The Magic Brush and Enchanted Paintings

By Kitty Bich Thuy Ta

Sometimes the world can seem boring, harsh and hostile, especially to a teenager. This is certainly what it feels like for the American boy Ben, as he tries to get used to living in a foreign country after his parents’ divorce, when he never wanted to leave his home in the first place. He doesn’t like Budapest, and his new classmates are none too friendly either. He’s happiest retreating into his own little world with his cherished films about the Middle Ages to keep him company, daydreaming about his life as a knight in some parallel universe... Then something happens to make Ben’s wish come true – only not quite in the way he imagined. From one moment to the next, he finds himself transported to a strange, unfamiliar place with the talkative, inquisitive Maya, a girl from his new class at school. They have no idea how and why they got there, or what to make of this unpredictable, magical land. Then there is the mystery of the mysterious paintbrush that Ben found before their unusual journey, and what it has to do with the strange events that unfold. One thing is certain: they have to get to the bottom of the mysteries if they want to get home, but the adventures that await them turn out to be beyond their wildest imaginings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sagobuda Kft.
• Release date: Nov 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9786150123073

Book preview

Kitty Bich Thuy Ta

The Magic Brush

and Enchanted Paintings

Copyright @ 2021 by Kitty Bich Thuy Ta

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

ISBN 978-615-01-2299-1

Also by the author:

The Magic Brush – Leonardo Morelli adventurous story

(in Hungarian)

Translator: Daniel Nashaat

Editor: Nathan Johnson

Layout: Csaba Királyházi

Illustrator: Magdolna Kasza

Dedication

To my friends and family.

Thank you for all your support, every day, hour and minute of the year; and for putting up so patiently with my sometimes erratic artistic temperament.

To my readers.

This book is for everyone who believes in the creative power of love and imagination, and for those who believe that there really is such a thing as magic! It’s present in every little part of our lives, and we only have to be open to it in order to see it for ourselves.

Florence

1731

Chapter 1

Stumbling through the thick of the forest over treacherously exposed tree roots, thorny brush tore at their white clothing and etched their bodies with bleeding scratches. Spindly branches reached out like bony claws, and the forest canopy brooded darkly overhead, shutting out the guiding light of the full moon. The forest seemed to be closing in on them.

High above, at the top of the hill, between ancient olive trees and windswept pines, stood the shrine to Artemis, a sanctuary for the innocent and persecuted. The shrine’s slender, white columns stood out even in the gloom of night, and the relief on its façade – portraying a herd of deer – was clearly visible.

The boy gripped the girl’s hand as tightly as he could, pulling her after him and not stopping for even a moment to look back at their pursuer. Finally overcome with exhaustion, the boy faltered and stumbled on a tree root covered with a century’s accumulation of moss, and the girl reached out her hand to him.

Black fog now descended on the landscape, enshrouding the ancient trees and silencing the air around them. There was nowhere to run.

The boy and the girl clung to each other in the muted forest, aware of no other sound than their own breathing, and this was somehow more terrifying than the growl of any wild animal.

Then everything went black.

***

Donato Morelli awoke from his nightmare, gasping for breath. Drenched with sweat and entangled in his own bedsheet, his first thought was that someone was pinning him down. When he finally came to his senses and shook himself free, he still felt an unrelenting tightness in his chest. The terror of the dream had passed, only to make room for a grim awareness of genuine loneliness and sorrow.

His father was dead.

The funeral had taken place only a few hours before, and Donato was joined by several mourners. Morelli Senior, the master portrait painter, had been well known and respected by everyone in Florence. Local merchants and craftsmen had crowded around the gravesite, and even a few noble families sent representatives to pay their respects.

But respect only goes so far. It doesn’t put bread on the table or provide things to wear. Donato sat up at the edge of the bed and surveyed the room that his father – and, before him, his grandfather – had rented for one piece of silver per week. There wasn’t much for the dwindling stump of a single candle to illuminate. Two beds, one table and one chair were the only furnishings. There was no kitchen, and a jumble of grubby mugs and plates were piled up by the fireplace in the far corner. It wasn’t much of a home, and more than a few visitors over the years had observed that it lacked ‘a woman’s touch’ – but several paintings, canvases and frames lined up carefully along the wall revealed that the most important affairs were in diligent and capable hands.

Outside on the streets of Florence, a raging storm outside was growing more ferocious by the minute, as if the gods were gathered in fury against earth-dwelling mortals. Stark flashes of lighting lit up Donato’s room, wind and rain pounded the windows, and roaring thunderclaps in the distance drew nearer and nearer. Returning to sleep seemed out of the question.

