“Private Notary” by Samuel M. Moss

The Private Notary wakes in darkness. It is November already and though there is no snow on the ground the cold seeps into his quarters. Out in the front room, he stokes up some embers in the wood stove, still glowing from the night before, and prepares a breakfast of tea and a soft boiled egg. He recites a short prayer of thanks to his Patron, then eats.

After eating he goes to the second floor and sits at a window with a view of the Estate’s central square. The window is quite small; only four panes in a rough wood frame. He has to pull a chair right up to the sill, but when he does this he is provided with a good view, just beyond a low roofline, of the main square. This is the best view he can get without leaving his quarters, which is good, because he hasn’t left them for years.

The square is an expanse of flagstones ringed by wooden storefronts. The Private Notary has always thought of the storefronts as being in the Styrian Style, though he cannot recall where he might have heard this, or even if it is true. At the center of the square there is a fountain, always left off. An equestrian statue covered in a layer of verdigris rises from the center of the fountain. He has never learned the identity of the rider. It could be The Patron, though this would be a little grandiose for his tastes. More likely some Central European nobleman whose thought The Patron admired.

The square’s flagstones are very neat. Every few weeks Gillian, the caretaker, comes out to sweep up any leaves that have fallen or reset any loose stones. The doors of all the buildings surrounding the square are always closed and their shutters set tight. Aside from Gillian the square is otherwise always empty.

At the far right of the Private Notary’s field of view there is a long stone wall punctuated by the main gate to the Patron’s residence. The gate is black iron ornamented with gold filigree, always closed and locked. On the other side of the wall is a dense forest and he cannot see what lies beyond.

For the first few years of his appointment he missed living in the city. Looking down onto the lights, the constant noise, each reminders of humanity’s presence that he had always taken for granted. The Estate was built to house hundreds, but for the entirety of his appointment there have never been more than a dozen souls in residence at any one time. Usually far less. This degree of solitude has brought him close to his breaking point more than once and though it has taken some getting used to, now—when the mail comes—he retires to his room until he is alone again.

After digesting his breakfast he passes through a door opposite the window into his office. For light there are gas lamps. Each must be lit by hand. He had never seen real gas lamps before taking his appointment, and they had taken some getting used to. The Patron has a predilection for these kinds of objects: expensive, impractical, laborious but containing an indelible haecceity. They give off a warm light and he finds it hard to imagine going back to the sterile glare of electric light. 

His office is minimal and neat: a small desk, a chair. On the far wall behind the desk are two doors. The room through the door on the left is his notarial library, assembled by the Private Notaries who had served before him. Many of the volumes inside include commentaries in the margins, hand-written by the prior Private Notaries, that are as valuable as the works themselves. Some of these have commentary on their commentary, a record of the evolution of thought that has occurred over decades and exists in this library alone.

Through the other door is his room of Seals. At the beginning of his appointment this room had been empty but for rows of shelves and a workbench. Where the work of the Notary Public is to determine and verify the identity of a member of the public and apply their state seal to a document, the Private Notary works only for their Patron, and must be ready to seal any contract that is presented to them in any realm.

In the years of his appointment, the Private Notary has in fact never met his Patron, or in fact notarized any document. This time, all these years, have been spent in study and preparation for when his services will be needed. When this may happen, and how it will manifest, he does not know.

***

On first securing his appointment, The Private Notary had been chauffeured out to the estate, a drive of many hours through anonymous forest.

He had been accompanied by a woman who introduced herself only by her title, the Patron’s Seneschal. Midway through the drive she turned to him and said, “You must understand that the Patron’s wealth, status, and influence require him to live under conditions of detachment from society. Due to the sensitive nature of your position in particular, your ability to come and go must be curtailed.” 

At the time he had thought she was exaggerating. Since arriving at the estate, however many years it had been, the Private Notary had never left. Whenever he needed something, whether for a seal or his personal needs, he wrote up a letter of requisition, placed this in his mailbox and—somewhere between one day and six months later—the item arrived. Having a patron of such significant means meant that few objects were out of reach, whether through purchase or other means. Rare stones, supposedly lost works of art, parts of endangered or extinct animals, and illicit materials had all been required at some point or another in order for the Private Notary to complete a seal. All of these had arrived without issue.

