Monochrome

by H. M. Jones

  She knew he was right, but she was very nervous about being put further off schedule to walk to a place Ishmael might find, and might not be occupied. “I think you know what you’re capable of and you know this place, so you should decide.”

  “It’s not my job as a Guide to tell my Lead what we’re doing. It’s the job of a Guide to give the Lead choices and let the Lead decide her fate.”

  She leaned forward. “If I weren’t your Lead and was, instead, your friend, which option would you choose?”

  Ishmael scanned the area nervously, as if he was sure there were spies waiting to sell him out for failing in his job. Abigail tapped her foot, but waited for his answer. Finally, he rose and offered her his hand. She took it and allowed him to help her up. He held onto one of her hands and led her further into the forest.

  *

  Darkness became more tangible the deeper into the forest they went. The air cooled and a white, misty fog trailed them. It must’ve been an hour since they left the path. Ishmael walked determinedly ahead, his hand tight around Abigail’s. She tried to let go once, but he shook his head. “Night is coming. Nightmares don’t always linger near their dreamers. Stay very close.” He didn’t elaborate, but his voice was afraid.

  Several minutes later, Abigail was just about to ask Ishmael if he was lost when he stopped suddenly and peered ahead into the impossibly dark, dense wood. “What is it?”

  He drew her towards a very old, very large tree. She noticed, as they got closer, something was scratched into the bark, a rough diamond shape. “This is it. It should be just a short walk from here.”

  He exhaled in relief and watched the dimming silver light. “Just in time, too. The fog is coming in more quickly than I expected.”

  They walked a short distance, and a small clearing opened before them. She noticed the faint outlines of a petite dwelling. It appeared, from afar, to be empty. Her heart felt immediately lighter.

  “Stay behind me,” Ishmael cautioned in a whisper. “It doesn’t look like anyone is in there, but you never can be too careful here.”

  They tiptoed up to the tiny one-room cabin. Ishmael peered into the dark windows. “No sign of a fire. No sign of movement.” He pushed on the door and it swung inwards with a creak that made her hair stand on end. “Stay right here by the door,” he cautioned her.

  He finally let her hand drop and she clenched and unclenched her fist to bring life back into it. He’d squeezed it so tightly it fell asleep about thirty minutes into the walk, but she was squeezing back equally as hard, so she couldn’t complain. It was the fog licking her ankles that scared her most. It was so cold, and, when it touched her skin, she sensed the despair of hundreds of dreamers.

  He scanned the inside of the cabin, checking around corners in the darkness. Finally, he came back to her, gestured for her to come inside and shut the door behind her. She was more at ease, shutting the fog outside and away from her. He moved a large sliding iron bolt, which clicked noisily in place.

  Abigail remained standing by the door, unable to see very far in front of her. Ishmael moved towards the middle of the small cabin and crouched by a black-dust fireplace. “I can build a little fire that won’t put off much smoke, but it’s going to be a cold night. I can’t make a big fire. If we’re still being followed, it may give us away. But any fire will keep the Nightmares at bay. They won’t venture where the fog can’t.” He spoke in a hush, even though they were alone, in the middle of nowhere.

  There was a leather bag hanging above the fireplace with twigs, papers, and other kindling. Ishmael arranged papers, scraps of wood and dried bark into a pile in the middle of the fireplace. He added a few small pieces of wood from a stack he or another Guide must have cut and brought in months ago. There were cobwebs on the logs.

  He took matches from his pocket and burned a few in an effort to start the fire. After the fourth attempt, the match caught the kindling aflame and the dry navy-colored log sluggishly caught fire as well. Like the fire in the Hotel lobby, this burned an eerie blue and very little warmth radiated from the flames.

  The fire lit the petite cabin in its gloomy glow and Abigail saw it was a very small, simple place. There was a bench with two sleeping bags rolled up on it, a fireplace, wood and a couple short candles. Otherwise, there wasn’t much to see and barely any room to move about. It was close quarters again.

