You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘time travel’ tag.

In this excerpt from my time-travel short story, Mason gets some advice from a famous painter.

Image

Mason spent the night under Botticelli’s roof, along with the apprentices and under-artists who lived there.  He lay awake through the few hours left before dawn, casting about between the wonder of where and when he was, and the heart-bursting delight of meeting Alessa.  

 

In the morning, he was haggard and sore from the hard bed, but eager to prove his worth in the studio of one of his greatest idols.  Sandro lent him the use of his canvas and oils and an easel, and he set to work making paints by hand, in the manner he’d studied at school, and began to paint.  

 

He started with vague shapes and free movements, not quite sure what he was going to paint until Sandro appeared at his shoulder.

 

“She made an impression on you, did she?”

 

Startled, he looked to the artist, then back to his canvas.  He hadn’t realized, but a figure was taking shape there, a dancer, with a smudge of golden hair and a green dress.  

 

He smiled ruefully and nodded.  

 

“Ah, love.”  Sandro sighed and sat on a nearby stool.  “I’d bet you’d give anything to know if you made the same impression on her.”

 

“Is it that obvious?”

 

“I myself am not a stranger to the pangs of love.”  A shadow crossed his expression, a faraway look came into his eyes.

 

Mason held his breath.  Was Sandro speaking of Simonetta Vespucci, the married lady he was rumoured to have loved?  He wanted to ask, but it would have seemed strange for him to know anything about it.

 

He settled for a safer question.  “That sounds like an interesting story.”

 

“A sad tale.  Not one, perhaps, for a man happy in the early days of love.”

 

“I like sad stories.”  

 

Sandro laughed bitterly.  “You wouldn’t like to live in one.”  He seemed to hesitate, as though deciding whether or not to tell.  With a quirk of his lips, he began his tale.  “There is not much of a story.  Everyone knows it, perhaps.  But I loved a lady once.  She was the most beautiful woman who ever lived.”  Mason noticed his eyes wandered to his own half finished painting, lingering on the face of Venus newborn from the sea.  

 

He continued.  “But she could never be mine.  She was married already when I met her, and so I never revealed my heart for her.  But I like to think, to console myself with the thought, that if she had been free, she might have loved me.  I’ll never know.  She died.”

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

The artist looked up and met his eyes.  “As am I.  Sometimes I am sorry I never declared my love for her, even in secret, even knowing nothing could come of it.  But it would have distressed her, I think, and so I’m glad I didn’t.  I’ve never loved another since her, and I don’t think I will as long as I live.  I want to be buried at her feet when I die.”  He glanced out the window, in the direction of the Church of Ognissanti where Simonetta Vespucci was entombed.  Where he would one day be entombed.

 

“You’re right,” Mason said.  “It is a sad story.  And I wish you hadn’t lived it, for your sake.”  He held out a hand to grasp the artist’s shoulder in brotherly solidarity.

 

“I don’t.”  Sandro smiled sadly.  “Whatever cruel hand fate has dealt us, love is still worth the pain.”

 

“’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, eh?”

 

Sandro looked at him oddly.  “An accurate sentiment.  Eloquently put.”

 

“I can’t take credit.  It’s from a poem.”  Mason realized with a twinge that the words were from a poem written nearly four centuries from now, written by a man who had yet to draw his first breath, let alone feel any pain of loss.  He couldn’t get used to that feeling.

 

“I suppose what I want to impress on you, young Mason, is that you do not know if you have tomorrow.  I was not free to confess my love to Simonetta.  But your way is clear with this Alessa.  You should tell her how you feel.”

 

Mason glanced at the vague shape of the dancer on his canvas, drawing in his breath and holding it.  

 

Did he love her?  Could he possibly know after one brief meeting?  

 

With a quickening of his pulse, he admitted such a thing might be possible.  But there was only one way to find out.  He must speak with her again.  And soon.

 

After all, it was a miracle he’d ended up in the Renaissance in the first place.  He had no guarantee how long this supernatural glitch would give him.  

 

It was more than a mystery now, more than tracking down La Bella Ragazza.  Now that he’d found her, the draw of her was so much more than a beautiful painting.  

 

He let out his breath, slumping his shoulders slightly.  

 

Sandro clapped him on the back.  “Go to her!  No one would fault you for it.”

 

Mason glanced back at the master for confirmation.  But he didn’t need to be told twice.  

 

With a grin, he unrolled the sleeves of his chemise and rescued his borrowed doublet from the corner of the workshop.  Sandro tossed him a hat.  