About a year into his appointment the solitude was taking a toll and the Private Notary had sunk into a months long depression. A man had come to the Private Notary’s quarters. He introduced himself as the Groom of the Stole and taught him the Patron’s name, or one of his names.  This man had told the Private Notary not to speak the name out loud or share it with anyone. Knowing this name, he told the Private Notary, would be one of the few concrete, worldly, means of identifying the Patron or an imposter.

***

Around mid-morning the Private Notary hears footsteps coming to the door, then the sound of a package being set outside. He waits in his office during this time, then for some time after. Though unlikely, it is possible that some malicious party would come—whether dressed as the letter carrier or under some other guise—and lure the Private Notary into notarizing a document against his will. When he steps outside he finds a crate of supplies.

The box contains bread, milk, cheese, and sausages to last him through the next week, as well as a few supplies he had ordered recently: a flask of quicksilver, some antelope’s teeth, and a piece of paper manufactured in Western China during the fifteenth century.

As he turns to go inside a voice comes from the street.

“Morning!”

He sets the box down inside and is about to close the door when he sees it is Amos, the Patron’s landscape painter.

“Was hoping I could catch you,” Amos calls.

“Back? Come in Amos.”

Amos is a thin, bespectacled man with a wispy ring of hair around a bald spot. The Private Notary had always found his demeanor to be unpredictable. Amos comes in and sets a rucksack on the floor. The landscapes Amos had shown him over the years were adequate, though in the old style.

The Private Notary sets out a plate of cookies and puts water on for tea.

“How many years has it been since we last saw each other, Amos?”

“Four? Five?” Amos picks up a cookie and looks it over before taking a bite. “The Patron’s kept me busy. Moving me from estate to estate. Image to image. Working me to my very limit. Of course this is what we’ve signed up for, haven’t we? And the things I’ve seen in that time. The things…” He takes a bite then looks off with a glassy stare.

“I’d ask you to tell me about them, but of course you couldn’t,” the Private Notary says. “The others, that is?”

Amos returns to himself. His brow furrows, a look of disappointment—maybe sadness—at finding himself once again in the Private Notary’s shabby quarters. 

“Not a thing.” He shakes his head. “Not to you, not to anyone.”

“I wouldn’t expect it any other way.” The Private Notary pours water into their mugs, and sits across from Amos. “But the landscapes, you’ve brought some?”

“Oh of course, of course.” Amos brightens. “Those you can look at as long as you’d like.”

Amos opens his rucksack and pulls out a stack of canvases, each no more than a few inches on a side and wrapped in translucent paper. Very small, very detailed landscapes were Amos’ specialty. This style had come into fashion with the Patron’s set, an aesthetic revolt against the increasingly larger canvases that had, for so long, been a signifier of wealth. Early on, the Private Notary thought this showed that the Patron held a progressive attitude toward the arts. Over time he had come to believe that the very opposite was true. 

Amos hands one of the canvases across the table.

“I cannot, of course, reveal where any of these were made, though you may notice that the paintings were executed with a new theory.”

The Private Notary holds one of the canvases before him. It is about four inches by six and depicts a twilit pond. Little dots punctuate the painting, though he cannot tell what they represent. 

“Here, use this.” Amos gives him a hand lens.

The Private Notary takes the hand lens and holds it before the painting, tilting it to better catch the light. He finds that each of the dots is an entire object—a bush, log, rock—rendered in great detail.

“Very good.”

Amos smiles. “If you look very closely you might notice something else. Or perhaps it’s absence.”

The Private Notary sets the painting down. “No animals.”

“Quite right!” Amos says, smiling, “Quite right: no animals. No animate creatures of any kind.”

“The landscape in its purest form.”

“Very much so. Taken even to the extreme. The landscape, over the last century, has been thought of as the most mundane style of painting. But this couldn’t be further from the truth. It has taken me, a practitioner, years to understand. True, there are landscape paintings out there that show nothing more than a pretty forest or field. This is not what I’m referring to. A true landscape painting is quite subversive. But its subversion lies in what it does not show. The Old Masters knew this but never spoke of it openly. Here, let me ask you, what does a landscape painting depict?” 

