The old man's brush moved slowly across the canvas. Life began to infuse Jerin's face. The curve of his cheeks, the shading on his forehead, the outline of his jawline grew ever more distinct.
"It seems the painting will take time to complete."
The old man spoke to the one before him, his eyes fixed on the canvas, moving only his lips as the tip of his brush glided over the surface.
"That is fine. I will wait as long as needed."
Jerin replied. His voice still trembled, though it had steadied somewhat from before.
"We shall stop here for today. Once the pigments dry, I must layer more. Come back in a few days. At least three or four mornings hence would be best. When the sunlight falls at a similar angle."
"I understand. I shall come early in the morning."
The old man rinsed his brush in water. The red pigment spread through the liquid.
"Return home for now. You seem in need of rest."
Jerin rose from his seat. He left the window and approached the old man. He bowed his head in greeting.
"Today... I am grateful you allowed me in."
"Nay, I did nothing."
The old man said.
"You listened to my tale, sir. That alone is enough."
Jerin spoke. His eyes were still rimmed with red, yet his expression appeared a touch more at ease.
Jerin walked toward the door. He fastened the buttons of his worn brown overcoat.
The old man followed him to the door.
"We shall meet again."
"Aye, until then... farewell."
Jerin answered and opened the door, stepping out. A chill wind brushed his face. He bowed his head once more in farewell and walked away slowly.
The old man watched his retreating figure until it turned the corner of the alley and vanished.
He closed the door. He returned to the painting. Jerin's face remained on the canvas, half-finished.
The old man gazed at it for a long while.
It was a young face. A face etched with the weariness of a hard life.
*****
Several days later, at dawn as the sun just began to rise, Jerin knocked on the door again. The old man opened it to find Jerin standing there. His countenance seemed somewhat improved from before.
"You have come."
The old man said.
"Aye. The days have grown even colder in the interim."
Jerin entered. He stepped into the room and went to the same spot by the window, taking his seat.
"Good. Sit in the same pose as before."
Jerin turned his head slightly to the left and lifted his chin a little.
The old man observed and nodded.
He stood before the painting. The undercoat from before had dried well. He took out a new brush and began mixing pigments. It was a finer brush for more delicate work.
He began on the eyes. Filling the pupils with deep brown, warmth gradually seeped in. Adding a small point of light brought vitality to the gaze. He cast a subtle shadow beneath the eyelids and drew in the lashes, one by one.
"Is it not difficult to remain still?"
The old man asked Jerin.
"It is bearable."
Jerin replied.
"Speaking may ease it somewhat. Last time... it was only burdensome tales. Today, perhaps other stories?"
Jerin pondered for a moment.
"Other stories... I am unsure what to tell."
"What of the things you have seen while gathering herbs? In the woods, in the fields."
Jerin's expression softened a little.
"The woods... are beautiful. Especially when entered at early morn, with mist rising among the trees—that sight is truly pleasing."
"Indeed it must be."
The old man said as he moved his brush.
"In spring, wildflowers bloom in abundance. Small blossoms whose names I know not, scattered throughout the woods. Even while seeking herbs, I pause at such flowers."
A quiet serenity settled in Jerin's voice.
"In summer, butterflies are plentiful. Ones with white wings dotted small, vivid yellow ones, those with blue shading darkly along the edges of their wings. Watching them flit from flower to flower, time slips away unnoticed."
The old man refined the shape of the nose, then added a brighter light to the bridge. He deepened the shadow beneath the nostrils and calmly drew the line of the philtrum below.
"In autumn, fallen leaves pile up. Each step brings a rustling sound, and I find that noise agreeable. The air is clear and cool, making it a fine season for long walks."
"And winter?"
The old man inquired.
"Winter... is silent. On days when snow falls, all sounds seem to vanish into stillness. While searching for herbs in that quiet, at times I feel as though I am the only one left in the world."
Jerin's voice lowered slightly.
"Yet that silence is not altogether ill. Rather, it can bring peace to the heart."
The old man painted the lips. He defined the boundary between upper and lower. He captured the subtle curve at the corners.
Time passed. The sun climbed higher bit by bit. The angle of light entering through the window shifted gradually.
"Let us pause for a moment."
The old man said.
Jerin relaxed his posture. He turned his head, moving his neck side to side. He rotated his shoulders.
"Would you care for water?"
"I am fine."
"Drink. Your throat must be dry."
The old man fetched a water jug and poured into a cup. He handed it to Jerin.
"The painting... how far has it come?"
Jerin asked cautiously.
"About halfway. I believe we can finish today."
"Is that so."
Jerin finished the water and returned the cup to the old man.
"Let us resume."
The old man said.
Jerin returned to the window seat. The old man took up his brush.
He refined the hair next. The forelocks covering the brow, strands brushing the ears, the gentle flow down the nape—his brush traversed the canvas many times along the texture. He layered light and shadow on each strand, shaping form and flow.
Then he built up the base for the overcoat, pressing in the texture. The worn brown spread, and the frayed cuffs, patched fabric, the marks of mending upon them gradually emerged. He darkened the wrinkled folds deeper, brightened the creased surfaces slightly, to evoke the weight of the garment.