  She walked over to the bench. “Are these yours?” she asked, motioning towards the sleeping bags.

  Ishmael stood from the fire and walked over to her. “They belong to whichever Guide is staying here for the night, so I suppose they are.”

  He unrolled the bags, shaking the dust from them. “I know this place is worse than the Hotel from last night.” He laid the bags on the floor by the fire and brushed them off with his hand. “But I think it’s preferable to being vulnerable in the open.”

  Abigail didn’t comment. The blue glow, the dusty bags and chilled air made her feel very homesick, but she didn’t want to complain.

  He sat on the bench dejectedly. “Do you think I made the right decision?”

  Abigail knew he was feeling bad about their situation, and she didn’t want to make it worse. “Of course. What other option do we have?” She sat next to him. “This is fine. Great, because I wasn’t eager to spend the rest of our currency. We can get some rest, wait while the fog clears and night passes and continue on. Ignore me. I’m just hungry and tired.”

  She tried to sound hopeful, but knew she just sounded worn out and scared. Ishmael bent down to untie and remove his shoes and she did the same. She took the bag on the right side, unzipped it and climbed into it. She counted it a great blessing the inside was less crusted with dust than on the outside. It was much warmer than the weak heat radiating from the short flames, which she figured Ishmael lit so they weren’t consumed in darkness.

  She watched as he got into his sleeping bag then stared at the diminutive window in the front of the cabin. She noticed the cold fog rolling into the woods. It clung to the small window, sending out tendrils that tapped on the window panes, begging to be let inside. She was surprised by the sound of Ishmael’s voice, just above a whisper:

  “Mist clogs the sunshine.

  Smoky dwarf houses

  Hem me round everywhere;

  A vague dejection

  Weighs down my soul.”

  Ishmael and Abigail faced one another and she noticed, in the dim light, a smile on his face. He opened his mouth to say more, but she cut him off:

  “Yet, while I languish,

  Everywhere countless

  Prospects unroll themselves,

  And countless beings

  Pass countless moods.”

  He laughed quietly. “Exactly.” He propped his head up onto his hand. “You wanna guess where those two stanzas are tattooed?” He lifted his eyebrows flirtatiously.

  She snuggled deeper into her sleeping bag. “No. I don’t.” She forced a laugh. “Pretty perfect for the circumstances, though.”

  He shrugged. “Actually, I was just thinking, usually, I’m staying here by myself, and the poem fits better, but I don’t feel like it’s as bad with company. Especially since my company can quote Arnold.”

  He grinned at Abigail and her heart felt lighter and more at ease. “I hate to break it to you, but ‘Consolation’ is still a very fitting poem to be reciting right now. Our situation sucks.”

  Ishmael nodded, amused. “Yeah, but it’s not going to help to linger on it, so let’s try getting our minds off the mist and languishing.”

  “And how are we supposed to do that?”

  “I can think of a lot of things that might get my mind off of languishing, all of which make for a great night, but I know you’ll just shoot me down.” She glared at him, which just made him laugh.

  “Okay. I’ve got an idea that won’t get me into too much trouble. Tell me the rest of the poem you stumped me with yesterday.”

  She hummed in thought, flopped onto her back
, and rested her head on her hands, concentrating on finding the words. “I’ll have to start from the beginning.”

  Ishmael sat up, his bag resting around his feet, his arms around his knees. “Let’s hear it.”

  She took a breath and began:

  “How strongly does my passion flow,

  Divided equally ‘twixt two?

  Damon had ne’er subdued my heart,

  Had not Alexis took his part;

  Nor could Alexis powerful prove,

  Without my Damon’s aid, to gain my love.”

  Abigail watched Ishmael, who stared blankly into the fire. He was listening intently. His body was tuned to her words even while his gaze was lost in the flames.

  She took a breath and continued:

  “When my Alexis present is,

  Then I for Damon sigh and mourn;

  But when Alexis I do miss,

  Damon gains nothing but my scorn.