Donato rose from his bed and fumbled in the flashing light for a half-full wine bottle on the table. He hadn’t been able to afford a fancy wake, but Master Morelli had been given a fitting send-off at a local inn by providing some bottles of wine, cheese and fresh bread. Donato had staggered home in the early hours of the morning, just as the wind started to gust and forks of lightning lit up the horizon.

Donato lifted the cork and took a deep swig of the heady red wine, its full aroma swirling around the room, and then collapsed into a solitary chair.

He lay there slumped and motionless in stony silence for ten minutes or more. Then, as if having suddenly made an important decision, Donato sprang to his feet and walked excitedly about the room. He gathered together eighteen portrait paintings lying in various corners, and propped them up against either the bed or legs of the table. He lit his last candle in the stormy darkness, placed it at the centre of the room, and proceeded by its light to study each painting carefully. Depicted in the portraits were the children of well-to-do Florentine families. Paintings such as these belonged in the drawing rooms of elegant villas, Donato believed, and rich payment in jingling gold coins was the deserved reward.

But the pictures lay here instead, gathering dust in a humble room, and all the gold was tucked away safely in the villas of prosperous merchants and nobles.

Donato stared hard at the little boy in front of him: eight years old or so, looking out miserably and nearly lost in riot of silk and velvet. The boy’s face was pallid, his features sunken. There were faint shadows beneath the eyes, and thin, blue veins showed beneath his frail skin. It was a difficult thing to capture the vulnerability of childhood on canvas, and Donato was satisfied here with the result. Not so the client, however! Where typically a servant would arrive to pick up and pay for a portrait, this particular cloth merchant, a stout and stubby man, turned up in person, flushed with rage, to complain about this ‘affront’. He not only didn’t accept the painting – let alone pay for it – he threatened, alas, to blacken young Master Morelli’s name with every merchant in Florence! And so the ‘Consumptive Boy’ thus joined Donato’s other silent companions, such as the ‘Little Girl in a Yellow Dress with Hair So Blonde She Appeared Bald’, or the ‘Family with Bulging Eyes and Snout-like Noses’.

Donato paused longest in looking at the last of the eighteen portraits, an obviously unfinished work. The silhouetted face of a man with grey hair and a beak nose bore the look of serious concentration – of gravitas. The blank, white background made it impossible to tell what the man was staring at so intently.

I really have tried my best, Donato murmured at the picture. You always said that a good portraitist doesn’t see with his eyes, but senses with his heart. If I had that sense, you assured me, my pictures would adorn the walls of all the great families. I shouldn’t have bothered! Donato snatched up the wine bottle, drained the last of its contents, and slammed it down again in despair. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be a son to make you proud! I can feel your disappointment in me ... even from the other side.

A flash of lightning charged the room, and it seemed for a moment as if the departed Frederico Morelli himself had stirred to life once more on the canvas. Donato tumbled backwards in fright.

Please, no! Donato cried. You can’t do this to me!

The candle and lightning combined to cast strange shadows on the wall. Amidst the terror and gloom, nearly delirious and with trembling hands, Donato set up his three-legged easel in the middle of the room and placed upon it the unfinished portrait of his father. The paint-box was in one corner of the room, and the brush holder, carved from delicate wood, was under the bed. He placed all the painting gear on the table and then stood quietly for a few minutes, studying his father’s stern features.

The storm raged on. There was another brilliant flash of lighting, and a mighty thunderclap shook the dwelling’s walls. Mugs and plates clattered, paintings toppled over, and the wooden brush holder teetered for a moment at the table’s edge before it fell and crashed to the floor.

The brushes scattered every which way, but Donato was staring at the brush holder, now broken into four pieces. Amongst the fragments on the floor was a piece of old, yellowed paper, closely folded into quarters and with an ornate letter ‘M’ painted on the upturned square in a thick brush. The discouraged young master squatted to pick up the mysterious discovery. His well-trained eyes marvelled at the regularity of the brush stroke, the precision of the serifs, the total absence of brush residue in the paint. It was almost an afterthought to finally unfold the paper.

He recognised immediately his father’s elegant, confident handwriting:

My Son,

If you are reading this, I am surely rejoicing up in heaven because it means that you have once again taken up the brush. Painting is what has made the Morelli family great from time immemorial.

Donato turned his eyes away from the letter and looked at the worn-out tools of the trade scattered around him. A great name, indeed! he cried out mockingly. Painting flattering portraits of sons and daughters of the wealthy for a mere pittance! Living in a shabby, old room like this! He suddenly felt ridiculous, standing in the middle of a sparsely furnished room and arguing with a piece of paper.

Donato continued reading, and it seemed as if his father could still read his thoughts:

It doesn’t matter what people think of us! What’s important is to have faith in ourselves. An instrument of this faith has been handed down in our family, from father to son, for generations.

