The Ill-Fated Illustrations of Professor Reed
As the paint dried on the final canvas, Professor Reed brewed some tea. It was his third pot that day, but that was always the way these things happened. He would wake up at the crack of dawn, knowing what the first image would be. After he had finished bringing it to life, he would make some tea and the second image would materialise in his mind. The process repeated for the third image until the completed triptych lay before him. The third and final pot of tea was just an added bonus.
Stirring a cube from the sugar bowl into his cup, he surveyed the three images that made up today's triptych. He would always theorise about the link between the images but invariably his imagination would come up short when compared to the truth. He often wondered where his inspiration came from; was it a divine power hoping to warn him of the future, or was it that he was really really good at guessing? Professor Reed had yet to settle on an answer.
He was tidying away his cup and saucer (or "tea-quipment" as he liked to call it) when the telephone rang.
"Hello?" he answered chirpily.
"You knew," came the response, as if that was a normal way to begin a conversation.
"Knew what?" Professor Reed justifiably enquired, before following up with the equally justifiable, "Who is this?"
"It's L," the voice sighed, although it sounded like he was stifling a sob.
"L? What's the matter, old friend?"
"It's your triptych. You remember the one you sent to me last year, entitled '
What Happened to Beatrice'. Of course I received it politely at the time, smiling ponderously as one does with art that one does not truly understand. But you knew what would happen and you chose to tell me in a vague triptych? What kind of monster are you?"
Professor Reed was taken aback and slightly confused, though Lemony's reference to the triptych cleared things up.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" Lemony asked.
"L, please," Professor Reed implored, "remind me of the images I painted for you."
"You painted fire on one panel, a typewriter on another, and the face of a beautiful, intelligent woman on the third." At the mention of Beatrice Lemony began to weep.
"She died," Professor Reed asked, though it was more of a statement. "I'm assuming in a fire of some sort?" Lemony did not answer but he did not need to. The triptychs were never very forgiving.
After a moment of silence, Professor Reed continued.
"I'm so very sorry, L," he said calmly, "truly I am. If I had known what the images meant I would have told you immediately, you must believe me. Though I never knew Beatrice you often spoke highly of her, and even though her heart belonged to another your love did not waver. Oh, I can only imagine what her poor children must be going through."
"Yes," Lemony replied, "the children..."
"But you haven't explained," Professor Reed began, "how it all ties together. The first image was a fire, yes, that makes sense. And the third we need not dwell upon. But the second image of the typewriter, how does that fit in?"
Lemony did not respond, his mind racing as he thought about the children. They were suddenly alone in the world without a mother or a father. Who knew where they would end up? He needed to find them, to make sure that the offspring of his beloved were not captured by some nefarious villain. He needed them to grow up like their mother, to become volunteers.
"I'm sorry, Professor," he said brusquely. "There is something I need to do." He hung up the phone, leaving Professor Reed alone with his latest triptych.
He looked again at the three pictures before him: a sapphire, a pair of twins, and what appeared to be a question mark. Professor Reed scratched his head and shrugged, hoping that the subjects of this triptych would be more fortunate.