“An image of the earth.”

“An image of the earth and sky and sea. This apparent absence of life is not to be discounted. The expert landscape painter knows what is missing. He has removed every last residue of animate life very much on purpose. And why has he removed it? Because he has spared us the sight of something we must not see. The landscape painting is the boundary through which the unknown hides. Only those who know this can see what is hidden by the line of trees, beneath the water, behind a line of mist. I have been taught this. This and a great deal more.”

“Taught? By the Patron?”

“The Patron? Yes of course by the Patron.”

“Very interesting.” The Private Notary says. He unwraps another canvas. This one shows a rock outcropping under an overcast sky. The canvas is composed of various shades of gray, except for a thin line of vibrant red: the evening sun at the horizon. Looking through the hand lens he can see parts of the rock glowing where the sun strikes it. As he traces the angles of the outcropping the painting seems to shift, and the hair on the back of his neck rises. He puts the canvas down.

“You have met him then? The Patron?”

“In the flesh? Not yet. No, these lessons are learned through the directions I am provided. When to move and where. The books of theory I am directed to, the parts of his personal collection that are opened for me to view and study. It has taken me so long to learn the language through which he speaks. He speaks to all of us, to you too. We must simply learn his language.”

The Private Notary nods at this.

“He’s brought me here, of course. I start a new series of works tomorrow.”

“What is it you’ll be painting?”

“Many things, though I am most excited to capture the ruins of the chapel on the hillock beside the rye field.”

The Private Notary tries to remember where on the estate this might be, but it has been so long since he has walked the grounds he cannot picture it.

Amos finishes his tea and packs up his work.

“I have to go stretch canvases. May I visit you again?”

“Of course Amos.”

The smell of turpentine lingers in the room long after he has left.

***

The Private Notary takes his new materials upstairs to his Room of Seals. This room, to the untrained eye, looks much like a Wunderkammer. Shelves on every wall are filled with a variety of materials: a piece of rusted metal sits beside a stone dodecahedron, a four-foot-long helical horn takes up a long stretch beside a lacquerware box. Jars of various sizes sit among chunks of wood, pelts, leaves, a brick. Many objects defy easy definition. There are assemblages that could be mistaken for a rough sculpture or an antique tool. A two-foot space that appears to be totally empty holds those seals that are abstract or disincarnate. All of these, seals for the Private Notary’s art.

He shakes the bag of antelope teeth out onto the worktable beside a book open to a chapter on a seal for enacting terms of Disconsolate Monads.

He pulls down a seal in progress in the form of a small brass showcase. A piece of patterned blue and red silk is folded neatly in the bottom. Pins stick up through the silk at the points of a hexagon. The Private Notary takes out various tools from the table. He references the book, measures one tooth, makes a mark then drills into the crown. He looks hard at what he has done, consults the book, then sets another tooth in the chock and continues.

He goes on in this way until all of the pegs in the box have teeth on them, then sets this back on the shelf.

***

In his dream, the Private Notary finds himself awake, in his bed. There is a force driving him to move. So he rises, goes downstairs and opens the door. The street outside is quiet. A soft breeze passes. He cannot see the moon but the world is illuminated by some other source of light. 

The feeling is as if he has an important appointment he will miss if he does not hurry. That he is in a dream is clear, he knows nothing can hurt him so he steps outside. He takes a left and walks at a good clip up the street. As he passes a series of boarded-up store fronts he wonders if the details of the buildings are from memory or if his mind is creating them. 

Soon enough the cobblestone road ends and he finds himself on a footpath. This takes him through some trees, then out into a hillside covered in grass that waves in the wind. The ruins of a small building are just visible near the bottom of the hill. Between him and the building stands a figure. Pausing, he marvels that a dream could feel so real.

He cuts through the grass to the figure and, as he grows closer, can tell it is Amos. There is a large easel before Amos that is at least nine feet tall. The canvas set on it must be seven feet on a side. Amos is hunched awkwardly before the easel, his knees bent, a brush held out before him. The Private Notary stops behind him.

The Private Notary clears his throat. Amos does not move. 

There are just a few outlines on the bare canvas, so the Private Notary looks past it to the scene Amos is painting. The landscape is a hillock topped with the ruins of a chapel, a line of trees beyond just visible in the lightless light.

