Monochrome

by H. M. Jones

  The flames responded as if he were a fire tamer. They rose in eerie blue towers. She sat next to him and closed her eyes, thinking of the snowstorm that hit Boston when she was visiting Jason in school. She bought the warmest, most ridiculous down jacket. She looked like a walking sleeping bag when she wore it.

  She opened her eyes to Ishmael’s laughter. “Shut up. It’s warm, and I’m freezing. So are you. I’ll take first shift. Lay down.”

  He bit his laughter back and lay on the ground, on the outskirts of the fire. She took a position closer to the fire, but sat down next to him. She removed the belt from around her waist and placed the large bag of water on a flat rock next to the fire, hoping to get it warm enough to kill bacteria. Then she removed the large down coat and placed it over her legs and his body.

  “Close your eyes. I’m not that tired yet and you’re dead on your feet. You’ve lost too much blood.”

  Ishmael closed his eyes. “Yes, Mommy.”

  She might’ve laughed if the word didn’t make her miss her baby so terribly. “Goodnight, Ishmael.” She smoothed his hair away from his face. His deep breathing answered her. It was the only noise besides the crackling fire and the distant rush of the river.

  *

  It was only quiet for an hour before the forest around them came alive with ghostly apparitions. The fog was kept at bay, just outside of their little clearing. It was almost as if there was an invisible glass barrier keeping it out.

  Abigail kept the fire going, as high and as warm as possible. Ishmael had stocked a goodly pile of wood, but it was quickly diminishing as the hours passed, and the ghostly figures peeked around the corners of the trees, curious and eager, but frightened of the light. They trailed fog streams as they glided around the clearing.

  There were too many figures to count, waiting beyond their clearing. They stayed well away, and sped off when she placed another stick on the flames. But hours passed, and she emptied the area around the fire of sticks, dead leaves, and branches. She dared not go further into the forest, as the fog seeped through its invisible boundary and the eerie Nightmares hissed at the outskirts of their camp.

  The Nightmares were growing more daring with the dying fire. She caught site of a rabid dog, foaming and fierce, small as it was. There was also an otherworldly being with blood at the corner of its mouth. But the most foreboding and most persistent Nightmare was a skeletal figure draped in black. It wore the aspect of Death and the fortitude of him as well.

  Who, in this place, feared dying, she wondered. She did, but she wasn’t sleeping. But most people here, didn’t they want death? A person can fear death and want it too. The Nightmares brought fear with them, and they were sending it out in waves, even if they didn’t venture close enough to harm she and Ishmael.

  The fear being sent into her wasn’t her own. She felt, without a hint of uncertainty, it was that of Monochrome’s dreamers. Ishmael, too, felt it. He shook and mumbled in his sleep, but slept steadily.

  An hour passed and the fire sputtered and spit out dying flames. Abigail cursed at the fire, trying to feed it a last piece of an insignificant twig, but it refused the offering and died a smoky death. The night was freezing. She left the fire, and lay next to Ishmael under the warm, heavy coat. The movement startled him awake. He awoke to the approach of Death.

  CHAPTER 16:

  Roamers

  “AM I STILL DREAMING? I thought I woke. Abby?” Ishmael’s voice trembled.

  Abigail’s response came out as a croak. The Death figure glided towards them, the rabid dog and vampire-like woman followed behind him, silently. “No. The fire went out. I’m sorry. I tried.”

  Ishmael wrapped his arms around her from behind.

  “Can they hurt us?”

  He nodded against her head.

  “Can we hurt them?”

  His choked voice was almost inaudible. “No. Light is the only way. We need to go.”

  They rose together when the sound of shuffling and broken twigs startled them both so much they fell back into place by the already cold fire pit. The ghostly blue Nightmares stopped in their tracks. Death raised his head and tilted it, as if listening to an unseen master.

  “Light is not the only way, Guide. Surely you know they listen to darkness.” The voice was like a nail being hit on the head. The void smell of Monochrome was suddenly filled with the heavy, bloody smell of metal.

  “Roamer.” Ishmael spit the word, as if spitting out the thick scent clotting the air.

  Abigail shifted to see two Roamers come out of the forest behind them. The Nightmares were stuck in silent attention as the pair made their way to the clearing. The Roamers shown the same strange silver glow the guards at the entrance of Steamtown wore around their noses, only the sheen covered their entire body, like shining corpses. As they walked closer to Abigail and Ishmael, the smell of hot metal intensified. The olfactory overload was making her nauseous.

