The 'Sound' of the Rainbow (Chapter 3: Rachel) (standard:mystery, 1769 words)
Author: KShaw	Added: Sep 10 2005	Views/Reads: 3428/2287	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Through the darkest gloom comes the light. Rachel.

Chapter 3: Rachel 

I walked back to the car feeling a new hurt. It's one thing to
understand that someone I care about is missing. Quite another to think 
I'll never see his face again, or be warmed by his mannerisms, or feel 
the love and respect that has bonded us together as friends for most of 
my life. 

I opened the car door, slumped into the driver's seat still dealing with
thoughts I'd not previously given any credence.  ‘Where the hell are 
you, Frank' I said to myself, quietly. ‘What happened, why could you 
not call me and we talk, like always?' I fixed my stare across the 
waters and watched as the dying sun's delicate fingers probed the 
silvered clouds. I felt full of pain, as if weakness were allowing me 
to believe what I least wanted to believe. There were so many voyages, 
so many dreams, so many times thirsting after splendours and calms, 
sailing the relentless tides, feeling the savagery of solitude, fearing 
the endlessness and the immensity of moonless nights, while seeking 
some midnight truths. Frank never let me linger long in these doldrums. 
The man feared nothing, licked his lips, spit saliva, and cracked a 
joke at my expense. “You're a man with ugly ideas,” he'd say if I tried 
to speak to him about uncertainty, or mortality, or just why it is we 
do what we do. “Yer sometimes talk like a gentle idiot, always spoutin' 
about churches in country towns, or stars observed through open wood 
shutters, or plums in trees. You should be a poet, not a bloody 
warrior.” He never spoke like this after Rachel died. In fact, he never 
spoke much about anything after that; instead, he painted the visions 
he had. Each painting having the same three elements: man, woman, 
shoreline.  He promised me one, ‘The Keeper of Dreams'. It was mine, 
and there's no way Frank would die and not make certain I got that 
painting. Frank is somewhere. Yes. 

I sat and thought back to 1994, Frank had built a small artists studio
near Dervaig, close to the theatre, and though he hadn't been seen 
there for almost a year I decided to go and check the place out.   I 
had time to get there and back before the pub opened and all people I 
needed to talk to would be in one place, all except, that is, for 
Frank. It was a twisty, single track road, best travelled in daylight, 
but I felt it was too important to wait till the next day.   Frank 
didn't sell his work to just anyone, he liked the locals to buy it, and 
if he knew they couldn't afford the asking price it he'd ask for eggs, 
or fish, or he'd exchange a piece of his art for a piece of their 
craftsmanship. He always did it in such a way that none ever thought it 
was a favour. Everything was negotiable, unless you were from off the 
island. 

It was close to five when I dropped down into the village. Darkness had
descended thickly. Coming out of the trees on a narrow twisting lane, I 
saw the sign for the ‘Standing Stones' car park. I pulled in. The 
lights were on in the Community Hall. I entered to find several people 
putting up tables, preparing for a ‘Produce Market' the following day. 
There would be the usual things, island meats, locally caught 
shellfish, freshly made jams, an assortment of knitwear, home made 
candles, an array of arts and crafts, including, perhaps, or I hoped, 
one or two of Frank's paintings. It was not to be. 

“Och, Richard nething comes fairer to the light than what has been lang
hidden. Welcome yee home,” said Mrs. McCullen, in her sweetest voice. 
She went on to tell me how, four days before I got the call from Snowy, 
Frank had removed six of his paintings from the Christmas Arts 
Festival. I made my customary courtesies and left to drive to Frank's 
studio after Ingrid Stewart had told me Frank's studio had been 
ransacked, windows broken, and paint strewn everywhere. Some of the 
towns people had gone to tidy the place up, she said, it wasn't locked 
and there was nothing of any value left in the place.  I drove on 
through the village and continued along the winding road, coming out of 
the forestry close to his place. 

Thankfully the torch I kept in the boot of the car still functioned. I
stepped up to the door, which was ajar and saw the mess Ingrid had 
forewarned me about. An easel lay against the wall, splintered and 
broken. A trash can full of half open pots, emptied, paint flung 
against the walls. I couldn't even imagine the mindless stupidity of 
it. A cat, clearly not bothered by my presence, continued to lay on 
some old rags, licking itself, unconcerned by the beam of light I'd 


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