Summer Drummer

Flowers symbolize love. People send them as gifts, use them as promises. Yet for the Lamberti’s, they are thorns.

The black petals had slipped through her fingers. Landed on top of the prickly stem, the ground covered with frost. A single oil lamp shone down on us.

‘What do you think taints flowers, Xanthus?’ Her gaze remained focused on the broken rose. Trapped between the legs of the easel.

‘...Paint?’

She only cracked a smile and squeezed my cheeks.

*

I’d wandered around the streets. Loaves were stolen, owners yelled, fights broke out. My stomach grumbled. My eyes kept straying toward the food stalls, but my head was still lost in the world of rhythm. Da-bam-bam.

A steaming meat bun suddenly appeared in my vision, and despite the exquisite material of the dress, the woman crouched down, looking at me at eye level.

She took my hand that was tapping on my lap and placed the warm meat bun there. My other hand still continued tapping in rhythm. I thought light gleamed in her eyes for a second.

‘Would you like to come with me?’

I was eleven years old, had nowhere to go, nothing to lose. There was only the rhythm in my head. Rat-a-tat.

‘Okay.’ I nibbled on the meat bun.

*

We followed the path in the thick forest. Blossoming flowers adorned the bushes and trees. The sun's rays were a warm caress. Lady Lamberti talked, I listened. I’d finished the meat bun, and my hand was in her gentle clutch. She didn’t let go even until the forest cleared.

The Lamberti mansion scuttled with servants. Some carried trays with silver cloches, some carried teacups and cloths. Bah-boom?

Lady Lamberti’s sigh was almost inaudible, like the imperceptible squeeze of her hand. But when she turned to me, she was smiling. Light glimmered in her dark eyes before it vanished. ‘My son can be a little unrestrained but you will be great friends, I’m sure. We’re having a family feast for his birthday today.’ She looked at the bustling mansion. ‘Although it may be unnecessarily grand,’ she muttered.

I tugged at her fingers. ‘I’m invited?’

She patted my head. ‘Oh, Killian would be overjoyed to have a new friend. Let’s go in.’

Footsteps came running towards us when we stepped inside. Tat-a-tat. A boy taller than me launched himself onto Lady Lamberti. ‘Mother! Where did you go? Father was…’ Lady Lamberti let go of my hand to brace his impact, and he noticed me. He tilted his head with a curious gaze. His eyes trailed up and down my body. The months of grime on me suddenly felt tacky.

Then, he blinked. And blinked. He turned to his mom, gaping. ‘Mother I was kidding. Tell me you didn’t steal him.’

I couldn’t help the titter that escaped my mouth. Lady Lamberti looked amused, and light stayed in her eyes. ‘No, dear. You told me you wanted a friend, so I brought him here after giving him a meat bun.’

‘Isn’t that bribery?’ the boy asked. He looked at me. I looked at Lady Lamberti.

She chuckled, ruffling both our hairs. ‘Killian, it’s almost time for dinner, isn’t it? Go take Xanthus here for a bath and we shall meet again in the dining room.’ Killian’s smile dropped. Lady Lamberti’s turned wan. ‘Your father was looking for me, is that right? Go now, I will let him know about Xanthus as well. It’s your day, dear.’

*

That day, different beats rolled into me. It was slow and dull in the streets, and it picked up when Lady Lamberti came. Increased after meeting Killian.

‘So Xan-Xan, how’d Mother find you?’

The nickname stumped me.

‘Xan-Xan? Xanny? Whatcha prefer?’

‘...It was just a slip of the tongue when I called you Kian.’

He laughed.

I stared at the sleeves that went a tad too long over my wrists. Killian stopped in his tracks. He grabbed my hands and rolled the sleeves up. The beats accelerated in my head.

And disappeared as quickly in the dining room. They tried to hide it. There were the smiles, the laughter, the banters, but it was like playing with the wrong drumsticks. The atmosphere was light, but everything sounded strained.

Or rather, the sticks weren’t hitting in the middle of the drum. The person sitting at the head. Lord Lamberti.

*

‘Kian.’

‘Hmm?’

‘The artworks in this house. They don’t produce any beats.’

Killian almost dropped the brush in his hand.

‘I would’ve forgotten the Lamberti’s are a family of artists.’

*

She’d painted flowers one day in her small florist shop, and the heir of the Lamberti was entranced. Since then, his visits became frequent. He gave her everything she needed, did everything she wanted. Gave her the happiness the world couldn’t. Filled the hole in her heart.

The heir made his own bouquet for her, peonies and roses. The flowers she painted.

Rings were exchanged, the oath was sworn, the knot was tied. They became the Lord and Lady of Lamberti.

But she was a fool. A fool for loving a noble. For being blinded by her love. His love.

It was nothing but an obsession. Not towards herself.

Towards her art.

It had always been her art.

His obsession, his love, it was all for her art.

She would pick up the brush at night, and he when the sun was up. They’d accompany each other when they painted.

To anyone else, it was a harmonious view.

