Chapter 1

The gnome had looked harmless enough. Friendly even, with his little round cheeks and snub nose. But as Vincent landed next to him, the little man started shouting.

“You clumsy oaf! Haven’t you any eyes in your head? You squashed my turnips. Get off, or I’ll . . . I’ll . . . ” He said nothing more, just stood there shaking his fist threateningly.

Vincent glanced around. He had landed a good way in front of the cave’s entrance, slap bang in the middle of a small and carefully looked-after vegetable patch. You couldn’t really see it just by simply looking at the painting, but that was always the way. There was always more to see than the picture an artist created; everything they had imagined as they worked was somehow there as well. That was why you never knew exactly what to expect.

Vincent struggled to his feet and stepped away from the root vegetables.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

But the gnome hadn’t finished. “Who are you, anyway?” he asked, looking Vincent up and down disapprovingly. “You look like a child, even if you have giant bear paws.” He gestured toward Vincent’s feet with his small wooden pipe. “And what are you wearing? Are you a pauper? Your pants are completely torn.”

“Huh? Oh, right, um . . . no,” replied Vincent. “These are jeans. It’s what we wear nowadays.”

He was ready for such questions. The figures in the paintings were often curious about his clothing, but for now, the gnome looked like he was finished with his interrogation, and he stared silently at Vincent with wide eyes.

“Um, well, anyway—my name’s Vincent . . . Vincent Fox. And I’m thirteen . . . so don’t call me a child,” spluttered Vincent, who was feeling uncomfortable under the gnome’s piercing stare. “But you’re right, I do have quite large feet for my age.”

“Bear paws,” grumbled the gnome again. Then he poked around a small silver tin of tobacco, stuffed some of it into his pipe, and puffing away, went back to his gardening. He wasted no more words on Vincent.

That didn’t surprise Vincent, either. Even though the figures were often inquisitive, they were generally far too wrapped up in their own little worlds to ask many questions. There were exceptions, of course, but nobody had ever thought to ask him how he had materialized so suddenly.

Blinking, Vincent looked toward the gently sloping hillside that stretched beyond the vegetable patch. In any case, he wasn’t there to chat; he was there to take a stroll in the fields. Vincent thought the countryside painted by Carl Spitzweg* was simply beautiful. It was almost more beautiful than reality.

He took a deep breath and set off down into the valley. Crickets chirped around him, rays of sunlight danced between white clouds, and the sweet scent of wild mallow wafted in the air.

Not many painters managed to capture the smells. Paintings by less talented artists usually contained no aromas at all; although if you were really unlucky, they would reek of oil paints.

Vincent climbed up onto a fallen log that lay across the path. He had heard a sound in the distance—a church bell.

The hairs bristled along his forearms. He didn’t particularly like the chiming of bells. It always reminded him of the evening of his first visit to a painting. Back then, though, it had been a different sort of bell . . .

It had happened shortly after Vincent’s tenth birthday, in Grandpa Arthur’s studio. Vincent’s mum was away traveling again. Arthur had made dinner, and while he was doing so, he allowed Vincent to use his watercolor crayons. But before Vincent had a chance to grab the box of crayons, an oil painting he hadn’t seen in the studio before caught his attention. It was a seascape of a sailboat being tossed about on the waves in a strong storm. The colors on the canvas had immediately drawn Vincent under their spell—the dark yellow-gray sky and the white spray of the waves crashing over the bow of the boat.

Vincent still remembered it, the way it all suddenly felt so real. It was as if all he had to do was stretch out his fingers to touch the salty seawater. And it was then that he heard the sound.

Ding, ding, dingalingaling.

It was only later that he realized the sound must have come from the ship’s bell. He had felt dizzy for a moment or two before he unexpectedly found himself sliding across the cold, slippery planks.

That evening, he had nearly drowned, saved only by the fact that he landed abruptly—soaked to the skin—back on the rug in Grandpa Arthur’s studio.

That was almost three years ago, and a lot had happened since then.

