Monochrome (6 page)

It was hard to believe he was defending such a slimy occupation, though she understood his need to define his own place in the cruel society of Monochrome.

“Killing yourself is better than having someone else’s death on you.”

“You
can’t
know, Abby.”

He said it so quietly she barely heard him. He leaned against a steely tree, fighting to find the right words to convince her, but he let it go and continued with his story.

“Anyway, my Lead, Geoff, and I were about a fourth of the way through Monochrome. We stopped at a Hotel for the night. Geoff was particularly depressed because he’d given away a very important memory in trade for food and shelter.”

Ishmael studied his hands, rolling his lighter between them. “It was his daughter’s first word.”

Abigail gasped, not able to fathom giving such a memory of her Ruby away. “Oh, no.”

“Yeah. He was really beat up. I advised him to go to bed and try to recover, and he agreed.” He shook his head. “He went down to the Hotel bar after I was asleep. I’d seen Eric at the bar earlier, but I wasn’t worried. He seemed to have his sights set on a lonely older woman who was sloshed.” Abigail nodded, thinking she sounded just like his type of target.

Ishmael stopped fidgeting with his lighter and stared at his hands, a blank emptiness filling his eyes. “When I woke in the morning and knocked on his door, he didn’t answer. I headed down to the bar, figuring he decided against sleep, but he wasn’t there either. I thought maybe…maybe he couldn’t take it anymore, but he chose a worse fate, one all of us who have remained in Monochrome have chosen—to stay.”

He paused, listening to the forest. But, just like the smell of Monochrome, there was a lack there, too. No bird songs, no chatter of squirrels, no wind rustling the trees. Ishmael must not have heard what he was listening for in the unnatural silence. He dropped his head and continued in a dull whisper.

“I noticed the old woman from the previous night was still seated at the bar, so I sat down beside her and asked if she’d seen a black-haired, blue-eyed man. Geoff had baby blue eyes, the kind women love…”

He smiled bitterly. “The woman told me he came down shortly after I went to my room, and drank for a while by himself. She told me Eric gave up on her when she insisted she wasn’t interested in his ‘sleazy’ line of work.”

Abigail crossed her arms. “Good for her.”

Ishmael rolled his eyes at her but continued. “She noticed my Lead at the end of the bar, head in his hands. She thought he was crying.”

He paused to rub his face tiredly. “She said it didn’t take long for Eric to leave with Geoff. Geoff came to Monochrome having given up on life, more so than most people. He didn’t want to know how to leave or care if he returned to Reality. He only went as far as he did out of guilt over leaving his daughter with a woman he described as manipulative and unhinged. He didn’t have many good memories to start with, so when he let go of the few he had…”

He shook his head, weary. “It was an easy sell for Eric. He promised Geoff good memories—not a return of his own, but since he didn’t have many to start off with, I guess that didn’t matter to him.”

Ishmael rubbed his hands together as if trying to warm them, but the air was neither cold nor warm. Maybe he was trying to cleanse himself of the bad memory. “Snakes promise a secondary happiness. It’s tempting here, in a place that sucks the good out of you. Plus, like I said, being a Snake pays well, probably because it’s a job very few people are tempted into.”

Abigail crossed her arms. “I couldn’t live with myself.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. He might’ve been carved from ice; his body language was so cold. Again, she found herself confused by his mood swings. It’s not like she was chastising
him
or his choice of profession, which, given the alternative, seemed like a reputable decision.

She shifted away from his glare, changing the subject. “Okay, why are they following us? I mean, I get their job is to get me to stay in Monochrome, but why follow us now? I just got here. I’m not even close to the point where I’d give up.”

Ishmael glowered. “It’s me they’re following. Geoff wants me to fail you, to fail generally. He’s done this before, with other people I’ve led. He’s never succeeded in taking them from me, but, in the end, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference, I guess.”

He took off his hat and ran his hand through his long hair. “Eric has pitted him against me somehow. I don’t know what he told him, but probably not much of it was true. It doesn’t matter. Geoff was suspicious to begin with.”

It was tough to imagine why Geoff nurtured a grudge against Ishmael when he was in the company of a much worse person.

“I don’t see why he’s upset with you. He gave up, right? It’s not like
you
pushed him over the edge.”

Ishmael dropped his hat, and cursed under his breath. “Can we drop this? He’s just kinda crazy from this place, all right? He has an agenda against me. Maybe he feels like I failed him, and Eric has probably goaded him in some way. Eric and I are not on friendly terms. He’s…hurt someone I care about before…This is all beside the point.”

She was, again, confused as to why he was so angry with her for asking him pertinent questions. He grunted and stood, brushing off his hat and jeans.