 

“Go and get her,” the artist said. 

 

Image

As always, please feel free to let me know your honest opinion.  🙂

Advertisements

In this excerpt from my work in progress, a time travel story set in Renaissance Florence, Alessa has just met Mason, and has seen a portrait of herself that has yet to be painted.

Image

Alessa couldn’t feel as sorry as she ought.  Oh, Matteo was trying as hard as possible to make her feel sorry, appealing to her sense of family honour, of filial duty, of love for him and for Grandfather.  But he couldn’t make her sorry.  Wretched, yes, but not sorry.

 

She endured his lectures all the way home, glad at least of his company and the safety of the carriage on the dark road even if her magical evening had ended so abruptly.  

 

“What have you to say for yourself?” He pinned her with a stern look so like Grandfather’s that she drew away, eyes wide.  

 

He softened then and held out a hand.  “I’m sorry, Alessa.  I know how you feel about things.  It was a cruel accident of birth made you a girl, otherwise you would have had the same freedoms—and responsibilities—as I do.”  

 

She took his hand in forgiveness.  “I don’t regret begin born a girl, Matteo.  I rather like being a girl.”

 

He looked at her skeptically.  “In any case, what is cannot be changed.  You are a girl, not a boy, and you have the family you have.  You simply can’t go flitting off into the night alone like some serving wench to dally with strange men.  What might have happened had I not found you when I did, I don’t want to imagine.”  He shuddered at some horror involuntarily brought to mind.  

 

Alessa scoffed.  “Nothing happened, or would have.  Mason is nothing like that.”

 

“How do you know?  Do you know anything about him?  None of my acquaintances have met him before tonight.  Do you know he appeared in Florence wearing the most outlandish garments this morning?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What?”  Matteo stared at her.  “How did you know?”

 

Alessa realized her mistake and blushed, though he couldn’t see it in the dark.  “I heard.  I also heard he was in the company of the artist, Botticelli.  Doesn’t that vouchsafe his character?”

 

Matteo shook his head.  “The word of an artist?  You are sheltered, my dear sister.  Things may not be as bad as Grandfather says, but the art community is not the picture of moral uprightness, either.”

 

She shook her head and looked out the window, frosting the darkness outside with her breath.  But Matteo’s seed of doubt had taken root inside her heart and was sending down roots into the hidden places.  

 

What did she really know about the stranger?  The more she thought about him, the more mysterious he seemed.  He had been seeking her, just as she had been seeking him.  And he had a portrait of her—a portrait that as far as she knew never should have existed.

 

Memory of the painting sent a chill through her, not entirely unpleasant.  It was undoubtedly her.  Not just the face and the hair, but the dress.  That was the strangest part.  She had altered this dress only today, but the mysterious painter had captured every detail to perfection.  It couldn’t be possible, but that painting had to have been made only today.

 

Besides that, there was the state of her in the picture—her hair unbound and flowing around her shoulders, just as she’d imagined earlier today, her dress unlaced and half-open at the neck, the deep flush of her cheeks and the knowing smile in her eyes …

 

Alessa blushed deeply even now, thinking about someone painting her like that, seeing her like that.  It just wasn’t seemly.  But at the same time, she wanted to know what would make her look at someone like that.  It was a look she’d never given anyone before, she was sure of it.

 

“What are we going to do with you?” Matteo said with a sigh, startling her out of her strange thoughts.

 

“Oh, please!” She placed an appealing hand on his arm.  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

 

He gazed at her for a long moment, appraisingly, then sighed again.  “I couldn’t.  It would break Grandfather’s heart, for one.  And yours.  For all your foolishness, I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone.  I’ll have to swear the groom to secrecy, as well, you realize.”

 

“Yes.  Thank you.”  Alessa lowered her eyes, miserable at having caused this trouble.

 

“But you’ll have to promise not to do this again.”

 

Her eyes snapped back to his, wide.  How could she promise such a thing, after the night she’d had?  It would be tantamount to vowing never to see Mason again, never to be free again, and though she wanted to do the right thing, her mouth wouldn’t let her say the words.  “I can’t.”  Her voice broke.  “God help me, Matteo, I can’t.”

 

At first he frowned.  She could see the outlines of his features, mask-like in the dim wash of the carriage lantern.  But then he softened, resigned.  “I doubt anything would stop you.  Nor me, if I was in your plight.”

 

She watched him, eyes wide as though she might miss something.  

 

“Alright.  Promise me, then, sister—don’t do this without me again.”

