Artemisia’s Wolf

By Djelloul Marbrook

Be ready to get swept away in a whirlwind of emotions through the masterful storytelling in Artemisia's Wolf, as you witness a young girl stepping into a devastating world of betrayal, conspiracy, tormented love, and desperate vulnerability. The book takes the readers to a different level of imagination, as the girl is accompanied by a white wolf, visible only to a few. The story is further awe-inspiring and magical as the girl whose namesake is the goddess Artemis, who cured the diseases of women, is about to change what she touches. This riveting modern fable of transfiguration set in New York's art world is an unforgettable homage to the women who are oppressed by male hierarchy.
A captivating tale of unrequited love, betrayal, and redemption!
• Modern New York's art world.
• Enthralling narration.
• Feminist fictional literature.
• Explores themes of love and ambition.
• Magical creation of a young artist's mind

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Mar 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9789358561425

Book preview

Dedication

For three artists: my mother, Juanita Rice Guccione, and my

aunts, Irene Rice Pereira and Dorothy Rice.

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to my wife, Marilyn, for her faith in me, her insight

and her tireless work on behalf of my writing, and to my deft and

encouraging editor, Sonalini Chaudhry.

It stopped my heart, cracked my head, tore my rotator cuff, turned me purple and made my crotch bleed. Just for starters. Then the fun began.

I was sitting up in Mercy Hospital in Kingston, New York, studying the gotchas and gizmos around me. Lightning strikes twenty-five million times a year in the United States, the green nursie was telling me. It strikes about three hundred people a year, and you're one of them.

—So I won the lottery?

—Do you remember, dear? Dear, do you remember?

—Who's this 'dear'? Well, save that for another day. I don't remember a damned thing. I hope it turns out I have a pretty name, one that doesn't wear me out lugging it around.

—You have a lovely name, dear. It's Artemisia Cavelli.

I nod, and squint with the pain of it. Do I feel like this name? I don't feel like any name. I don't want one. What an annoyance! I feel left behind. Something moved on and left me behind.

—Which god raped me?

—You have a concussion, Artemisia.

—Concussed, so that's it. Sounds familiar.

—Actually, you have a skull fracture. That's why you're all bandaged up. And you have a cut on your forehead. You were in a coma, you know. But don't worry, dear, the doctors say you're going to have a perfect recovery.

A perfect recovery sounds like going backwards to me. I look at my legs, twiddle them a little. Not broken. Toes seem okay, fingers too. That's good. Why is it good? Do I have a special need for them? I really like this question.

—You're tired, dear. We'll leave you alone for now. Rest, everything's all right.

I stare at my fingers. They look as if they're used to doing something wonderful. I like them. Long and articulate. They have a lot of repose. They know how to work and how to rest. What's that trace of cadmium blue in the cuticles? How do I know it is cadmium blue? Do I have a special need for this body or does it need me? Aha, she's a nun, this nurse. I can see the humour in her eyes. She likes my concussion very much, she's enjoying it. I think I'll enjoy it too. We'll have a party. Struck by lightning? How pedestrian! I prefer being raped by Pan. Yes I'll say I got his goat and he raped me and... now what? Let's have a little pregnant pause. Pregnant, is that it? I'm going to bear a little goat-fucking, yellow-eyed demigod. And yes, it's still there, my feathersome crotch. What subject is it going to bring up next, I wonder. If you're going to be raped, make it Pan. Apollo is full of it. Zeus is passé. Pan is perfect.

—Did you know, Sister, the only way to keep your balance when you're concussed is to keep your fingers buried in your crotch? It slows everything down.

I lick my gooey fingers and squint at her.

—No, I didn't, dear, she said.

She squints back. Nursie strikes me as someone who's always interrupting gods at their profanities. I have a hunch she's a rather inconvenient nun.

—I'm eager to get back to my break-dancing, maybe a little Macarena.

—Don't you do that on your head? You can't do that, dear.

—My head's been spinning since I was born. Actually I was born to make heads spin. Things look better with your feet in the air. My grandmother told me that. I think she got the idea changing my diapers. She must have noticed that I like the way things look.

—You are very pretty, dear, but it's not good to dwell on it.

—I'm pretty beautiful. It's just a fact, it doesn't impress me one way or another, but you can't paint if you're going to call blue black. I paint, you know. That's what this cadmium blue in my cuticles is about. One thing you have to know about beautiful, it isn't good for you. Oh maybe a few people here and there are generically beautiful the way Lord Byron had a consensually beautiful face. But real beauty goes around calling up dangerous ideas and smelling funny. Lots of people look at me and think, 'She's beautiful', but only a relative few get twitchy about it, like Pan. When my blond Lombard father and my red-haired Scots mother got into it, they made a gray-eyed redhead. Not bad for two narcissists, but a bit stagey. What the hell are Pan and I going to make? I don't think he gives a shit. I think it's up to me. I'm going to give him an ogre. What would you think of a little red ogre, Sister?

—Take a deep breath, dear. You mustn't talk like that. I mean, the words are just fine, but you sound ratty-tat-tat.

She takes a deep breath, to show her patient how. She holds her palms just under her breasts, orchestrating a deep breath. Artemisia watches her breasts rise and winks. It hurts the gash on her forehead and she winces.

Nursie and the handsome young doctor who looks hangdog about being German think I'm making a strange recovery. They've been in to see me twice this morning. The hospital is probably combing my insurance to see if I can pay for psychiatric help. They keep giving me tests.

—Do you know who's President, dear?

—Yes, the Supreme Court elected the missing link and is boarding him in the White House. No, I'm not going to say that blot looks like a butterfly. I think it looks like my vagina. I do know my birth date. I've always been outrageous, it's nothing new, but only when provoked. I want you to fix up my body and let me out of here, which is the reason I'm talking about Pan. You have no idea who's nuts and who's not, and neither do I, but I think we both suspect the nuts are in charge of this country.

—Artemisia, yoohoo, Artemisia, there's a gentleman here who says he's your husband. You didn't say you were married. Artemisia?

—I hear you. No, I didn't say. I wouldn't say. Why would I?

There you go, following my eyes to the darkest corner of the room. It worries you that my eyes wander when you say something you think is important. You think maybe I'm concocting an answer, prestidigitating out of my right brain. You haven't noticed I'm not examining the walls, I'm looking at something in the corner of the room, something sitting watchfully, looking back at me. I notice that you haven't noticed. I think it's because you don't see him. But I do, and you're not going to get an answer out of me until I get an answer from him. You do notice, don't you, my lips are not moving?

—Artemisia, dear, what shall I tell him? They won't let him up if you're not ready to see him. He's quite insistent, though. He's talking about his rights.

—Rights? Now you've got my attention, little Sister. You can have my eyes too. Yeah, blah, blah, blah, here's a big fat raspberry for his rights.

Nobody has any rights over me. Haven't you noticed my eyes are gray? You do remember Athena, don't you? That's the stuff, Sister, let's stick together on this issue of male rights. You just chuckle yourself down to the reception desk and tell him that Athena is indisposed, and that's good for him, because he definitely doesn't want her full attention.

—All right, Artemisia, I get it. Don't go on so. You'll pop your stitches.

—I'm glad you do—get it, I mean, because I don't. Who the hell is he? Whoa, wait a minute! Did you do a rape kit on me?

—Artemisia, the EMTs brought you here after you were hit by lightning. You're not a rape victim, dear.

—How do you know, did you look?

—I'm sure they did, dear. I'm sure they examined you to a fare-thee-well.

—You're putting me on, aren't you?

—I'm glad you're feeling better.

—Yeah, I'm just kidding. I was imagining what a rape kit might turn