Finally, he colored the hands. The roughened skin, faint scars on the backs, dirt beneath the nails, calluses embedded in the palms—he captured each in pigment. Those hands were not mere forms, but steeped in the years of endured life.
The sun reached its zenith in the sky. The light grew stronger.
"It is nearly done."
The old man said.
He made the final touches. He adjusted the subtle shading on the face. He darkened areas too bright and lightened those too dim. He balanced the whole of the painting.
And lastly, he touched the eyes once more. He sought to instill something deep within the pupils. Sorrow, solitude, and yet the will to endure. All of it, in a small stroke.
"It is finished."
The old man said, setting down his brush.
Jerin rose and walked slowly to the canvas. He stood before it.
There he was in the painting. His own form seated by the window. Sunlight illuminated one side of his face, clad in the worn brown overcoat. His eyes gazed somewhere. Far away, or deep within.
Jerin stared at the painting for a long time. He said nothing. He merely looked.
"Does it please you?"
The old man asked.
"Aye..."
Jerin's voice trembled.
"This... is me."
Tears welled in Jerin's eyes again. But this time, they did not fall. He held them back as he gazed at the painting.
"Now, someone will know that I was here."
"Indeed."
The old man nodded.
"This painting shall endure long."
Jerin nodded slowly. Then he bowed deeply at the waist to the old man.
"I thank you. Truly, I thank you."
"It is well."
The old man said.
Jerin untied the pouch at his waist. From within, he drew a small bag of silver coins and offered it to the old man.
"Payment for the painting."
The old man accepted the silver.
"My thanks. Return in a few days once it has dried, and take it then."
Jerin bowed once more and walked to the door. He donned his shoes and fastened his overcoat.
The old man opened the door for him.
"Fare well."
"Be at peace."
Jerin stepped out. The chill winter air brushed his face. He turned back once more. The old man stood at the threshold, watching him. Jerin bowed his head in final farewell and walked down the alley.
The old man remained until Jerin's figure had wholly disappeared. Then he slowly closed the door.
He approached the painting again and carefully lifted it to check the back.
He took a small brush and inscribed tiny letters in the lower corner.
'The Herb Forager of Froikton, Jerin Hoffer'
*****
Years passed.
The Esteta kingdom faded into history. Dynasties changed, borders shifted, and the names of several cities altered.
The name Froikton no longer appeared on maps.
People were born and died. Buildings were torn down and rebuilt. Roads changed, squares transformed, and walls crumbled.
But the painting remained.
The portrait of Jerin Hoffer, painted by the old man, passed through many hands.
At first, it was given to Jerin Hoffer himself, but after time had flowed, those sorting heirlooms in some household discovered the portrait. It soon became known among people as the work of the painter, drawing attention for its masterful skill in portraiture.
The painting entered the possession of a noble. The noble hung it in his manor. Decades later, when the noble's house fell, the painting went to auction.
A merchant bought it.
The merchant carried it to another city. There it was sold again. Thus the painting wandered through various towns. At times it graced the walls of wealthy homes, at others it lay neglected in storehouses.
After even longer years, a collector found it. In the corner of an ancient art shop, covered in dust.
Brushing away the dust revealed the face of a young man.
The collector examined the inscription on the back. 'The Herb Forager of Froikton, Jerin Hoffer' it read. The painter's signature was there as well. The collector nodded.
The painting was moved to a museum. It hung on the wall of an exhibition room dedicated to paintings from the old kingdom. Lights illuminated it. Jerin Hoffer's face received light once more.
People paused before it, one by one. They gazed at the painting briefly, then shifted their eyes to the plaque beside it.
By Grünewald, created in the era of the Esteta kingdom
In the painting, the young man sat by the window. He wore a worn brown overcoat, with light shining on one side of his face. His eyes were deep, his expression serene. His hands were rough, his shoulders slightly slumped.
People looked at the painting and wondered. Who was this man? What life did he lead? What thoughts occupied him as he sat thus?
Some lingered long before it. They peered into the young man's eyes. They sensed something within them. Sorrow, solitude, and the will to live on despite it all.
A woman stood before the painting. She copied it, sketching the outlines with pencil, balancing the proportions of the face, drawing in the eyes, nose, mouth.
An old man stood before it. He gazed long. Then he nodded quietly.
A man stood before it. A man who appeared of similar age to Jerin Hoffer. He stared at the painting for a while, then slowly bowed his head.
More time flowed. Decades passed, a century, then two.
The painting still hung in the museum. People still stood before it. They beheld Jerin Hoffer's face.
The Esteta kingdom now existed only in history books. The city name Froikton was forgotten. The people who lived there, the buildings that stood, the paths that crossed it—all vanished.
But Jerin Hoffer remained.
His face lived on the canvas. His eyes still gazed somewhere. His hands remained rough, his overcoat still worn.
He was remembered.
Even after hundreds of years, he was remembered.
By so very many people.
As he had wished.