Read Online Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) by S.J. Madill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: S.J. Madill
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thunderous beat drowning out the thoughts in Elan's head. All he heard was the beat, all he thought of was the melody. He wondered if he could use its mind-blanking sound as a focus, something to empty his mind and help him to meditate. He focused on it, allowing the music's repetitive din to beat its way into his head.
Heather's back was to him, and she returned to stand in front of her canvas. She took a step away from it, her feet surrounded by the pots of paint. Letting her arms go limp at her sides, she began to rock her head back and forth. Elan saw the fingers on her left hand begin to move, twitching gently in time with the pounding rhythm.
At her feet were the pots of paint, each with a brush standing upright. Elan watched Heather's head turn down to study the paints at her feet, then back up at the canvas, then back down again. All the while, her left hand continued to move, fingers opening and closing and making small circles with the beat.
When she began to move, it was with surprising speed. A brief bending of the knees, and Heather scooped up one of the brushes, swinging it at the canvas like the slashing of a blade. A streak of blue erupted across the canvas and onto the wall. With a backhanded swing, a second line of blue burst onto the white background, a staccato trail of droplets pattering across the wall and around the back of the room. Elan blinked as a drop hit him on the face, but he said nothing.
Dropping the blue brush towards its pot, Heather swept up another brush before the first had landed. With each new thump of the music, more lines flashed across the canvas, each brought to life by a swing of her arm, as her body moved in time. Elan remained quiet, his thoughts blotted out by the noise, his mind focused on the dance and the spattering paint.
* * *
He wasn't sure how long it had been — Elan couldn't see any terminals from where he sat — but Heather had begun to slow. Her arms were moving more sluggishly, and when he caught a glimpse of her face it was flushed red and shining with perspiration.
Taking a step back to her desk, she tapped something on the console, giving it another swipe of her finger. The music slowed down, becoming quieter. The thundering rhythm gave way to calmer, more complicated instrumental music. Elan felt his heart rate begin to slow, as Heather stepped in front of the canvas, her hands on her hips. Past her he saw the canvas, and the hundreds of scattered lines of different colours that criss-crossed it, each stroke bold and abrupt, like an angry shout. And in front of the canvas stood its creator, deflated, as if she had transferred her energy to the canvas and the walls of the room.
"Huh," said Heather, breaking her silence. She stepped closer to the image on the wall, stooping to pick up one of her brushes. With gentle care, she pulled it across part of the canvas. A delicate, deliberate curve of blue that crossed several of the angry streaks. She drew another line, pulling the brush in a tight curve between red and green slashes.
As she continued, Elan concentrated on the image taking form in front of him. With more blue curves carefully added, he saw it. There, amidst the chaos in the painting, was a face. He caught his breath. Sharp cheekbones and deep blue eyes. How could such random lines show so much? It was like his own eyes were looking back at him. Vivid blue eyes, filled with calmness and a gentle curiosity. And yet — lost? Was that him? Was that what Heather saw in his eyes? The eyes in the painting pulled the room toward them, swallowing everything in their field of view, trying in vain to make sense of its world.
This was not what he'd been taught to understand about the humans. Once again, nothing that he'd seen since coming to Earth had matched what he'd been told. He hadn't seen the intense tribalism, the
Heather's back was to him, and she returned to stand in front of her canvas. She took a step away from it, her feet surrounded by the pots of paint. Letting her arms go limp at her sides, she began to rock her head back and forth. Elan saw the fingers on her left hand begin to move, twitching gently in time with the pounding rhythm.
At her feet were the pots of paint, each with a brush standing upright. Elan watched Heather's head turn down to study the paints at her feet, then back up at the canvas, then back down again. All the while, her left hand continued to move, fingers opening and closing and making small circles with the beat.
When she began to move, it was with surprising speed. A brief bending of the knees, and Heather scooped up one of the brushes, swinging it at the canvas like the slashing of a blade. A streak of blue erupted across the canvas and onto the wall. With a backhanded swing, a second line of blue burst onto the white background, a staccato trail of droplets pattering across the wall and around the back of the room. Elan blinked as a drop hit him on the face, but he said nothing.
Dropping the blue brush towards its pot, Heather swept up another brush before the first had landed. With each new thump of the music, more lines flashed across the canvas, each brought to life by a swing of her arm, as her body moved in time. Elan remained quiet, his thoughts blotted out by the noise, his mind focused on the dance and the spattering paint.
* * *
He wasn't sure how long it had been — Elan couldn't see any terminals from where he sat — but Heather had begun to slow. Her arms were moving more sluggishly, and when he caught a glimpse of her face it was flushed red and shining with perspiration.
Taking a step back to her desk, she tapped something on the console, giving it another swipe of her finger. The music slowed down, becoming quieter. The thundering rhythm gave way to calmer, more complicated instrumental music. Elan felt his heart rate begin to slow, as Heather stepped in front of the canvas, her hands on her hips. Past her he saw the canvas, and the hundreds of scattered lines of different colours that criss-crossed it, each stroke bold and abrupt, like an angry shout. And in front of the canvas stood its creator, deflated, as if she had transferred her energy to the canvas and the walls of the room.
"Huh," said Heather, breaking her silence. She stepped closer to the image on the wall, stooping to pick up one of her brushes. With gentle care, she pulled it across part of the canvas. A delicate, deliberate curve of blue that crossed several of the angry streaks. She drew another line, pulling the brush in a tight curve between red and green slashes.
As she continued, Elan concentrated on the image taking form in front of him. With more blue curves carefully added, he saw it. There, amidst the chaos in the painting, was a face. He caught his breath. Sharp cheekbones and deep blue eyes. How could such random lines show so much? It was like his own eyes were looking back at him. Vivid blue eyes, filled with calmness and a gentle curiosity. And yet — lost? Was that him? Was that what Heather saw in his eyes? The eyes in the painting pulled the room toward them, swallowing everything in their field of view, trying in vain to make sense of its world.
This was not what he'd been taught to understand about the humans. Once again, nothing that he'd seen since coming to Earth had matched what he'd been told. He hadn't seen the intense tribalism, the
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