 

She inhaled deeply, unaware till now that she’d been holding her breath.  “I can promise that, at least.  Oh, thank you, Matteo!”  She threw herself on him, holding him tight. 

 

As always, please share your honest opinion.  🙂

In this latest excerpt from my Renaissance time travel story, the hero meets a hero of his own, the artist Botticelli.  Please feel free to share any feedback, as honest as possible.  🙂

Image

Mason recognized Sandro Botticelli easily from his self portrait, picking him out from his apprentices at once. A man of around forty, with a mop of greying brown curls, wide-spaced grey eyes, bowed lips and prominent cleft chin, he couldn’t have been anyone else. Besides that, he looked up at his entrance from a large canvas, paintbrush in hand.

“This is a private studio, signore,” he said mildly, continuing with his art. Aside from a quick glance, his students continued with their work, ignoring the newcomer.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Signore Botticelli. It’s just that Bertoldo di Giovanni thought you might be able to help me with a mystery.”

He raised his eyebrows and took another look at Mason, weighting him with his cool grey gaze.

“What is this mystery.”

“A painting. Bertoldo thought it showed some similarity to your work.”

Botticelli put down his paintbrush and walked over, peering at the phone Mason held out. He frowned.

“That is unlike any other painting I’ve seen. What is this type of wood?” He reached out for the phone as if to touch it, but Mason pocketed it quickly, before the touch of the artist’s finger could change the screen.

“Do you know the artist?”

Botticelli shook his head. “It’s not mine, nor any artist I know.”

Mason sighed. That was that, then. It was unlikely he’d track down the artist now. But then another thought occurred to him.

“Do you perhaps know the model?”

The artist thought for a moment, then shook his head. “She does not look familiar.”

Mason must have looked crestfallen, for Botticelli’s face softened.

“Are you an artist, yourself?”

Mason nodded.

The painter seemed to weigh his thoughts. Then he beckoned Mason around to see the front of his canvas. “Come. Tell me what you think.”

As Mason stepped around the enormous canvas—which was nearly as tall as he was, and half again as wide—he caught his breath in awed recognition.

He would know this painting anywhere. It was more familiar to him than his own reflection, as much as he had stared at it. He knew every brushstroke, both the ones already on the canvas, and the ones still to be painted.

“The birth of Venus,” he whispered.

“You know it?” Botticelli was pleased. “I didn’t think I’d painted enough yet to identify the subject.”

“A guess. I can see the sea shell here.” He held out a finger but carefully did not touch the canvas. “Venus was born full-grown from the sea, was she not?”

“Indeed she was.” He gazed at the contrapposto figure, only just sketched out in plain tones awaiting contours. Something in his eyes reminded Mason of the way he looked at La Bella Ragazza.

There was a theory that the model for The Birth of Venus was a noblewoman Botticelli knew, Simonetta Vespucci. More so, that he was in love with her. He had asked—or rather, one day would ask—to be buried at her feet.

The art scholar in Mason burned to know if this was true, especially watching the light in the older man’s eyes as he studied his painting, but he knew enough not to ask. Instead, he too gazed at the painting, into the hazy eyes of Venus, the likeness of a woman now dead for a decade.

And suddenly Mason answered one question in the sea of mystery in which he foundered. If Sandro Botticelli was just now painting The Birth of Venus, then the year was between 1484 and 1486.

He breathed a heavy sigh, as though he’d been drowning, and this one nugget of truth had given him a gasp of air.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you,” Botticelli said, genuine apology written on his face.

Mason shrugged. “It was a long shot.”

The artist smiled, chewing on his lip for a moment in thought. “I probably shouldn’t do this, but …” Then he stepped closer, so his apprentices couldn’t hear.

Intrigued, Mason leaned in to listen.

“My patron, Lorenzo il Magnifico de Medici is hosting a masquerade ball tonight. I would like to bring you as a guest. If you are to discover anything about your mystery painting, it will be there. Besides, I have a suspicion that he would be most fascinated by you, and Lorenzo loves to be fascinated.”

Mason’s eyes widened. “I would be honoured, Signore.”

Botticelli shook his head dismissively. “It’s nothing. But just understand that my reputation is at stake.”

“Of course.”

“And so I must insist on one thing.”

Mason looked at him in question. But instead of answering, the artist called one of his apprentices, a young boy of about twelve who was grinding pigment in a mortar, to come over. Obediently, the boy trotted to his master’s side.

