The beard was the tip-off. Only one man had it. And it was not for painting that Alastair knew him. This was Finnegan Cavanaugh. It must have been, what, 10 years or so, since the news reports streaked across the globe about the man, then only a boy. He was the son of New Age-y hippies living in a commune in Arizona. And he would have been utterly unimportant and left alone for the rest of his life had it not been for the day that a swarm of lights burst up around the kid, smack in the middle of a hippie flea market in downtown Phoenix. He actually managed to set fire to a stall with the lights, although no one knew how, at the time.
Rumors had persisted for years—hell, forever, actually—of people with more than human power, and Finnegan proved them all true in a day. News crews appeared out of nowhere, the police where called, a near riot took place as people rushed away and toward the scene, and the child was inconsolable, more for the attention than the fact he was at the center of a light-storm. His parents and grandfather moved to shield the boy, and the end of it was that Finnegan had to walk all the way out of town to his home in the desert—not only did he set fire to a stall, he fried any electronic device within the field of lights, along with a few hands and arms of those who tried to grab hold of him.
After that, the boy never set foot outside the commune, although the curious constantly checked up on him. The hippies were not welcoming, to say the least, of the idea that one of their own was being treated like a zoo exhibit, and sent reporters and such on wild goose chases across the desert to find the kid. Still, enough were lucky to catch a glimpse of him so that he never left the public eye completely, but other stories soon took greater important, and Finnegan Cavanaugh became something along the lines of, “Hey, remember way back about that light-show kid...?”
And then he suddenly reappeared professionally as “Finn”—one of the most prodigious and acclaimed fantasy artists in the world. Ironically, Finnegan had actually been known for years up until “he came out.” His paintings had been shown all over, but never with the artist. There were calendars, commissions, hell, Alastair had a tattoo lifted off a Finn painting. No one knew who this “Finn” was, and his agent was notoriously coy, playing the media like a harp. The man—woman?—had never been seen. No one ever put the two together, and “Finn” had become something of an art legend, a hermit that forsook the outside world for his art. There was even the idea that “Finn” was actually several people, an alias for other painters who saw fantasy art as not sophisticated enough a métier. So when he showed up, fully grown and filled out, at the San Diego ComicCon, it practically set off another riot.
But of the light-show, there was no sign. He was positively demure about it. The artist deftly handled all the questions, vaguely agreeing with everything but committing to nothing just the same. He was there to promote his work, and considering his fame, his stall—and that’s all it was, a stall—was ridiculously modest. Just a fold-up chair and a fold-up table, plus his paintings. By then, he had already developed his signature physical look.
And what a look. If people were going into the con to see the Light-Show Boy, they came out wondering how he got clothes to fit…and how to get a hold of his phone number. Among other things.
But as to his life between the time he burst onto the scene to that moment at the ComicCon, he demurred. The man was as mysterious as before, even though he was now in the public eye. Address? Mystery. Personal life? Mystery. Boxers or briefs? Mystery. He was very gracious, if a bit New Age-y Hippie over the whole thing. In fact, the only time he ever seemed annoyed was when people asked him to put on the light show. He responded if he should balance a ball on his nose and clap his flippers, too?
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