“What matters is, they’re trying to get into your head and you can’t let them. No matter what.” He knelt and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Promise me.” He studied her eyes. “Promise you won’t let them get to you in any way.”

Abigail flipped her hair away from her eyes, “You must think I’m a sucker. I promise, okay? Nothing they do or say will get me to give up my goal. I’m going home. No matter what.”

“I don’t know about Geoff, but be especially leery of Eric. His tactics are always unpleasant, especially with pretty women.”

She blushed at the offhand compliment, but was also proud of herself for reading Eric correctly. Ishmael was still gazing into her eyes, his lingering stare causing the hair on the back of her neck to rise.

She closed her eyes to shut his out and to warm herself with something less gloomy. She thought of her husband’s beautiful half-moon eyes, full of intelligence and laughter. His laughter itself was rich and sparse, and always made her feel as though her troubles were weightless, like they’d float away in a comfortable breeze. She thought of the way her daughter’s whole body smiled when she was happy. The memories invigorated her.

She stood. “What are we doing sitting around? Let’s keep going. The more distance between us and them the better, right?”

“You must have something good to look forward to. Your positive energy is very annoying.” His words didn’t reach his face which was amused.

“You don’t think I’m annoying. You think I’m wonderful, and I am.” Abigail playfully punched his arm.

He put his hands up in mock defeat, his reluctant smile almost reaching the deep black of depths of his irises. She continued. “And, yes, I do have something good. Something great. I guess I just didn’t realize it until now.”

“We should stay to the woods a bit longer, but don’t worry, I know where I’m going. I just wanted to take the time to tell you what we’re up against. You warned me against holding out, and I didn’t want to be on the other end of your wrath.”

His face was bemused and not at all frightened of the prospect.
He might actually be frightened if he ever saw me truly angry.
But, for the first time since she arrived here, she didn’t think to doubt his intentions, and was surprised to feel she was beginning to trust this strange, sad man.

As they made their way through the eerie, steel blue forest, she felt her heart stir for him. She wanted to make it through this bleak place for her family, sure, but blood rushed through her veins when she looked at Ishmael. An old emotion warmed her body, and pulsed color into her cheeks. Staring at his tense back as he walked through the gloom, she realized she already cared about her Guide. It might be silly, but she wanted to make it to the border for him, too.
She
would not add to his defeat.

THE DARK
TREES
lost their silvery sheen as they moved further into the woods. Whatever the dim light that touched their smooth trunks, and from wherever it came, it didn’t reach them this deep into the forest. Abigail felt her skin crawl and jumped with every crack of a twig, so resounding against the eerie silence of the blue landscape. Though she still hear nothing but Ishmael’s light steps and her own breathing, she kept thinking of Geoff, imagining his black hair, the same dark, greasy color of his eyes.

They used to be blue
. Or so Ishmael told her. But she saw Geoff in everything around them, with Eric behind him, prodding him forward, his sick mind bent on reaching her. To keep these thoughts at bay, Abigail did she always did when she was nervous, she recited a poem under her breath. It instantly calmed her when she was upset. She studied the back of Ishmael’s coat, noticing the way his back formed a perfect V, broad shoulders and narrow waist. She quickly looked at her feet, not trusting the pull of her blood when her eyes slid over her Guide’s body.

Her voice was a hesitant whisper:

“Since all that beat about in Nature’s range,

Or veer or vanish; why should’st thou remain

The only constant in a world of change,

O yearning Thought! that liv’st but in the brain?”

Ishmael slowed in front of her and raised his head. She lowered her voice, embarrassed he might hear, but he dropped his head again, still lost in his own mind.

“Call to the Hours, that in the distance play,

The faery people of the future day

Fond Thought! Not one of all that shining swarm

Will breathe on thee life-enkindling breath,

Till when, like strangers shelt’ring from a storm,

Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!”

Ishmael suddenly stopped short to face her, amazement written into the lines around his eyes. “Keep going.”

She blushed and did not continue, too embarrassed he had, indeed, been listening. He stepped closer, a feverish set to his eyes. “Finish the poem, please.”

He wasn’t asking. He was imploring her to finish, as if her finishing the poem was the most important thing she’d ever do. She closed her eyes tightly. She couldn’t finish the poem staring into his pained, expectant face. She cleared her throat, wracking her brain, and began again: “Yet still thou haunt’st me; and though well I see,

She is not thou, and only thou are she,

Still, still as though some dear embodied Good,

Some living Love before my eyes there stood

With answering look a ready ear to lend,

I mourn to thee and say—’Ah! lovliest friend!”

She paused, trying to bring up the last stanzas, but it was difficult to finish the poem with the image of Ishmael’s expectant expression playing before her eyelids.

“Finish it.”

His tension was so thick she felt his strain, his clenched fists, his expectant stare, even with her eyes shut against him. She backed up a step.