“Take this man to my tailor, and tell him Sandro sent him.”

Mason remembered his modern attire with a start and laughed at the dubious expression on Botticelli’s face.

“They must dress very differently where you come from.”

“Indeed, they do,” Mason replied. If you think the men dress differently, he thought, you should see the women.

 

Image

Here’s a new excerpt from my time travel story set in Renaissance Florence.  Hope you like it! 🙂  Please feel free to comment and critique.  

Image

 

Mason stepped into the garden, feeling as though he’d just entered Eden.  Birdsong and the trickle of fountains mixed with the sough of the wind through a million leaves.  The garden opened out into a vista of orderly trimmed hedges and a riot of flowers, each spilling their perfume into the sun-warm air.  

And everywhere he looked Mason saw statues.  

Pale and gleaming against the glossy green foliage they stood, silent witnesses to his trespass.  Priceless artifacts, rare and beautiful, most of them lost forever in his own time.  It was a curator’s heaven.

As he trod through this paradise, the sounds of occupation rose from the row of cypress that the guard had mentioned.  Here was the greatest concentration of statues—ancient ones, even at this time—and beneath them, a collection of artists working at sculpting and painting.  

Mason scanned them eagerly for a familiar face, but he knew none of these.  They were mostly youths.  Even from here he could tell they were none of them masters.  At least, not yet.  An older man strode between them, hands clasped behind his back, leaning over them in the unmistakeable stance of a teacher.

Recalling something from his histories, Mason took a risk and approached the teacher.  “Signore Bertoldo di Giovanni?”

“Si,” the man said, looking Mason up and down with a frown.  “Do I know you?”

Mason shook his head.  “No.  But I know you.  Your name precedes you as a great teacher of artists.”

Bertoldo raised his eyebrows at this, but remained aloof.  

“I am a travelling artist and I seek a particular painter.  The one who painted this.”  He took out his phone again and showed it to the teacher.  Bertoldo’s reaction was much like the guard’s, though he showed a keen professional interest after his initial surprise.

“It’s very good.  Reminds me a bit of Botticelli.”

“I thought so, too.”

He grunted in surprise.  “You know his work?” 

“Some,” Mason replied.  How about intimately, he thought.  “Do you think it might be his?”  Mason held his breath.  A lost Botticelli would be a career-making find.  That is, if he ever found his way back home.

But Bertoldo shook his head.  “Not his.  But someone who studied under him, perhaps.”

“Would you know where I could find him?”

Bertoldo shook away his fascination and narrowed his eyes in renewed suspicion.  “Where did you say you came from?”

“I didn’t.  Please excuse my poor manners.  I come from . . .”  He thought quickly.  He couldn’t say America.  That didn’t exist yet, as far as these people knew.  “The countryside outside Milan.”

It was true, strictly speaking.  His family did hail from that area, a century ago at least.  Or perhaps even now his early ancestors lived under the Caro name.  That was a thought.

Bertoldo gave a nod.  “Signore Da Vinci is there right now.”

“Really?  A shame I’ve missed him.”  That was a helpful bit of information.  It narrowed down the possible window he’d landed in.  Leonardo spent several years in Milan, but all between 1482 and 1499.  So somewhere in the eighties or nineties then.  The golden age.  Leonardo wasn’t here, but based on history others were, such as Botticelli, Girlandaio, and Perugino.  Even a young . . .

“Michelangelo, can’t you see I’m busy?”

Mason turned abruptly to see a young boy of ten approaching the master, a chisel and mallet in each hand.  His jaw dropped, but his surprise went unheeded by both teacher and pupil.  

“I’m sorry, Signore, but I need some help with the horns.”

Bertoldo excused himself and went over to where the youth was working on a block of half-formed marble.  Even at such a tender age, even in the crude first cuts of a sculpture, the mark of a master was evident.  Bertoldo jabbed a finger at a certain point and said something to the boy then stood back, arms folded to watch.  He nodded and smiled, then came back over to Mason.

“Young Buonarroti.  He shows a great deal of promise.”

I’d say so, Mason thought.  He watched the boy work, his dark curls close-cropped over a high brow, sensitive, wide-set eyes, long nose, small delicately-shaped lips and pointed chin—a face not unlike his own sculpture of David.  He allowed himself an indulgent smile.  Now I get to say I knew him when.

“You asked about Botticelli?” Bertoldo recalled him to his mission.  

“Yes.”

“He has his own studio.  I can send a guide with you.”

“No need.  I know the city.”