“Amos,” The Private Notary says quietly.

Amos, without moving, says, “Yes?”

“Why are you painting out here Amos? It’s so dark.”

“This is how I always paint,” Amos says. “I don’t need the sun’s light here.”

A breeze comes through. The grass bends and waves.

Though Amos has not moved, The Private Notary can now make out the hillside on the canvas.

“And your canvas, it’s so large”

“Yes,” Amos says. “When I bring them back they get much smaller. You’ll see.”

The Private Notary looks up. He can see a few wispy clouds but no stars.

When the Private Notary looks at the canvas he now sees that the scene is nearly complete. Only the chapel is absent.

“Can you see it?” Amos says. The Private Notary looks at the canvas, then to the scene beyond. “It’s there now. It’s always been here. It’s why the Patron chose this place.”

He cannot understand how something as unremarkable as a ruined chapel would cause the Patron to put an estate here. The Private Notary looks beyond, looks back at the canvas, then looks beyond again. He feels suddenly perplexed, though he cannot say at what. He has a question on the tip of his tongue, but all he can think to say is, “What sort of dream is this?”

“I’m giving you all the answers,” Amos says. “But if you keep asking the wrong questions you won’t learn a thing.”

He realizes then that Amos is not talking about the chapel, but something past the chapel, even past the trees.

For a moment the Private Notary almost thinks he can see it.

***

There is a knock on the Private Notary’s door. He has slept in. He never sleeps in. It would be Gillian. He was a stocky, tottering man with a mop of red hair. When the Private Notary started his appointment, Gillian had already been at the estate for years, had seemed ancient then and seemed, somehow, just as ancient now. They met for tea every few weeks, Gillian coming over since the Private Notary stopped leaving his quarters. Gillian took the Private Notary’s solitude in stride and never so much as mentioned it.

By the time the Private Notary had thrown on some clothes and made it into the main room Gillian was already standing inside. He says “Hello,” and sits at the table. The Private Notary says “Good Day,” and puts water on the stove. 

There had been a time in the past when they engaged in long conversations. They would, of course, talk about the goings on around the estate, but would touch on topics further afield as well. Maybe it was age, or the wearying grind of work on the estate, but over the years their conversations had grown similar. They came to talk less, sat in silence more until, a few years back, aside from Hello and Goodbye they had simply stopped talking altogether.

The Private Notary makes the tea and serves it to Gillian with a slice of bread and butter. They drink slowly, not looking at each other, not looking out the window, but simply sitting in each other’s company.

When it has come time for Gillian to leave—his cup empty, the bread gone—he instead remains. The Private Notary can tell something is different. Gillian shifts in his chair and plays with his thumb.

“What is it Gillian?”

“There’s news.” 

The Private Notary catches his eye for the first time.

“What’s news? News here?”

“Quite.”

“Good news or bad news?”

Gillian fiddles with a ring. “Just news. News all the same.”

“There’s never news.”

“Well there is now. Lots of it. Or, rather, much of it.”

“Well, let’s hear it then.”

“Still, I’d hate to tell it and disappoint. Were it to not to come about. The news.”

“Then it’ll go down with a grain of salt. Any news I get I take that way. One must.”

“Surely, surely. Though this news…” Gillian trailed off.

“Say it! Say it or get out.”

Gillian nods, apparently having taken no offense at the Private Notary’s outburst.

“They say.” Here he looks to the door, then leans over the table. “An advent is at hand”

“The Patron?”

“The very same. A week, maybe two. They won’t let just me get the place set for him. Soon enough this place will be bustling.”

The Private Notary sits in silence, feeling something between weightlessness and fear.

“I’ll need more time Gillian.”

Gillian shakes his head. “The stars will not tarry.”

***

The Private Notary spends the next week working assiduously. Each morning, after eating breakfast, he skips his time digesting and goes straight to work, breaking again only for a brief standing meal in the afternoon. 

He cleans and arranges all of his seals, repairing those that need it. He pulls down every book in his library and dusts their spines and the shelves on which they sit. As the days pass a feeling of excitement and fear grows stronger. It drives him and wears him thin.

