Wrapped in Color and Light

Chapter 1

Craig Wolff's basement was damp and smelled of mold. It wasn't an ideal environment for artwork, but he had no other choice. Shepherd was safe here, protected from prying eyes. He'd added some dehumidifiers, and he kept the temperature at sixty-five, but still, he worried.

He sat in a corduroy armchair, thumbing through Christie's auction catalogue. After unbuttoning the top of his shirt, he poured some bourbon and took a shot. It burned.

Wincing, he put the catalogue down and stared at the painting. Its title echoed in his ears-Shepherd, Shepherd-stirring a sadness so big that it seeped from his pores.

The painting's pastoral landscape was composed of one hundred different shades of green, each handcrafted on his palette, the wood board becoming its own spring forest. Though painting the shepherd had been a challenge, his cherub face and red tunic pleased Craig. The flute in the shepherd's hands, however, had been easy. Its shape and color had formed organically, and Craig hadn't slept until it was done. In the background stood a princess with long chestnut hair. She cradled a swaddled baby, and when Craig leaned closer, he would swear he'd heard quiet cooing.

Though he'd painted it nearly twenty years ago, before his beard had speckled with gray and his stomach had become round, he could still feel the brush in his hand.

Craig poured another shot, wishing life were written in pencil so that he could return to the day he'd lost everything, erase it, and write it over.

He put the bourbon down and picked up a small book bound in soft leather. The spine had a thick discolored crease, opening naturally to "The Singing Bone." The story, about a brother's deceit and a shepherd who carved a magic flute out of bone, had always been one of Craig's favorites, a story he'd read from the worn anthology dozens of times in his youth. Many years ago, as a young artist, he had felt compelled to paint it, thinking he needed a little magic himself.

Craig read aloud while willing those who lived in the painting to hear, wanting the people of Suntaria to know he was still alive. He didn't need to look at the book, but he cradled it for ritual.

He lingered on the final lines, staring at the princess.

The wicked brother could not deny the deed. He was sewn into a sack and drowned alive. The murdered man's bones were laid to rest in a beautiful grave in the churchyard, and the shepherd was rewarded with the princess's hand.

Craig put the book down and took a swig from the bottle. His head was light, like a balloon, and he floated over to the painting. Despite his hands feeling like dead weight, he placed them upon the painting's wooden frame and closed his eyes. He imagined the walls around him crumbling, leaving him in a grass landscape that shone in red, blue, and orange. Wind chilled his cheek, and as it did, the ground brightened, as though the world laughed in color. In that vision, with Suntaria's rich soil under his feet, he was a shepherd again with his wife-the princess-in one hand and the magic flute in the other.

If only he could go back and tell her that he hadn't chosen to leave, that it was the painting that had stolen him back to New York and held him captive.

His eyes opened, and he was still in his basement, standing on concrete, dampness hanging heavy in the air. Light shone, not from the sun but from a sixty-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling.

Nothing could be heard but his heavy breathing as he stepped away, pretending he'd taken the flute with him. He could feel the instrument in his hands-the polished surface, the tiny misshapen holes-and he took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of buried bone.

There were carvings in the flute, which he could see anytime he closed his eyes. When pointed toward the ground, the flute's smooth surface would display mountains, rivers, and forests, a map if anyone were to ask. When held high, so its beautiful sound echoed into the sky, the carvings would change to the sun, the moon, and the stars.