  But if it chance they both are by,

  For both alike I languish, sigh, and die.”

  She fixed upon his careworn face, his tangled hair, his green-brown eyes. Since she met Jason, she’d never met someone whose features so interested her. That thought bothered her, so she concentrated on the cobweb ceiling, as she breathed the last stanza, an urgent whisper:

  “Cure then, thou mighty winged god,

  This restless fever in my blood;

  One golden-pointed dart take back:

  But which, O Cupid, wilt thou take?”

  Abigail paused, an image of Jason crossed her mind, but she couldn’t say why. She shook her head, watching Ishmael, from the corner of her eye, switch his gaze from the fire to her.

  “If Damon’s, all my hopes are crossed;

  Or that of my Alexis, I am lost.”

  Ishmael stared at Abigail, who was pretending to examine the ceiling. Finally, he broke the silence. “She sounds wishy-washy to me.”

  She didn’t know what to say about his response. She exhaled, slightly annoyed, slightly abashed. Though, she didn’t want to admit why she felt either of those things. “Wishy-washy?” she asked, annoyance in her voice.

  He shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, it seems like she’s saying she loves them both equally, right? But she’s not nice to either so long as the other is away, which means she’s a bitch to both of them.”

  “You realize you sound like a pig, right? You want to start picking apart the characters of the many male poets we’ve discussed so far?”

  Ishmael scoffed. “What? You think someone can love more than one person at the same time? Or that someone can truly love one other person?”

  She felt trapped and embarrassed for having revealed one of her favorite poems to someone who so clearly misunderstood it. “You’ve already said you don’t even believe in love, so it’s useless to argue the point with you.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve don’t think I’ve ever been in love. I’ve been attached, horny, heartbroken, confused, happy with, and even crazy about another person, but I think love should be a reserved feeling. People overuse it. I think this lady is an example of that.”

  She didn’t know why, but she was getting angry with Ishmael’s assertions. “Maybe you’re just emotionally retarded. I think it’s possible to feel passionately about more than one person for different reasons, even at the same time. But I’m allowing, I suppose, too broad a definition of love for your taste. If you don’t hate someone. If you don’t dislike someone. If you would give up your life for theirs what is that, if not love?”

  Ishmael lit a cigarette and stared into the fire. He blew smoke out slowly from his cigarette and answered. “I feel things passionately, too, Abby. I’m not emotionally retarded, despite the appearance I put on. Maybe I’m just careful.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Or you really haven’t been in love, in which case I envy you.”

  He frowned. “Envy me? Because I haven’t loved someone?”

  She just nodded and let her eyes unfocus, not wanting to see anything. She didn’t say it aloud, but what she wanted to say sat leadenly on her chest and lips: Being tied to another person was tough. The more people she loved, the more people she let down. She never felt romantic love for anyone before Jason, so she assumed he was her soul mate. But she was starting to think ‘soul mates’ was a silly idea.

  People change, Abigail thought. They fall in love and out of love with the same person. Most move on when lovers die or leave them. It’s only in romantic books or movies people die of broken hearts. My parents remarried. They loved each other but couldn’t live with each other. They loved their new partners, too. Yes, she thought, love is complicated, but not exclusive. But she didn’t say those words.

  She didn’t want to argue with Ishmael about love. She didn’t want to talk about love at all, especially in a place like this. She felt too vulnerable in this strange, cold, close cabin. She felt too vulnerable inside herself, too. She had for a while. She just wanted to sleep without dreams, and get home to the family she knew she loved, no matter how imperfectly.

  She yawned. “We can agree to disagree. I’m tired.” She pulled her sleeping bag up to her chin. Ishmael finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the fireplace. The blue fire was shrinking, its slight warmth being undone by the cold squeezing in through the glass, the chimney, and cracks in the walls.

  “Thank you for sharing the rest. Sorry if I pissed you off. I wasn’t trying to.” His voice was uncertain and gentle, which was off-putting. He was annoyingly certain of himself most of the time, but she didn’t send him words of comfort. She closed her lips shut like a vice. She felt like she’d said more than she wanted to say.