Go and find the fourth brick from the left above the fireplace. Pry the brick loose and remove it. Inside the cavity you’ll find a paintbrush with a carved handle. One of your forebears found it during his travels in Greece. It is now your duty to use it, to keep it safe, and to pass it on to a son of your own.

Donato turned over the piece of paper to see if the letter continued on the other side, but found only a few smudges and specks of coloured paint. The unfolded page looked like some sort of secret treasure map, and he found it astonishing that his father would spin some foolish yarn that might otherwise be intended to impress gullible children.

Naturally, curiosity got the best of Donato and he set out to find the fourth brick from the left above the fireplace. He wedged the brick loose, and after some fumbling around in the space behind it he found a worn, brownish box.

The box had protected its contents from damp and grime, but this brush was different from the ones that Donato and his father used every day. For one, it had an unusually long handle – roughly the full length of Donato’s hand. It was made of a hard, dark wood that hadn’t yet splintered, and the bristles were softer than horse hair; their strands even gave off a golden sheen in the stormy gloom. Turning this strange inheritance over in his hand and uncertain what to make of it, Donato was overcome suddenly with feelings of shame that his father must have thought his son so pitiful and so incapable of facing reality that he needed to be given a fairy tale such as this to believe in. Donato was accustomed to rough living, but this sentimental display of pity wounded his pride. He was about to toss the brush aside when he felt the force of Master Frederico Morelli’s disapproving gaze through the half-finished portrait.

Leave me alone, Donato stammered back. There’s nothing to see!

Overcome with exhaustion and emotion, Donato fell into a fitful sleep plagued by fresh nightmares. In one of them, he was fleeing from the enraged citizens of Florence; in another, he saw his father’s head grown to enormous size and fretting over the problematics of proportion.

Donato awoke in the morning with a ravenous hunger. He turned the room over in search of something to eat and failed to find even a crust of bread, and the last of his silver coins hand went to the innkeeper for funeral expenses. He thought of knocking on the door of his landlady, the old widow, to beg like an orphan for a few scraps of food, but quickly changed his mind. He might have been rewarded with a full stomach that day, but the cost of the food would surely be added when the rent came due. If he had to humble himself in any case, it was better to set out and ask for work.

Plucking up some desperate courage, he picked up his easel, paints and brushes and left in search of a commission. He knocked on the door of every well-to-do merchant in town in the hope of offering his services. Most of the time, however, he didn’t get past the servants. They quickly surveyed Donato’s torn and filthy attire and merely laughed with scorn when asked about his seeing the master of the house.

After a dozen or so humiliating rejections of this sort, fortune appeared to smile at last upon the unfortunate young painter. On this occasion, the head servant, instead of chasing Donato away, led him into a grand antechamber. The walls were decked with expensive floral wallpaper of intricate design and gold-thread embroidery, and mounted with large, bronzed candleholders. The head servant motioned for the visitor to wait for a few moments. The ornate furniture was exquisitely crafted in the French style, Donato observed, and everything about the room suggested that its reigning occupant was particularly affluent. Two framed portraits on the far wall drew his attention, and he walked over to study them. He looked intently at the brush strokes and the use of colour. Not very good at all, really, he was thinking to himself when he found himself standing face to face with the man portrayed in one of the pictures.

Good day! the merchant beamed. Beautiful, aren’t they? That’s me, and that’s my father. My son should appear on the wall next to us, don’t you think?

Donato nodded excitedly, but in the midst of trying to work out how many weeks he could live off a commission like this, his illusions were dissolved at once.

My good friend Paolo Lustrano, the cloth merchant, told me about a recent portrait of his daughter, and I wanted very much to see the man who painted it. The merchant paused to allow the painful details sink in, and then continued in a cruel whisper. Paolo was so shocked at the insult to his family that he fell quite ill and needed a doctor’s care. You grubby little caricaturist, how dare you!

Donato’s mouth was so dry he could scarcely utter a word.

I’m sorry sir. I can assure you, I’m capable of painting a more ...

Not a chance, the man cut in sharply. I only admitted you to see the look on your face when I tell you that you’ll never have another commission in Florence … not from me, not from anybody. Now clear off out of here!

The head servant, lurking quietly in another corner of the room to witness Donato’s humiliation, took apparent pleasure in carrying out his master’s orders. He gave the painter a rough shove into the street, and threw his painting tools after him.