“That this the meed of all my toils might be,

To have a home, an English home, and thee!

Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one.

The peacefull’st cot, to moon shall shine upon,

Lulled by the thrust and wakened by the lark,

Without thee were but a becalmed bark,

Whose Helmsman on an ocean waste and wide

Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.”

She stopped, for a moment, and listened to the rush of Ishmael’s breath. She wracked her brain, feeling a strange pressure to give him what he wanted to hear, feeling the importance of her words pulling at him.

“And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when

The woodman winding westward up the glen

At wintry dawn, where o’er the sheep-track’s maze

The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist’ning haze,

Sees full before him, gliding without tread,

An image with glory round its head;

The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues,

Nor knows he make the shadow he pursues!”

She opened her eyes and immediately met the black depths of Ishmael’s. She backed up further and found herself against a tall, skinny tree.

He noticed his proximity, backed away and lowered his eyes, suddenly perplexed by his own behavior. “Sorry. I just…Coleridge, right?”

“‘Constancy to an Ideal Object’,” she breathed.

He backed away even further and sat down in the black-blue dirt. A waft of the azure powder rose and fell around him. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to be demanding or…”

She slid down the trunk of the tree to sit on the ground, as well. “Weird?” She supplied, only half joking.

He laughed. “Yeah, weird. Sorry. You recite poetry beautifully. Even under pressure.” He coughed uncomfortably.

Abigail wrapped her arms around her knees. “What was that about, anyway?”

Ishmael picked at a hole in the knee of his pants. “I think I
knew
that poem. I must’ve given it up, probably a blue memory.” He paused, scratching his short beard absently. “I can’t say for sure, but I have other Coleridge poems in here still.” He pointed to his head. “When you recited it, I felt a twinge or something. It reminded me of the other poems I know by him, but I couldn’t recall that one, no matter how far you got. It’s like meeting a person whose name you should know, someone you liked or respected. You see them, you know their face, but, no matter how you try, you know you will
never
remember the name. It’s infuriating.”

She crunched a purple leaf under her shoe. “Like when I couldn’t think of my memory of Ash after giving it up. I thought of other memories I shared with her, but I not the one I gave. There was a hole in my memories of her.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s a blue memory?”

If she hadn’t been watching him, she might’ve missed his shiver. “One up from a purple memory, which is one up from a pink. A blue memory is more integrated into your life and relationships with others than a pink or purple memory. A blue memory is usually tied to a special person from your life, someone important. It’s tricky telling someone what the distinctions between pink, purple, blue, yellow and gold memories are, but it’s not necessary anyway. When you’re asked for a specific memory, only memories in that category will come to mind. I don’t know exactly how it happens. It’s like your mind is wired to this place.”

Ishmael watched Abigail to see if she understood his explanation. She didn’t know what to say. His explanation horrified her. To think a place could read one’s memories made her feel frigid to her core.

Shivering, she wrapped her grey scarf around her more tightly, and asked a question she thought might make him uncomfortable.

“Do you remember who that poem was tied to? I know your memory of the poem is gone, but do you know who made it important?”

To her surprise, he didn’t appear annoyed. Instead, he furrowed his brows seriously. “I still know another Coleridge poem by heart, but it’s not necessarily tied to anyone. I mean, it’s important because it just fits me.”

His thought process seemed strained to Abigail, as he reached for an answer inside his jumble of mixed memories, floating through his mind unattached to a companion.

“I was in high school when I went through my Coleridge love affair.” He smirked shyly. “So that means the memory was…I think…Jen’s.”

He said it matter-of-factly, as if her name didn’t matter at all. He seemed relieved to remember something about her poem, anything, but was not overly attached to the woman behind the name. Still, “Constancy” was about a man driven to desperation for a woman who was ideal in his mind, if not in fact. She didn’t understand how he sounded so subdued.

“She was important to you, then? A long-time girlfriend?” She knew she was being nosy, but she couldn’t help it. She was now very curious, for some reason.

But he only shrugged, stood and brushed his pants. “She probably was. I don’t know.”

Abigail stayed seated. “You don’t know because you have no memories left of her?”

“No, I
have
memories of her, just not good ones. I don’t know why I cared about her because all I have left are the fights, the awkward silences, and the obnoxious things about her.”

He shrugged again. “In my mind, she isn’t even beautiful because she seems so unlikeable. Though, in reality, she was physically beautiful. I believe she was among the first few good memories I gave up. And, as you know, once you give up one good memory of a person, the memories attached to them are all impacted in some way, so it just seemed like a good idea to keep giving memories of her rather than memories of all the people I cared about.”

Abigail couldn’t bear to think of what good memories Ishmael lost, and what good memories she might lose. She no longer wanted to talk about loss at all, and she was making him more morose than normal, so she changed the subject. “So…what’s the other poem?”