On the eighth day, while going downstairs to eat, he glances out the window. The square has totally changed. Banners have been hung from the light poles, the shutters and doors for the storefronts have been opened. The fountain has been cleaned and filled, a dozen jets arcing from the edge to fill it. And there are others. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds: carrying bundles, pulling carts, painting facades, repairing the fountain. He does not recognize a single face.

He knows he must keep working, but he cannot pull away from the window. Sitting in his chair, he watches the activity and knows it is just the vanguard. 

Two carpenters are building what might be a box, or stage. One man holds a board while the other nails it in place. Their work seems so precise, mindless, repetitive. So different from his own. He wishes, for a moment, that he could join them. That he could have a definite place, a direction, that he could proceed mindlessly through rote action.

He goes downstairs, pulls his coat from the hook and dons it. On opening the door he finds Amos standing there with a stack of wrapped canvases under one arm.

“Ah, perfect timing.” Amos says. “Can you believe it? All these workers, all this action. Must be exciting for you!”

“Quite.”

Amos pushes past him and sets the canvases on the table.

The Private Notary takes off his coat.

“I’m glad I was able to finish my paintings in time, the whole rye field has been taken over. Tents and structures and so on. A complete mess. But I captured what I needed. Here, take a look. I’d like your thoughts.”

The Private Notary sits. Amos unwraps one canvas and hands it across. On first glance  the canvas seems to be little more than a mess of muddy browns and grays. As the Private Notary’s eyes adjust he can make out some faint shapes. He notices that the features of the painting become more clear when the light strikes it at a certain angle. Tilting the canvas from side to side causes the image to grow clear and faint then, for just a moment, he catches it. For a moment the features on the canvas resolve into a scene similar to the one he had seen in his dream, though from a different angle. He can see the chapel, the hillock, the line of trees. It is as if he can feel the wind and smell the grass and then he can see the outline of something immense and inscrutable just beyond the trees. That sense fades quickly but the lingering feeling of it—so tangible—leaves him dazed. He continues to tilt the canvas, trying to see it, but finds that he can not catch the light in the same way again.

“It’s very,” he pauses, searching for the right word, “realistic.”

Amos, smiling, takes the canvas, “The new technique. It’s been very productive. I’m looking forward to presenting these to the Patron, in person, when he arrives. I believe he’ll find them totally compelling.”

“I’m sure he will.” The Private Notary says.

“Of course provenance will need to be provided. I’ve had the documents drawn up, they just need to be notarized. Apologies for putting you to work, but you understand.”

“Yes, yes of course.” The Private Notary says. 

He rose and they went upstairs to his office. 

“I’ll need to find the correct seal. Take a seat and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

In the Room of Seals he searches for a seal for provenance. He does not find it where he would expect it to be. In fact everything seems out of place. He attributes this to the cleaning he had been doing. 

He turns to find Amos standing, smiling, in the doorway.

“So many, and they are all so beautiful.”

“Thank you. You’ll have to forgive me, this might take me a minute. I created a Seal for Provenance many years ago but haven’t ever used it.”

“I see.” Amos leans against the door sill. “Of course I know so little about your work but, as it intersects somewhat with my own, I’ve read up a little on it. If I understand the sources correctly, some seals can be stretched for a variety of notarizations. Correct?”

The Private Notary, moving aside a seal in the shape of a small enamel box, squints. “Some, yes.”

“So, for instance, you could use that seal there, for this task.”

The Private Notary turns to find Amos pointing to the seal for Disconsolate Monads. The Private Notary goes to it, picks it up and turns it, trying to make sense of Amos’s request.

“A Seal for Disconsolate Monads, to establish a work of Provenance?” He rubs his head, trying to connect the two. It feels like a cloud is seeping through a thin crack into his head. An image forms in his mind of the cloud seeping through the line of trees from his dream, into the real world, toward his quarters held at bay at the door of his room of seals though leaking through in a slow, thin thread, like tar through a failing sieve.

“Many things can be one thing, of course. I can see the stress of the advent is taking its toll on you. One just has to do their duty to their Patron without too many considerations.”

At the mention of The Patron’s name there is a break, like a breeze blowing the cloud aside, and the Private Notary can see clearly what Amos, or whatever is it that carries his name, is trying to do. He returns the Seal of Disconsolate Monads to the shelf.

