Keith Merrill - The Evolution of Thomas Hall

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Merrill, Kieth, author.

The evolution of Thomas Hall / Kieth Merrill.

p. cm.

Summary: Artist Thomas Hall comes face to face with his concept of God when he is hired to create two very different murals.

ISBN 978-1-60641-836-9 (hardbound : alk. paper)

1. ArtistsFiction. 2. Burns and scaldsPatientsFiction. 3. ConversionChristianityFiction. I. Title.

PS3613.E7762E96 2011

813'.6dc22 2011001695

Printed in the United States of America

Worzalla Publishing Co., Stevens Point, WI

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Quotations appearing in the book come from the following sources:

Page 176, from Thomas Jefferson. From a letter written by Thomas Jefferson to William Short, in Thomas Jefferson, The Jefferson Bible: The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth (Boston: Beacon Press, 2001), 28.

Pages 212, 214, from Richard Dawkins. Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion (New York: Mariner, 2008), 51, 19.

Page 212, from Carl Sagan. Carl Sagan, Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space (New York: Random House, 1977), 50.

Page 255, from Charles Darwin. Charles Darwin, On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection (Norwalk, Connecticut: The Eaton Press, 1976), 445.

Page 261, from C. S. Lewis. C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity, Book 1, Right and Wrong as a Clue to the Meaning of the Universe (New York: HarperCollins, 2003), 17.

Page 293, from Saint Augustine. As quoted in William J. Fitzgerald, One Hundred Cranes: Praying with the Chorus of Creation (Washington, D.C.: ACTA Publications, 1996), 63.

Pages 437-38, from Charles Darwin. Autobiography of Charles Darwin, edited by Francis Darwin (London: Collins, 1958), 26.

To Dagny

Being best friends half a century makes spending

eternity together a delicious expectation.

Chapter 1

Thomas Hall was fascinated by the color of blood. It oozed alizarin crimson from the monsters mouth in a single deft twist of the hog-bristle brush. It dripped from jagged teeth in hues of amaranth and azure. It fell to the stony ground and crusted in a purple scab.

The artist stepped away from the cyclorama that curved into darkness on both sides of the work lights and squinted at the unfinished scene of primitive violence. For a moment he was both inside and outside the painting. His lips mimicked the snarl of the primitive beast unprompted by any conscious thought.

He used a smaller brush for a touch of cadmium yellow. The reflection of fire from the torches of primitive men. A spark of evil in brutish eyes. A glistening wet blaze on the tusk of a feline creature.

Thomas squinted to assess contrast and value. The scene was a depiction of Late Pleistocene. A saber-tooth crouched on the carcass of a mammoth calf. Hunters were trying to drive it away and claim its kill. The hungry Homo sapiens were thick and brutish, animal-like except for the humanoid musculature of perfectly drawn bodies.

As a teenager Thomas had collected the fantasy art of Boris Vallejoevery comic book, poster and graphic novel he could buy, beg, borrow or steal. Vallejos influence was evident in Thomass rendering of the ancient prehumans. In spite of shaggy hair, sloping heads and protruding brows, the apelike creatures were drawn with such magnificent physiques they could have appeared just as easily on the cover of Muscle Magazine as in a depiction of Cro-Magnon hunters 15,000 years b.c.

The prehistoric cat clawed at the thieves. One brute lay bleeding in the snow, his fur wrap ripped open. Deep gashes clawed across his chest. Thomas stained the snow with blood in a smudge of darkened carmine red.

An adult mammoth charged toward the hunters to protect her fallen young. The monster swung her massive head side to side. Her tusks ripped through the snow and heaved up a foul storm of frost and frozen tundra. The hunters stumbled back in terror.

In the mysterious inner sanctuary where Thomas could visualize whatever his mind could imagine, the men existed. He felt their fear. The beasts were alive. The moment frozen in time by paint on canvas was real. It was a mysterious dimension of his enormous gift.

It was late. The upper pavilion of Pacific Science Museum was deserted. Thomas was alone. But the bellowing of savage beasts and grunts of primitive men echoed in the darkness.

Chapter 2

Who is Thomas Hall? It was a fair question. Susan Cassidy was recommending the artist to the board of St. Marks Hospital.

At five foot nine in bare feet Susan Cassidy was impressive. In three-inch heels she was intimidating. She always wore heels.

No one called her Susan anymore. That had ended in second grade when she had crossed her arms, set her jaw and refused to answer roll call. My name is Cassidy! she had insisted. By sixth grade she was a rough-and-tumble tomboy everyone called Cass. The name stuck.

Cass touched a key on her MacBook Pro to answer the question. A picture of Thomas Hall appeared on the screen. A ravishing redhead with a silk bandolier proclaiming her MISS SCOTLAND was kissing him on the cheek. His arms were aloft with a Chesley Award in each hand; his face bore an arrogant smile.

Thomas leaned into the kiss from Miss Scotland with a confident smirk. The artists power of observation has been overpowered by his libido, Cass mused to herself, wondering if the guy had a clue why beauty queens looked so drop-dead gorgeous.

Cass knew. She had run for Miss Palo Alto when she was seventeen and learned all the tricks. Miss Scotlands flaming red hairdo was over- done and extended with a swirl of dyed horsehair. She wore five-inch spikes to make her legs look longer, super-bind control-top pantyhose to keep her stomach flat, duct tape to hoist and enhance her figure, Vaseline on her teeth to insure the endless smile, and WD-40 on her derrire to keep the evening gown from sticking.

Casss competitive nature clicked through a comparative checklist. Twenty-seven not eighteen. Brunette not redhead. San Francisco not Glasgow. Five nine not five four. Masters degree in communications not a certificate of cosmetology. Cass took smug satisfaction in superior dimensions: 342535. I never used duct tape, she thought, then blushed. Why do I care what Thomas Hall was thinking? Her eyes shifted from Miss Scotland to the artist. He was grinning at her.

Mr. Hall won Chesley Awards three years running, Cass said.

Whats a Chesley Award? It was Clinton Carver again. Cass expected him to pepper her with questions. Carver served as president of the board of St. Marks Hospital. In real life he was an attorney in a law firm with five names. His wasnt one of them.

Its like the Academy Award for a style of art Mr. Hall is interested in. Interested in? Agh! Bad choice of words.

Cass nodded at Kimberly Johnson, who fluttered her fingers like a first grader asking for permission to go to the bathroom. I wish we could see something hes done, she said.