gnome years) since Pard and Frudey first met. Frudey was now on his deathbed inside the hole that was built by the grateful members of the synagogue, in which he had painted his first mural. Frudey was only thirty-four (quite young for a gnome) when he first met Pard, and was now dying a young death; stricken suddenly by disease that was slowly weakening his heart.
By his side was Pard, flecks of gray now mingling with his brown hair, and Frudey's sweetheart Bell, whom he had met while painting her father's portrait, and outside his room his few living relatives, and his friends were weeping for him.
Already Frudey was declared the greatest painter of the decade, if not the century, and a few days later at his funeral Pard gave a most touching speech.
"Frudey, what can I say about Frudey? He was a painter, but more than that, he was a knight of the arts. When I first met him, he said that he had sold his home, and taken the life of a bard as his own. I asked him as we ate our first meal together, and these are my exact words: 'Frudey, I don't want to prod, but why did you leave your house, and take on the life of a Bard?' And Frudey said, in his own words: 'I left so I could paint.' This confused me so I said: 'But you didn't have to leave your house and take on a life full of hardships and uncertainties just to paint?' And to this he replied: 'I became a bard because I was inspired to.'
Pard continued, "The first painting Frudey ever designed was of a road winding away from his house going toward the setting sun, and at that moment, just like the moment he painted me, inspiration seized him and spoke to him as clearly as I am speaking to you. And it said: 'Go out from your house, son of the arts. Travel abroad and whenever you hear me talk to you, paint whatever it is you are looking at right then, and there'."
After this speech there was not a single person at the grave who was not either completely broken down with tears, dumfounded with awe and admiration, or a little bit of both. Pard Pipren retired from the podium that had been set up next to the grave. Everyone who had the strength applauded him, and he hugged Bell, whom he had loved as a daughter, just as he had loved Pard as a son. A few other relatives and friends said a few words, but none of them finished all of what they intended to say. Nobody had the strength to speak.
Shortly after the funeral of Frudey Bartlow, when all his friends and relatives had left, another young artist named Manney Cantor (virtually unknown at the time but who would as well become famous) painted a picture of Frudey's grave midst the setting sun. When he finished, instead of signing it, he wrote these words in the lower right corner:
"His sun has set but somewhere else, for someone else, it is rising."
And at that moment, inspiration seized the young Manney.