“What?”

“The other Coleridge poem you said you know by heart.”

He hmmmed in the back of his throat. “Well, it’s kinda long. Let’s see if you can guess from some of my favorite lines.” He cleared his throat, and an aspect of child-like excitement and pride came over him. She almost laughed to see it, but she didn’t want to hear her laughter echo in the silence of the blue forest.

He looked past Abigail while he recited.

“A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear,

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,

Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,

In word, or sigh, or tear.”

His
true
smile dimpled his cheeks and revealed even teeth.

God, he was handsome. She beamed, not sure whether she appreciated his smile or his choice of poetry more. “’Dejection.’ A good one to keep, especially here, though those are not my favorite lines.”

Ishmael’s black eyes glimmered. “No? Enlighten me.”

She paused and flourished her arm. He rolled his eyes but his body automatically leaned towards hers. She dropped her arm and shut her eyes to better remember the words.

“My genial spirits fail;

And what can these avail

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?

It were a vain endeavour,

Though I should gaze for ever

On that green light that lingers in the west:

I may not hope from outward forms to win

The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.”

She opened her eyes to see his face warm in pleasure.

He raised his eyes, which sparkled. “You cheated. That’s a few lines.”

Abigail floundered. “Sorry. I can’t choose. The entire poem is just…” She paused for the right words. “Coleridge just wrote so perfectly how I feel, you know? I feel out of reach from what I desire. Unable to contain or feel the beauty I see around me…So far beyond the joy of life, which I want to experience, but can’t for some reason. I read and write poetry because I feel so alone, sometimes. No one I know ever reacts as volatilely or depressed as I do in ordinary situations. But some of these men and women, they just
know
. They get it…”

She trailed off, feeling vulnerable and silly. Ishmael didn’t answer right away, but his face spoke for him. It was practically glowing. And his
eyes!
The black was held at bay by curious dancing flecks of green.

She shook her head in amazement. “I know I sound ridiculous.”

“No, you don’t. Not at all. And, yes, I know what you mean.”

Ishmael took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “That’s why I keep it. It comforts me to know someone, even if he’s long dead, can understand how I feel and can write it so perfectly. It’s not a super happy poem, and maybe I should’ve reserved my memories for happy things, but happy isn’t always the most comforting.”

She offered small, sad smile. “Especially when happiness is so foreign.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “How the hell do you know so much Coleridge? I’ve never met another person who quotes Coleridge and I used to know some pretty dorky people.”

“I am an English lit major. I’ll be finishing my Master’s next month, if I make it back. I like Romantic poetry, poetry generally.”

He stared at her in disbelief, his mouth falling open. “
When
you make it back. Wow, I’ve never guided another lit person! A physics guy, a philosophy guy, a computer science woman, a math girl, and a few various career people, but never another lit major.”

His dimple returned. “I knew there was something off about you.”

She laughed out loud, then covered her mouth, but he didn’t seem worried. He just raised his eyes to her.

“What?” she asked, quietly this time.

“Your outfit is different again,” he said in a whisper. What she saw conjured a surge of happiness that tingled in her fingertips. Her jacket had transformed from jet black to mustard yellow.

“My favorite color.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve always wanted a jacket this color. It’s like wearing a ray of sun. I just found something I like about this place.”

He stared unabashedly as he walked towards her. “Me too. It’s perfect on you.” He held out his hands to help her up. She took them and noticed his palms were rough and calloused, which surprised her.
What kind of work requires a Guide to work so hard as to gain callouses?
Once up, he didn’t let go of her hands immediately.

He squeezed her hand lightly after she was already standing.
It’s just pressure. Skin and nerves being pushed down upon. It’s nothing else.
But she swore there was a little something buzzing behind the thumb on the back of her hand, and not bad electric, like at the bar.

She lifted an eyebrow at him, and he released her hands. “Sorry.” But his voice wasn’t apologetic, and she noticed those same green stars dance in his eyes.

“Your eyes are being weird,” she said to him.

His grin faded, replaced by utter bafflement. “What?”

Abigail closed her eyes. What she was going to try might not work, but she figured she had nothing to lose in the attempt. She concentrated on a memory of herself applying make-up before her first date with Jason:
She was examining her face in her compact, a round green accessory, with yellow swirls on the front and a gold clasp closing. Her hands were shaking with nerves, as she closed the clasp. It filled the car with a loud
click
. The car door opened and Jason smiled, his white perfect teeth brilliant against his dark skin. As he ducked into the car, his long black-brown hair fell against his face and almost brushed his lap. Holy God, I’m dating the hottest man in the world, she thought to herself. The prospect did not calm her nerves. She put the green compact mirror in her jacket pocket.