‘But I know better,’ Killian said. ‘Father makes Mother sit and watch him paint, thinking she’ll learn from him, and he will be overlooking her at night. He said to “guide” her, ha.

‘Mother has confronted him many times, and I would too sometimes. Her artworks start losing their vigour each day she paints with Father. I don’t know how he hasn’t noticed it, or maybe he refuses to—he always turns a deaf ear when art is brought up. So eventually, we gave up. He shackles her to him, and I to her. There’s no one to turn to, and we can’t go anywhere since his servants would always find us. Mother becomes tired.

‘Now when I look at Mother’s paintings, they’re always bleak and empty. But of course, what do you expect from an artist whose freedom is controlled?

‘Mother was happy, and then she found out his love was only for her art. She gave most of her attention to him, but Father has never really seen…her.

‘Father’s paintings are colourful and use great techniques, but they never have a soul. Maybe that’s what makes Father so obsessed with Mother’s paintings, but now… he’s just too inside his head.’ Killian sighed. He’d left his canvas and leaned against the back of the couch. ‘I don’t—I don't know what to do. Mother is trying her best to look fine, but I know she’s…That everything is slowly crumbling.’

I craned my neck to look up at him. ‘What about you?’ He looked confused. ‘Why do you paint?’

‘Oh, me?’ His smile was wry. ‘It’s just what I’ve always done since birth, really. Mother also likes to see me paint, so if it’s the only thing I can do to help her, I’m happy to oblige. Though I’ll never touch on flowers.’

*

Another quiet winter, but that day, the silence was deafening. The snow twirled in a slow dance of lament, and no stars blinked in the dark sky.

Frost had blanketed the canvas, but the smell of blood still lingered in the air. Red peeked out among the white crystals.

Killian’s clasp on my hand was tight. His gaze stayed locked on the easel in front of us.

Lady Lamberti was gone. Lord Lamberti had wandered off into the forest and never came back.

Tss.

Winter ensues and does not cease. The wolves increase in number, and Nature throws a tantrum if one tries to leave.

*

Two different lilies, one accompanied by light and the other by the dark. They move towards each other, a hint of hesitation in the brush strokes. Wavering. But dark tendrils escape into the light.

A white rose among black ones, cornered. Ice melts and slides down the black space.

Killian snakes his arms around my waist, presses himself onto my back. He buries his face in my neck. Murmurs, ‘It’s cold.’

I stare at the two paintings. The beats are too slow. ‘You’re making it colder.’

His lips graze my skin as he smiles. ‘But hey I drew flowers, praise me.’

I tap his arms. ‘Release me, I’ll put another log on the fire.’

His hold only tightens and he drops his head over my shoulder.

Outside, the snow has stopped. Winter has gone on for almost a year. The mansion has enough underground supplies, and the servants are kept in check. But this can’t last. The snow has become mounds, the forest is almost buried.

‘Kian.’

‘Hmm?’

‘Paint something warm.’

‘And what’s warm?’

‘...What’s warm to you?’

Killian’s eyes are lidded as he gives me a side glance. The corners of his lips curve up slightly. My gaze flits towards the floor. Da-bam-bam.

His movement is slow as he untwines his arms around me. Almost as if he’s reluctant. He walks towards another easel, and suddenly the room becomes cold.

I throw another log into the fireplace and return to the couch, flipping through the thick notebook. Lady Lamberti gave me this notebook to write my beats, but it’s been monotonous after that dinner years ago. The same rhythmic pattern. But today, a different pattern takes form.

The fireplace crackles. The sound of scribbling on paper doesn’t stop. I see Killian glancing up once in a while and the dabs of his brush would stop. Another day is passing by. The sun is setting, the temperature turns lower.

Then it’s morning again. When I open my eyes, Killian’s face hovers over mine with a smirk.

‘You fell asleep.’ I only blink at him. He chuckles before moving away.

I’m still on the couch, but a blanket drapes over me. Killian’s gaze stays on me as I move to sit. I return the scrutiny.

He holds his hand out. A wide smile appears on his face. 'Gotta show you my piece.'

He guides me to the easel, and I didn't expect the short rhythmic beats that drum into me.

'This is…'

Splashes of whites and purples among dark greens. Vibrant, but toned down enough like pulsing glows.

'You came here in summer, remember? It's still quite baffling why you decided to tag along with Mother, but I'm glad you did.' The look he gives me is gentle. 'I once read through her book of flowers and remembered a Summer Drummer, and well, doesn't it resemble you too much? You came early summer, and you have the soul of a drummer.'

It dawns on me it's his first time grinning so brightly. He looks out the windows, and I notice the buds sprouting in the trees. I look at him, stunned. He wounds an arm around my shoulders.

'It's my third painting of flowers, Xan. Praise me.'

'...Why do you keep asking me for praise?'

''Cause you never gave me one!'

I puff a laugh. The sun is warmer now. Winter will end.

'Good job.' I smile at him. 'Your paintings have been keeping my notebook alive.'