The Dungeon Artist, San Cristobal Castle, 1798
Last fall my husband and I visited Puerto Rico along with several other Caribbean sites. Though our time in Puerto Rico was brief, I was mezmerized by what I saw of the island—the vibrance and color and history. Never will I forget the street art. Loud, vast proclamations of condemnation of colonialism, of the arrogance of the country to the north that keeps Puerto Rican people reaching for representation and a vote. Regardless, Puerto Ricans continue to thrive and create and contribute to their own culture and the world.
While in Old San Juan, we visited one of the largest structural remnants of colonization’s early period in Puerto Rico, the fortress now called Castillo San Cristóbal. Perched on the cusp of the island, it represents power, and a fulcrum in the island’s history. My mind was incapable of processing even a fraction of what took place at the site; though from what I could apprehend, it would have been a place of enervating heat, suffocating smells, and dominance both of local inhabitants and those trying to rival Spain—the English, the Dutch. Today, San Cristobal Castle is an UNESCO World Heritage Site overseen by the National Park Service.
One particular sight at the fortress burrowed into my memory. It was a painting on the wall of a narrow, cramped dungeon that would have been almost entirely dark day and night. What mystery, what story there was behind this painting! My imagination wouldn’t let it go. A few months after I returned home, I wrote a piece of flash fiction about that dungeon that was recently published in The Petigru Review. I share it with you here.
Viva Puerto Rico!
The Dungeon Artist, San Cristobal Castle, 1798
He likely had days, not weeks, to live. A single gun slit at the end of the long, narrow dungeon, his only light. San Cristobal Castle, the largest fortification Spain had built in the New World, was to him nothing but a stifling prison passageway ten feet wide and fifty feet long, shared with a rotation of men bound for hanging. In earlier times, he had sailed around the world, drafting ornate maps for the English king; now his hopes were reduced to primitive paintings on a rough dungeon wall.
It was midday when the guard arrived, carrying a leather pouch of red ochre powder he had found at the market. A candle to see by. A painter himself, this guard had befriended the artist, intent on leaving his own mark on the place by assisting him. He even brought a tin plate to serve as a palette. A spoon to serve as palette knife. One brush.
Intent on working quickly, the artist picked up the plate, mixing the mineral with slop grease he had saved from meal times, depositing it, for that purpose, on a scrap of leather also provided by the guard. With a spoon clicking against the tin, he spit into the mixture and worked his medium into a paint-like consistency, straining his eyes in the flickering light of the candle.
The image on the stone wall was already outlined in black—the elegant masts of a ship, the outline of sails and broad hull. Taking the brush from the guard, the artist applied rust-colored strokes to the image before him. Though his medium was pasty and scant, his hand executed the image with skill. Again, he spit and mixed. Then spit and mixed again. Click, click, click. Sweat poured off of him. He should have saved more grease.
“I’m trying to sleep over here!” yelled a prisoner who slept round the clock to stave off gnawing hunger and the poltergeist of dread. What else was one to do in near darkness?
The guard shot back “Quiet!” before urging the artist to move more quickly—lest he be caught assisting him. When the guard turned toward the offender, candlelight shifted. The painting surface became obscured. The artist waited.
Imagining again the vessel he sought to render, he closed his eyes. A moment later, illumination returned and he set back to work. Standing close, the guard held the candlestick just over the artist’s shoulder. In the stench of his surroundings, the artist’s nose could not be trusted to gauge his own odor; he worried his smell was offensive. At times he stood near the gun slit for hours, hoping to catch the slightest breath of fresh air.
After applying a final stroke to the hull, he started on one large sail. Then another. Sensing the guard’s urgency, he moved on. Each sail appeared lighter than the one before, and little pigment remained. Before the last sail was painted, the guard shifted the candlestick from one hand to the other, gripping the cuff of his shirt and lifting the fabric to wipe sweat from his brow.
“That’s all for today,” the guard said abruptly, reaching to collect the paint brush into his candle-holding hand. In the other hand, he took hold of the tin plate, the spoon. Stepping back, he appraised the artist’s work and nodded approvingly.
At the door, the guard knocked, signaling a comrade on the other side to let him out of the dungeon.
“Can you return tomorrow?” the artist asked eagerly, hoping for another day to live.
Exiting, the guard shook his head with uncertainty.
Then, the slamming door. The heavy clang of metal—lock and key. And the return of darkness.
{This flash fiction was first published in the Fall 2024 issue of The Petigru Review}
Wren, winner of a 2022 Independent Publishers Award Bronze Medal
Winner of the 2022 Independent Publisher Awards Bronze Medal for Regional Fiction; Finalist for the 2022 National Indie Excellence Awards. (2021) Paperback publication of Wren , a novel. “Insightful novel tackles questions of parenthood, marriage, and friendship with finesse and empathy … with striking descriptions of Oregon topography.” —Kirkus Reviews (2018) Audiobook publication of Wren.
Your supposition probably isn't far off the mark.