***

Dazed and red-faced with shame, Donato wandered aimlessly for hours until late afternoon. He found himself at the entrance to the Boboli Gardens. Its several footpaths, twisting and turning past ornate fountains, ponds, steps, amphitheatres, arbours, cypress groves and man-made caves, had been opened to the public only recently. On entering these captivating grounds, on being allowed to partake of such surroundings, Donato felt himself exalted to princely status. Stunned by the surrounding beauty, he walked the Gardens’ entire length of hedge-bordered pathways before stopping to rest at a pond. Tree leaves floated on the surface of the dirty grey water, and in the middle of the pond stood a statue of Neptune, his trident raised skywards. The sculpted figure’s expression of grim determination reminded Donato of his father.

Completely immersed in his contemplation of the statue, the sound of soft voice nearly caused him to lose his balance and fall into the water.

That’s Neptune, the little voice said.

The girl was maybe eight years old. She wore a snow-white dress with lace trim, and her curly auburn hair was tied with a white ribbon. Everything about her demeanour and appearance spoke of noble descent.

He’s supposed to be the god of the oceans, in case you didn’t know, she continued. But this pond isn’t much of an ocean. Poor thing. She spoke with such sincere pity that Donato found it difficult not to laugh. Then the girl curtseyed politely: I am Clianthe.

My name is Donato Morelli. Still not having turned to face the girl, Donato strained to observe her out of the corner of his eye. He was sure that someone would scold her chit-chatting with such an ill-reputed portraitist.

For the time being, however, Clianthe clearly knew nothing about the man’s sour reputation.

Are you a painter? She threw a glance at the easel propped up a little farther away.

Something like that. Donato found it reassuring that there was still someone in Florence who took an interest in him.

Are you here to paint the statue? the girl continued.

I don’t think so. Why would I?

Because you said you’re a painter.

A portrait painter, he corrected her.

I see, she nodded. But mightn’t it better to paint this statue than to make a portrait of a living person? You’ve got more freedom. You can paint him however you see him. Even so, my papa says it’s better to be careful with the gods because they are easily offended … that is, of course, if you believe in them. She smiled after a thoughtful pause. The only thing that really matters, I suppose, is whether or not you’re happy with your work.

Donato smiled in return. The little girl was right. If the burghers of Florence wouldn’t hire him as a portrait painter, he could always start painting something else! He had nothing to lose and wasn’t going to get paid for his work anyway. He might as well do what he wanted. From now on, he decided, he would paint only what he believed to be beautiful and important.

It felt as if all the humiliations of the long day had just been a bad dream. With a lighter heart, Donato set up his easel at the pond’s edge.

Do you mind if I watch? the little girl piped up. Papa always lets me watch while he’s working.

Donato opened the brush holder, feeling a bit self-conscious under the girl’s enthralled gaze.

How nice and clean they are! Clianthe reached out impulsively and ran her fingers along some bristles, as if they were precious treasure.

A painter’s clothes can be dirty, but his brushes never, answered Donato. The little girl was still distracted with examining the brushes.

What’s in here? She pointed to the battered wooden box.

Just another brush. Donato handed the box to her. Have a look.

To Donato’s surprise, she didn’t open it straight away, but turned it over and studied it for a few moments.

There’s an inscription on it, she said finally. It’s in Greek.

Donato turned to her in surprise.

How do you know that?

My father’s a scholar ... a linguist. He has taught me a little Greek.

The painter leaned in closer to Clianthe to see for himself. In the dim candlelight of the night before he’d failed to notice a pattern carved into the grimy wood. Donato’s heart began to beat faster. Maybe the inscription would reveal why his father had called this the family’s greatest treasure.

Can you read it? What does it say? he asked, perhaps a little too impatiently. The little girl blushed and hesitated as she tried to find the right words.

It says ‘Open your heart and soul to the unknown’. Or something like that.

Donato was holding his breath in anticipation, but this wasn’t what he expected. He exhaled in disappointment. None the wiser, he took back the box to study the carving on the lid.

What can that possibly mean?

The little girl shrugged. I’m afraid I don’t know, either. That’s just what it says.

At that moment a shrill voice sounded. Miss Clianthe, come here! Your father is waiting! A cadaverous and stern-faced woman dressed in black was standing on the path, tapping her foot impatiently. Clianthe turned and motioned that she would be there shortly.

It’s my governess. Clianthe drooped her head sadly. I can’t stay.

I’ll come back and finish the picture tomorrow, Donato reassured her. Then you can see it.

Promise?

I swear on my brushes!

That’s grand!

Clianthe, skipping lightly, returned to the governess, who greeted her with a disapproving shake of the head. Just as the pair began to disappear from view amongst the bushes lining the path, Clianthe returned a quick and mischievous smile. The girl’s lovely, caramel-coloured eyes radiated a heavenly golden light.

***

Donato squeezed his paints out onto the palette. Starting with cautious strokes in the middle of the canvas, he sketched an outline of the statue. When finished, he worked to blend a suitable shade of blue for the background.

After some hesitation, he picked up the brush inherited