  She sent up a fervent prayer, hoping God heard her in such an awful place. She prayed for relief from the confusion clouding her mind, emotions and words. She felt it before coming to Monochrome because of the depression. But this place, and, if she was honest, her relationship with Ishmael, only made it worse.

  God, let me sleep without dreams. Let me wake clear-headed. She prayed for this, she prayed for her family somewhere lost to her, and she prayed for the desperate man beside her, kept awake by his own confusing feelings and thoughts, until she fell asleep despite the cold, despite her mind, and despite the nervous energy bouncing through her body.

  *

  Abigail walked on heavy feet through gleaming trees. A white mist, alive and angry, nipped at her heals. Suddenly, the mist took the shape of a tall person, pale and faceless. She knew intuitively, the way one knows things in dreams, the being in the fog was the boss who Ishmael feared; the man or woman or thing that controlled this awful place decided to take notice of her.

  She stopped and spun towards the misty figure, but found only a dense fog and steel trees, tall as alders and just as bare. Though she couldn’t see the figure, she felt its eyes were on her, from every corner, every black pebble, every navy tree, every Nightmare prowler who stalked through these woods in the dark. It was everything cold and wrong about this place and it knew she was searching for a way out.

  Her eyes darted around, searching for Ishmael. Where is he? Why has he left me here by myself? A thin laugh, carried on a sharp breeze reverberated in the woods around her. A whisper voice mocked, “He’s gone. He does as I say, you know.” The thin laugh sounded again. She shivered, but stood firm. She didn’t want to think about how the voice knew her thoughts. “Ishmael? Where are you?” No response came from the pitch-black woods.

  The whisper voice rang again. It was all around her and beside her at the same time. “You see? He’s a good actor, no? You thought he cared for you. He’s the perfect Guide, equal parts mystery and kindness. He reels them in so easily, especially the ladies. And you plan on taking him from me?” The laugh was harsh. “He belongs here, and he will make sure you do, too. By any means.”

  She shook her head and put her hands to her ears. “Ishmael, please!” she yelled, confused and upset with herself for believing the voice. But Ishmael has been lying to me. She reminded he
rself.

  The whisper didn’t seem to need her physical participation. It was inside of her now. “Yes, he has and he will again, and because you are gullible, you will forget my warning. You will choose to trust him and he will lead you further astray. Do you like my little hidden cottage?”

  Abigail shook her head, and ran through the trees. “Ishmael!”

  Her foot caught on a stray vine and she fell to the ground. She struggled to rise, but her feet were tangled in the web-like vine. She clawed at the vine’s steely exterior; the sound of her nails running over the metallic skin was like a key over a car door. Running wasn’t an option, Monochrome had her. Fearful sweat dampened her hair, her shirt stuck wetly against the skin of her back.

  She shook as a misty figure rose from the clammy fog surrounding her. Again, the fog took shape. Dark clothing appeared on a fog body, long hair appeared under a black wool hat. Ishmael prowled towards her with dead, black eyes and bent over her. “Need some help?” But no concern reached his eyes. His voice wasn’t the careful tenor she’d grown used to. This voice was high and bitter like winter wind through frosty window panes.

  Abigail struggled to free herself of the black vine, but it was wound too tightly around her legs. The wrong Ishmael grabbed her arms in his hands, and pushed her body against the ground. “You’re mine now. Everything here belongs to me.” His handsome face contorted and shifted. For an instant, Abigail saw the demon behind the mask. Not a red-faced, horned demon. No. He was the most beautiful being she’d ever seen. His features were perfectly sculpted, his hair a mass of dark waves, his eyes like a grey day on the Puget Sound. But he was there for only a second, and then he vanished, his Ishmael mask stuck in place.

  She struggled against his arms and screeched. “Ishmael! Help me!” The man straddling her laughed.