Monochrome Page 6

  “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.
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  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.

  She remembered this memory because she left the compact in Jason’s car after their first date, and he called her just minutes after she left his car to tell her he had it. She suspected he called her just to hear the sound of her voice. She’d never known someone who craved her time and presence so much. It was a lovely feeling.

  She felt the pocket of her mustard coat get heavy, and she grinned. She reached into her pocket and closed her hand around the cold metal of the compact. She pulled it out of her pocket with a triumphant, but quiet, yelp.

  Ishmael’s eyes were shocked. “How did you…”

  Abigail shrugged. “I don’t know. I just thought it might work. And it did. And why not? It’s an accessory, after all.” She flipped the case open to reveal a small, magnifying mirror inside and handed it to him.

  His face was still shocked as he took the small mirror from her. But he studied his eyes in the mirror, holding it close to his face, fighting against the non-existent light in the dim forest.

  “I’ve never seen this happen before.” His voice was thick with disbelief.

  “What is happening?”

  He held his eye lids open and studied his irises. “They’re changing back.” He beamed. “My eyes used to be greenish-brown before this place took their color.” Ishmael’s voice trailed off as he studied his eyes one last time and handed the small mirror back to her.

  “You mean they weren’t always creepy?” Abigail joked.

  Ishmael chuckled quietly. “No. They weren’t always creepy.” His voice grew serious. “The eyes are the doors to the soul, right? The blacker your soul is…” He didn’t finish the gloomy sentence. He shook his head at her and pursed his lips.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  She guffawed. “You’re not sure what you’re thinking.”

  He scratched his short beard and a distant expression stole across his face. “I’m not sure what the change means. But you’ll be the first to know if I figure it out. As it is, we need to find a place to sleep. We can stay in the woods, but it’s far from safe, and not just because of the Snakes.”

  Abigail frowned. “What else?”

  “I know it seems like this place is never light, and it isn’t, but it gets much darker when nightfall hits. And strange things happen in this place at night. The fog,” he shivered, “is alive and it bogs sleepers down. It can create some very real nightmares, and Nightmares walk in Monochrome.”

  He paused to see if she wanted to ask any more questions, but she decided she’d heard enough for now.

 
; “So what’s the other option?”

  “We keep walking until we reach an Inn and stay there. Only, if we do, you’ll have to give another payment.”

  Abigail chewed her bottom lip nervously. “What kind of memory will I have to give?”

  He put his hands in his pockets and examined his feet. “It depends on the Inn.” Clearly, neither decision was a great one, but she didn’t relish the thought of giving more memories than necessary.

  “Weighing the options, I guess I prefer to find a cheap Inn, as cheap as they come.”

  He grimaced, but nodded in agreement. “Making decisions here is like this, Abby. You always have to choose between two shitty options. Having stayed in the woods only a few times, though, I think this is the best route. I’ll pay for me.” He played with something in his pocket, probably the strange rock-like currency. “So you’ll just have to take care of your room.”

  “Well, let’s get started. We’ll walk for as long as we can today. As long as you think it’s safe. And we’ll stop at a cheap Inn for the night. Hopefully we won’t have too many more nights ahead of us?” She watched the brown-green sparks dance in Ishmael’s eyes and asked, “How many nights do you think it will take to get to the border?”

  “It’s difficult to tell. We have a couple hours of the silver light left tonight and, if we start early tomorrow, we’ll get through in…,” He scanned the forest, seeing past it, bringing up a map in his mind. “Maybe four or five days.”

  He noticed her dismay and laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’s longer than you thought, I know, but you’re doing great. Let’s just take this a day at a time, okay?”

  She forced complacence onto her face. “Let’s get as far as we can tonight.” He took his hand from her shoulder and walked away. She sighed, dejected, and followed.

  They walked for what seemed like a couple of hours. Ishmael said it was fine to go back on the path and either ignored or refused to answer Abigail when she asked why the glassy black path only showed itself for him and the Snakes.

  She, again, found herself amazed at the sameness of the landscape of Monochrome. It was as if they were walking through an oil painting, made with variations of blues, greys and blacks. The landscape shimmered with the eerie silver light, like the gleam of a wet oil painting. Each blue tree and grey twig seemed like the twin of another they’d already passed a hundred times. Like usual, Ishmael was pretty quiet during the walk, but he seemed much less morose than when they started.