Bertoldo gave him the address and Mason thanked him.  

“You are welcome in the garden any time,” the gruff master said.  “I would like to see some of your own work one day.”

“Thank you.  I’d like that very much.”

Still buzzed from meeting one of his idols as a child, Mason left the garden and went out to find another.

 

Image

Here’s something I just hammered out for a potential story.  I’m planning on making it a time travel.  Please let me know what you think!  🙂

Image

Love at first sight always seemed a ridiculous concept to Mason Caro—till it happened to him.

Well, maybe it was still rather ridiculous, he amended, tilting his head to examine the painting from a different angle.  After all, the woman in question had been dead for five centuries.  

“This is really quite special.”  His voice, though hushed, echoed in the vaulted rafters of his studio in the Uffizi Gallery.  His eyes traced the brushstrokes with tender reverence, lingering over the exquisite shape of the woman’s small mouth, the haunting luminescence of her dark eyes.

“I thought you’d be excited about it.”  His colleague, Piero, moved in closer.  “What can you tell?”

Mason shook his head.  “Not a heck of a lot.  There’s no signature.  Even the subject is unnamed.  I don’t recognize the style.  I mean, it’s got a lot in common with other Renaissance painters around the turn of the 16th century—see the brushstrokes here?  I can’t tell for sure until we run some conclusive tests, but as for a preliminary guess?  I’d say this is the real thing.”

Piero broke out into a broad grin.  “I thought so.”

Mason couldn’t take his eyes from the woman in the portrait.  “Where did we get this?”  

“Some wealthy recluse just died.  Left it to the museum.”

“That’s amazing.  I mean, aside from a little damage in the lower corner, which I can fix no problem, it’s in perfect condition.  This kind of thing is unheard of.”

“So you don’t think it belongs to one of the known painters?”

“No.”  Mason raised a tentative finger to hover just over the woman’s chin.  “See here?  It’s a technique I’ve never seen in a Renaissance painting before.  I’d almost say it was a modern addition.”

Piero’s face fell.  “Then you think it’s a fake?”

Mason shook his head impatiently.  “No I told you.  It’s the real thing.  Bet you anything it’ll be dated in the 1480s.  I might have taken it for a Botticelli, but for that.”  He circled his finger around the odd bit.  “You see the same thing here and here.  But it was done at the same time as the rest of the painting, with the same paint.”

“You think we’ve found a new master?”

“Too early to say.”  Mason frowned, musing over the puzzle.  But the mystery woman’s eyes captured his attention.  It almost seemed as though she was looking at him across the ages, a sidelong glance through dark lashes and the veils of time.

“What about the girl?”

“Hmm?” He broke away from his reverie with a start.  “Oh.  I don’t know.  I’ve already cross-referenced the face with all the known portraits of the time.  This is someone new.  Judging by the quality of her clothing and the jewels, I’d guess she’s the wife or daughter of some kind of VIP—someone rich enough to commission the portrait.  It’s unusual for a portrait, though.  Usually we see formal portraits with the women modestly dressed, and this kind of dishabille is reserved for mythological works or studies.  But she’s clearly wearing contemporary garments, so we know she’s not meant to be Venus or the Virgin Mary.  Yet the hair down and unveiled, the, um . . .”  He circled his finger again, encompassing the open, unlaced neckline that revealed the delicate swell of her flesh.  

Piero laughed.  “In love, are we?”

Put like that, it did sound ridiculous.  Mason snorted.  “Yes,” he said sarcastically.  “Just waiting for you to go away so we can be alone together.”

Piero shook his head and turned away.  “Just tell me what you find out,” he called back over his shoulder.

Silence settled over the studio.  The Tuscan sunshine streamed in through the large windows, catching intricate swirls of dust motes.  But the painting sat in shadow, away from the damaging reach of ultraviolet light.  Mason leaned close, tilting the special light to better illuminate the work—close enough to smell the slightly rancid tang of very old oil paint.  

“Who are you?” he asked the woman.

She stared back at him, eyes large and innocent, hinting at depths of mystery he could not begin to plumb.  

With a sigh, he bent to his examination.  “Sorry about this.”  He picked up a probe and very gently flaked some of the paint from the edge of the canvas into a petrie dish.  “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

He was talking to her now.  Shaking his head, he ignored the limpid gaze that watched him work, and forced his mind on the task at hand.

“She’s just a painting,” he muttered.  

But his eyes involuntarily lifted to meet hers again, and he had the distinct impression that she was more—so much more than just a painting.