First, of course, Vincent had to get over the shock, and so, too, did the rest of his family. Nobody could figure out what had happened. It was impossible to jump in and out of a picture; nobody could do a thing like that! Except . . . Vincent clearly could.

Two weeks later, Vincent dared to glance at a painting again, this time a still life of an apple that hung in Arthur’s hallway.

The fruit sat on a blue background and Vincent focused his thoughts on the different shades. He felt terrified, but at the same time, he was far too intrigued not to try it again.

It lasted no more than a moment, but there he’d been, sitting at a table in a farm kitchen. Bees were buzzing outside the window and a cat was rubbing itself against his legs. That was much more pleasant than the experience aboard the sailboat.

After that, Vincent had visited the apple painting a few more times. But only the apple painting. He didn’t dare try any others. But after a while, he began to find the farm kitchen rather dull, and little by little, his courage grew.

Van Gogh, Renoir, Monet—Vincent had now visited so many paintings by these and other famous painters. Yet he remained cautious. For example, he had never visited a battle scene. And he avoided pictures with too much water because he had no desire to die just yet. He didn’t want to worry his mum, either. She felt it was all far too dangerous for him. The only reason she allowed him to go picture-visiting was because she knew she couldn’t stop him. But she would have found very little to worry about in the Spitzweg landscape he was currently visiting. As far as he knew, hardly any peaceful paintings existed.

Not far away, Vincent heard the whistle of a steam train. He hurried through a thicket and stumbled across two faintly glimmering rails.

He cheerfully began to follow the tracks, hopping over the railway sleepers. But as he took a particularly long leap, his right foot slipped underneath the rail and with a soft squeak, his sneaker became stuck firmly beneath it. Vincent plunged forward and hit his knee on the iron rails. It hurt like anything. He pressed his lips together, picked himself back up, and rubbed his kneecap. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be anything serious. Vincent spotted some blood on his jeans. It was clearly not from his knee, but a small cut on the palm of his hand. He found a graze on his forearm, too.

He carefully tried to remove his foot from between the rails, but his sneaker was completely stuck. Vincent would have to take his shoe off and then ease his foot out of the rails.

But just as he was pulling at his laces, he suddenly heard a whistle. Horrified, he turned around.

A train was approaching, white cotton candy steam whooshing up into the air. The locomotive was still some distance away but sweat began to bead on Vincent’s forehead. He frantically fumbled with his laces. The knot would not loosen, and in his haste, he was probably pulling it even tighter. Blood began to sing in his ears.

Flippin’ heck!

There were hundreds of terrifying paintings teeming with dragons, battle-axes, and demons. And here he was, about to die in a landscape. It was almost laughable!

Tears pooled in Vincent’s eyes.

He pulled his shoe with all his might. If only he had a pocketknife, he could cut the laces!

Another whistle pierced the air. The train was getting closer, perhaps even faster, too, just as Vincent had feared.

“Stop!” he yelled helplessly. He waved his arms, but the steam engine did not slow. Couldn’t the driver see him? In his despair, Vincent placed his free foot on the gravel next to the track and tried pushing himself as far away from the rails as possible. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

He heard another whistle, closer this time. His stomach did a flip . . . and then someone right next to him swore: “Drat!”

Something pressed down hard on Vincent’s shoe. There was a ripping sound, and Vincent felt his foot slide out of the shoe.

“Take my hand!” the gnome yelled.

Vincent was swept to one side by the rush of wind as the train cars flew past. As he fell, he saw a tree stump next to the track but could do nothing to avoid a collision. His forehead smacked hard into it, and everything went black.

When Vincent came to, he was lying on the ground. His back felt damp and there was the smell of freshly dug earth. He sat himself up, feeling dazed.

He was more or less in the same place in the picture where he had first landed, although this time he was outside the vegetable patch—that was lucky!

“Fool,” griped a familiar voice. The gnome was perched on a carved garden bench with a thunderous expression on his face. “You were nearly run over by a train!” He...