“Unfortunately I cannot use that seal. And I must ask you to leave my office.”

“Tell me his name.” Amos says.

The cloud grows dense again. The Private Notary braces himself against the table. He goes to the other side of the room and pulls down a Seal in the form of a hanko. 

“Speak it.”

“I seal you.” The Private Notary says, “I seal you from this place.”

He hangs his head. When he looks up, Amos is gone.

He goes back downstairs in a daze and finds the canvases gone as well. An immense weariness overtakes him and he makes it to his bed just in time to fall asleep.

***

The sound of crashing cymbals and horns blown in long peals wakes him in the dark. It is slow, ritual music. 

He runs upstairs to the window.

Dozens of people enter the square in a procession, the only source of light comes from torches that some hold. Others carry banners or instruments of a strange make. The procession advances slowly, like a funeral march, though less solemn. Their movements are synchronized and effortless, as if it has been practiced many times. Each member of the procession wears a mask, some which cover only their eyes, others the entire face. Some masks suggest the features of animals, others are abstract. The Private Notary finds the style of their clothes hard to place. Not archaic, though not modern either. Most wear breeches. A few wear tunics. Many are colorful, in shades of maroon or teal. Here and there a tan or gray. He figures the colors signify their stations in the Patron’s office. Metallic glimmers at some of their chests suggest medallions catching the torch light. 

When they reach the gates of the Patron’s manor the members of the procession move toward the edge and face into the square.

There then comes a group of eight in white. Each wears a bare white mask that covers the entire face, each holds a censer. Smoke comes up and out of each censer but instead of dispersing, it settles in the square and grows thick. By the time this group in white reaches the gates of the manor, the square has filled with a fog so dense that the Private Notary can only see the outlines of those in the procession. 

The players grow quiet and the square becomes very still. A group of three riders canter into the square, a wildness about them. There are whoops, a long war cry, and a sound like whips cracking though he cannot see whips in any of their hands. They circle the fountain three times before stopping near the gate, their horses rearing and sidestepping. Though they are obscured by the smoke, it is clear that their dress and masks are the most ornate yet. Each wears a trailing cloak and their masks extend far above their faces. Something, perhaps red and green jewels, flash from them, bright enough to be seen clearly even through the fog. 

There is another pause. The members of the procession stand stock still. The riders’ horses step and rear. Then something like a large carriage—though he can see no horses pulling it—appears. More flashes come through the fog, all gold this time, some so bright he has to shield his eyes.

In total silence the carriage passes into the square then stops. The carriage door opens and a figure steps out, much larger than the others. When this figure turns, the Private Notary can see it has on a great many-pointed mask in the form of the sun, its rays stretching nearly to the ground and so bright that he can see it clearly even through the fog. At the center of the mask is a carved face with half-lidded eyes and full lips. The face scans the crowd then, for a moment, angles up as if looking directly at the Private Notary. 

The Private Notary is gripped by an overwhelming urge to join the procession. He runs down the stairs, pulls his coat off the hook and puts on his shoes. As he is doing this the players strike up again, not a song but a rising cacophony, as if each of them were playing their own tune at once. 

He steps outside. The fog is so thick he can hardly see a thing, though the noise is nearly deafening. He runs up the street, through an alley and out into the square. But for the fog he can only see lights—maroon, teal, red, white, and gold—flashing here and there, blinding in their brightness. He covers his eyes with one arm and can just make out the flagstones before him. The music seems to be growing distant, coming not from the left or right but instead from above. He feels around in the fog for the bodies that he had seen from his window, but touches nothing. Within a few seconds the lights begin to grow dim, their flashing less frequent. He drops his arm, looks around, takes an awkward step here and there. The edge of the fountain resolves out of the fog just before him. Afraid of falling, he sits on it and waits.

The lights grow ever more dim and less frequent, then stop altogether. The music fades to the point that he can no longer distinguish it from the sound of the wind blowing through the tree tops on the other side of the manor fence. The fog lifts. 

He finds that, but for himself, the square is empty. He looks toward the great gate of the Patron’s manor and sees it close with a soft click.

---