Chapter Five #2
Conan reached over to pull a wax tablet out of the small bag he had brought with him.
Mhàiri looked at what he was holding and cackled.
The sound was not a feminine one, and it certainly was not a high-pitched giggle.
Seeing his frustrated look, only made Mhàiri laugh harder.
Gasping for breath, she clutched at her stomach with one hand and his shoulder for support with her other.
He gave her a perturbed look, which did not help.
Her laughter renewed and tears began to fall.
After several deep, calming breaths, she finally got out, “What is that?” while only letting go a few chuckles.
“A wax tablet,” he said impatiently, waving it in his hand for her to see.
“I know that, but what are you doing with it?”
“Well, I’m not going to waste more vellum. The stuff is hard and expensive to make, and I need every scrap of it for my journey. Not all of us have access to a private supply of hemp paper,” he said with a hint of a sneer, using his chin to point at the drawing in her hand.
Mhàiri wiped away her tears, then took the wax tablet out of his hand and put it on the ground. “If that is what you practice drawing on, then no wonder you are having difficulties.”
A wax tablet was a reusable and portable writing surface.
A piece of flat wood was coated with black or green wax that people could use and then erase by heating the wax through vigorous rubbing.
But to make a mark, one had to push hard, and it was impossible to change the direction of a line without lifting the stylus and starting again.
Mhàiri lifted her bag and pulled out a large, flat board.
Stretched across was a rectangular piece of off-white linen cloth.
“This was something my father made for me when I was young and wanted to draw on everything. I did not have access to a private supply of hemp paper then,” she said with a quick wink, “though even if I had, it would have been too expensive on which to practice. And as you made clear, vellum is costly and not easily come by. So, my father made me this to use over and over again,” Mhàiri said, proudly showing it to him.
Conan just stared at it. “Cloth?” The only thing that would mark it was the ink he used on the vellum, which would stain the material. Linen seemed even less practical a medium than wax. “Maybe we should stick to sticks and dirt,” he grumbled.
Undeterred, Mhàiri laid the cloth board in her lap.
She pulled out a small leather bag and then opened it wide.
Inside was a dark, wet substance. “I made this from the ash in my fireplace. You just add a little water until you get the right consistency. Now, you can take your stylus, dip it in, and look.” Mhàiri outlined the petals to a flower in the lower right-hand corner.
“At night, you untie it, wash it, and let it dry. Then you can start all over again the next day.”
Mhàiri beamed him a smile and handed the board to him.
For a second, Conan thought he was going to drown in the crystal-clear pools of her green eyes.
Then he forced himself to look down at the board.
He studied it with renewed appreciation.
Bonny had been right. He had already forgotten her reminder that he knew nothing about drawing.
Conan picked up the stylus and looked at Mhàiri.
Her excitement ran through him, and he told himself to focus on what she was about to show him.
If Mhàiri really could teach him even some of the fundamentals of her style of drawing, it could revolutionize his approach to making maps.
They would be more detailed, more readable, and most importantly, more usable than he had ever imagined.
“So where do we begin?”
“We begin with perspective. First, look and study our view. Do you see the tree right in front of us and the snow-topped mountain beyond the loch?” Conan nodded. “Now I want you to draw them on this corner. Just like you see them.”
Conan did so, and when finished, he was both pleased and frustrated with his work. He thought all three well done considering he was not an artist, but they were nothing like Mhàiri’s.
“Each is good, but I did not ask you to draw me a tree and a mountain. I asked you to draw me what you see. You made the mountain as big as the tree.”
Seeing his mistake, Conan grunted and tried again.
“Interesting,” Mhàiri hummed. “It must look different from where you sit because your mountain is bigger than the tree,” Mhàiri said.
“But it is,” Conan argued.
“A mountain may be larger than a tree in life, but I asked you to draw me what you see.” Mhàiri then showed him what she had drawn. “When I look out, the tree is really close. I see so much more of it than I do the mountain. It is actually bigger because of my perspective.”
Conan studied her drawing and then looked back up. The tree was bigger than the mountain. It was even bigger than the loch and the forest beyond, and he said so.
“That’s right! That is the first thing you need to understand about perspective.
It is not about how things actually are, but how they are perceived.
To truly provide an understanding of something through a drawing, one should consider the object’s size and position in relation to others from a particular point.
You still can tell my mountain is larger in life than this tree, but because it is smaller, you also know how far it is from the tree. ”
Conan twisted his lips. “It seems so simple an idea. I don’t think I have ever felt more like an idiot.”
Mhàiri jerked back her chin. “Why? Every picture I have ever seen is depicted like what you first drew. Visual depth is never depicted.” She pointed to the canvas.
“Now it’s time for you to practice and really start to feel like an idiot.
Because nothing is more frustrating to me than knowing what I want to do but not having the skills to do it.
” Mhàiri reached into her bag and pulled out three more canvas boards.
“For you. When you fill that one, go to these. Just note that you will have to disassemble them and get one of the chambermaids to wash the cloths tonight so that they will be dry tomorrow.”
“You and I are coming back out tomorrow?”
Mhàiri held his gaze. “You think by the end of the day you will be proficient at drawing?”
He scoffed. “Hardly.”
“Then, aye, we should plan to meet each afternoon we can until it turns too cold.”
Afraid that his voice would show his happiness at the suggestion, Conan said nothing but instead picked up his stylus and began sketching the view.
After what felt like only a handful of minutes, Mhàiri stretched her arms and then arched her back.
She then pushed herself up to her feet and looked down where he stared up at her with a puzzled expression.
“I think I’m done for the day, so I’m going to head back to the castle. But don’t let my absence stop you.”
Conan blinked and looked around. The sun had sunk low and was nearing the horizon. The fourth canvas board was in his hands, half full of marginal sketches and the other three were next to him full of ashy markings. He could not believe it. They had been drawing for hours.
When Conan had first sat down, he had thought it was going to be impossible to focus on anything with Mhàiri nearby.
Every time the wind caught her hair, a piece would drift over his arm, teasing him.
And her wildflower scent wreaked havoc with his ability to focus on anything but her.
Knowing this, he had planned to convince her to put her own drawing aside and entertain his first notion of thanking him by means of a kiss.
But that had not happened. What had was akin to a miracle—at least for him.
Never had he been able to work with a pretty woman nearby.
Usually, he found the sound of their constant jabbering annoying, but even the silent ones affected his ability to focus, for invariably his mind drifted to lustful thoughts.
But, amazingly, he had spent an entire afternoon with Mhàiri and actually worked.
And it was not that he did not desire Mhàiri.
Just thinking of her created waves of lust inside him.
He dreamed about how she would taste and how she would come alive in his arms. He longed to experience her hidden passion exploding in his embrace.
And yet, somehow, he had become completely fixated on learning what she had shown him.
A sense of eagerness engulfed him. It had been a long time since he had felt so impatient, but tomorrow afternoon could not arrive fast enough.
* * *
Four days later, Conan paced by the oak tree waiting for Mhàiri to arrive. He had come early in hopes of releasing some of his tension before they met.
When he was around her, he felt incredibly alive, like anything was possible—even more so than he did when he was engrossed in a new map.
Unfortunately, his mind was not the only thing that was more alive.
Being around her every day was also making it very difficult to keep his desires under control and images of Mhàiri in his arms, passionate and wanting, was invading too many of his thoughts.
He knew if his imagination could be put to rest and he could actually just kiss her, much of his angst would disappear.
Aye, there would probably be an excellent chance he would want another kiss, but he would at least then know, thereby ending his torment.
However, events like that of the previous night did not help.