Birds of Paradise by Oliver Langmead (read any book .TXT) 📗

fruit as an offering. “Pig,” he said, and the name felt as good as a fresh, sweet apple in his mouth.

Pig grunted in warning, and then grunted in curiosity, and then, finally, grunted in recognition, and carefully, so carefully, took the apple from Adam’s hand and munched at it, grumbling in gratitude.

Always, after that night, Adam would return and pick apples for Pig, and then they would sit beneath the apple tree, and watch the changing weather together.

The hills of this valley are high on every side, and at their uppermost they are powdered white. Soon, Adam is in the shadow of the hills, and he knows that he’s descending into the valley, towards his destination. Where there’s a break in the trees, he stops and considers the view of it.

At the centre of the valley is a second sky. The golden forest continues for miles ahead, clinging hold of steep slopes interspersed with stretches of evergreens and rocky outcroppings, and the loch it surrounds is a mirror. In those still waters are clouds, and small patches of blue, and a second set of slopes and trees, as if there is another valley beneath the valley. A flock of birds wheel overhead, and they too are doubled in the loch.

But Adam isn’t here for the loch. There is another place in this valley, nestled not far ahead – a place built by people. He’s here for the monastery: the holy gatehouse to the valley. Moving on from the view, he rejoins the track and follows it around. The loch used to belong to the church, he remembers. The last time he was here, there was the pealing of bells.

Yet the monastery has changed almost beyond recognition. The treeline is much closer than it once was, and some trees are embracing the old walls. There wasn’t a tower before, and now there is – weathered stone pointing at the white sun – and there are even more crumbling extensions, including a stained and cracked conservatory with broad leaves breaking out of its panes. All is overgrown, and Adam steps across tufts of yellowing grass where it sticks out from between cracks in the concrete.

Somebody has painted two enormous canary-yellow lines across the outer wall of the old chapel, as if to say No Parking. There’s the sound of flapping wings as Owl comes to a landing on its weathervane, which creaks and turns slightly. From there, he beholds the ruins and all that lies beyond them – a proud sentinel.

One of the doors to the entrance hall is ajar, and Adam raps his knuckles on it as he steps inside. The sound echoes through the place, and he might have imagined it empty were it not for the art supplies heaped up everywhere. The hall is filled with cans of paint, and brushes, and rollers, and canvasses, and easels, and enormous white sheets protecting statues.

There is more peculiar painting across the walls in here, too. The huge figure of an elderly man on a bench feeding pigeons covers one entire section, and the artistry is exquisite. Adam admires it for a moment – it might have been a photograph, vividly filtered, had it not been painted across old stone.

Further in, where there is a broad stone staircase leading up, there are canvasses covered in similar pieces. Here, a crowd of commuters waiting at a set of traffic lights in the rain; and there, a jogger splashing through puddles. Always, the paintings are picked out brilliantly, in bright colours which defy the ordinariness of the scenes, and the skill with which they have been depicted is dazzling. Adam turns on the spot, lost in their moments.

“What the hell? Adam?” There’s a girl on the stairs, dressed in paint-splattered overalls. Her hair is pinned back with pencils, and beneath her broad-rimmed glasses is an expression of astonishment. She rushes down the last few steps and flings herself at Adam, laughing as she embraces him. “Why didn’t you call ahead? If I’d have known you were coming, I would’ve tidied up a bit.”

“Hey, Butterfly,” says Adam, and her name feels nice to say.

“It’s been so long. Way too long.” She releases him and steps back. “How are you?”

“I’m okay.” He looks around at the paintings, at her. “I was expecting someone else.”

She grins. “When were you last here?”

“There were monks.”

“Wow.” Butterfly raises her eyebrows. “Come on. I’ll make us some coffee. Are you alone?”

“Owl’s outside.”

She glances at the door. “He still…?”

Adam nods.

“Fair enough. This way.” Down a long corridor, they pass more canvasses in better stages of completion, hung up at intervals. “This place has been a lot of things since you were last here,” Butterfly says. “Pig turned it into a hotel after the monks left. Then, when he got fed up of that, he converted it into a boarding school. Both were pretty popular, from what I hear. There’s still a set of swings outside. They were pretty rusted up, but I managed to get them working again.” They turn into a broad kitchen which looks as if it was once meant to serve an entire garrison. Butterfly only seems to be using one corner of it. “After that, I think he just let the place rest for a good long while. Didn’t know what to do with it. He’s been letting me use it as studio space, and it’s been great, honestly. There’s no phone signal down here, so I’m cut off. A bit of peace and quiet.”

“It’s good to see you,” says Adam, sipping at his coffee once it’s been made.

“You too.” She smiles at him. “Want to see my new project?”

“Absolutely.”

Down another corridor, they come to what must have once been the main hall. It’s filled at every angle with unframed paintings – on easels, and hung on the walls – and all of them are brilliant. “I call it ‘Forgotten Moments’,” says Butterfly. “It’s a project I’ve been working on for ages now. Meant to immortalise those bits