The Archer

A visit to an art museum but make it dark

Fun fact: I spent a number of years studying art history in college. Thinking and writing about art was challenging, inspiring, joyful even. So I’m always chasing a bit of that magic. Artists and artwork seem to populate many of my stories.

Today’s short tale has languished for too long on my ancient blog. I thought Einar deserved to be brought out, polished up, and seen once again (hint, hint). The Archer is a real painting (pictured below), but the museum and the legend are figments of my imagination.

And, no, Taylor Swift’s song The Archer did not inspire this story. My Archer actually existed before that song was released, but there are some very interesting parallels. I like to think Taylor found my blog years ago, read this story, and felt moved by the muse. Alas, only in my Wildest Dreams, I’m afraid.

To the museum we go.

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The Archer by Charles Edward Hallé, 1909

"Step away, please," Einar said.

The woman continued to lean across the barrier. Its taut metal wire dug into her voluminous black skirt as she tapped the screen of her phone, adjusting the focus before snapping a picture.

Einar took a steadying breath and waited. But instead of retreating, the woman bent closer to her subject. Einar eyed the white skin of her breasts teetering on the verge of escape from the confines of her lacy corset. A wardrobe malfunction would be the most excitement he'd had in months.

Einar gathered himself up and cleared his throat, summoning his best museum security guard growl. "You're too close, Madam. Step away now."

The woman didn't even bother looking at him as she took one last hurried picture and then swished away, purple-dyed hair swaying, black boots echoing against the gallery walls.

Einar sighed and settled himself back into his customary position in the center of the room, long arms slung by his sides, feet planted squarely on the floor.

The corseted woman had been another one of those misfit types. They seemed to have a real disregard for authority, but at least they broke up the monotony of his day. Without their frequent pilgrimages to the Duvall Museum's Gray and Green Room, he'd probably never see another human until his shift ended at four o'clock.

Now that the woman was gone, he was alone as usual with his charges.

Gray and green. The colors of the Aarhus family crest. Some wrinkled patriarch of the Aarhus clan once made a sizable donation to the Duvall. In return, they'd named this overgrown alcove in his honor and hung up a dusty collection of Aarhus family portraits he'd bequeathed to the museum ‘for the betterment of the people.’

Einar looked at the solemn faces of long-forgotten Aarhus ancestors and thought once again that even this small space was too grand for them.

All but one, perhaps.

The one that drew quirky visitors like that woman.

The one painting in the room worth the nail it was hung on.

The Archer.

She was tall and fair, a faint smile lifting the corners of her rosebud lips. She wore a diaphanous gown, and in one hand she held a golden bow. In the other, pinched between two dainty fingers, was a black arrow. She peered out confidently from the frame with an uncanny glint in her eyes.

Yes, Einar could see her appeal.

And the legend was interesting too. Some called it a curse. Stand too long before The Archer and she'd put her bow to work, piercing the offending viewer through the heart with her magic arrow so that they'd disappear and The Archer could once more see her domain.

With a reputation like that, she'd become a bit of a patron saint for the outsiders of the world.

Yes, it was interesting, but complete nonsense. Einar would know. He'd stood in front of The Archer six days a week for hours at a time and never once seen her take aim.

Footsteps in the hall snapped Einar to attention, and a man sauntered into the room. He wore heavy eyeliner, shiny black suspenders, and an olive drab coat. A camera hung from his neck, and when he saw The Archer, he lifted it and pressed the shutter button. Einar blinked, temporarily blinded by the ensuing flash.

"Hey," he blustered, pointing to a sign on the wall, "No flash, sir. It says so right here."

The man took two more quick pictures, the flash burning black spots into Einar's vision before settling the camera back on his neck and taking his leave.

"The nerve of some people," Einar muttered to himself. "No respect for museums or the paintings. No respect for people just trying to do their jobs, for that matter. Might as well be invisible."

Einar stopped fuming, and a shiver ran down his spine.

The Archer smiled on.

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