  The Roamer’s eyes were entirely black, all iris, but they easily navigated the impenetrable darkness. The taller Roamer was bearded, with long white hair. He wore pants more rag than covering, and no shirt or shoes. The shorter one appeared to be younger than Abigail, not even twenty. But she wore waist-length silver hair, and a dress so thin and tattered not much of her emaciated body was hidden from view. They were both bone-thin. Her body tensed, ready for a fight.

  “Guide, tell your companion we are not fighters. We Roamers are negotiators, ” the old Roamer advised in his rusty drawl.

  Abigail’s eyes darted from the Roamers to the Nightmares, confusion overcoming fear. Why have the Nightmares stopped? Ishmael answered her question as if she spoke it aloud.

  “Nightmares cannot tell these Roamers apart from Monochrome itself. Dusties give off no human presence, no fear, no feelings. The Dusties’ scent has confused the Nightmares. They do not see they only smell what makes us human, and that scent is being masked by them.” He inclined his head toward the Roamers.

  The male Roamer hissed. “We do not like the term ‘Dustie’, as you must know, Guide. If our addictions became our title, your name would be Lust and she would be called Booze.” Abigail felt nauseous. How could he know that? The old Roamer laughed a grating laugh clanging like an iron bell.

  Ishmael’s face grew dark in anger. “If you were actually negotiators we would call you that, but you’re closer to leaches and thieves, so what should I call you?”

  The female Roamer waved an uninterested hand. “Call me what you want. If you want my protection, you and the woman will give my friend and me a yellow memory. Otherwise, we’ll leave you to the Nightmares.”

  Abigail watched fixedly as Death advanced. Like the many likenesses of the figure, he held a sharp scythe. The older Roamer spoke up. “You are afraid of death, Guide. This is your Nightmare.”

  Ishmael was staring at the old Roamer, who was still speaking. “How ironic it would be for you to be killed by Death, which you fear so much, but court so persistently.”

  The old Roamer was full of satisfaction in his dark jokes. She didn’t want to think about how the Roamers knew the unknowable. So much of what was being said reached beyond her understanding of Monochrome, but she knew they could help her and Ishmael, for a price, and that’s what was important, at this point. Her throat tightened. She wasn’t sure she could give another memory, especially one of such significance, and not lose the last of her will.

  Ishmael stood, helping Abigail to do the same, and faced the Roamers. “Fine. You want to negotiate.” He said the word spitefully, knowing full well they were on the losing end of the negotiation already. “Okay. You can have this, not our memories. It’s the only reason you want memories anyway.”

  He surprised everyone by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small clear bag filled with fine silver powder. “A bag of Silverdust in return for your pleasant company to the Plant.”

  The Roamers were so intent on the bag, they shook.

  The younger Roamer seemed ready to nod, b
ut the older Roamer tried to compose his desire and shook his head. “Not quite a fair trade, I think. The bag and a yellow from the lady. Her memories are less murky.”

  Ishmael rolled his eyes in mock offense. “You’d do it for the bag. But I’ll be sweet and throw in a pink of my own.”

  The young female scoffed. “We want a blue, from the girl. Like he said. No more negotiating. You’re not in the position to deny our company. And we will not lead you to the Plant. You know that. We’d be in big trouble from the boss if we did, silly Guide.”

  Abigail interrupted Ishmael’s protest. “You won’t lead us where we want to go?”

  The old Roamer snorted. “The Guide does not wish to go there either. He will be punished for taking you. But he radiates all sorts of feelings for you. Probably what called the Nightmares. How unfortunate for you both to feel so much. It only gets you in trouble.” The man laughed his painful laugh and motioned to the retreating Nightmares.

  Her memories still tugged at her. They were so close. Her father’s voice beckoned to her. She noticed Ishmael standing uncomfortably, favoring the uninjured leg, dark circles around his eyes, pain and fear radiating from them. Though he stood tall and his voice gave nothing away, he was in pain and he was frightened.

  Why did she make him come? She knew he’d follow where she led. “A blue memory and the bag of dust, to stay with us for the remaining night and keep the Nightmares at bay?”

  Both of the Roamers nodded, full of serious yearning for the strange substance Ishmael held in his outstretched hand. “Okay,” she agreed, “deal.”

  The memories at the Plant called out to her, begging for her to reconsider, to put them back in their rightful place. “Who will take the memory?” she asked.

  The young one stepped forward. “It is my turn.”

  The man held his hand out to Ishmael. “Hand it over, Guide.”

  Ishmael shook his head. “When we are clear of the night, I will give you the bag of Silverdust. I will only give you a dose until such time, enough to keep you pleasant company for the night. If I fail to give you the remainder at day’s break, you can have my life. I swear by my light.” He held his palm out towards the Roamer.

  The Roamer hesitated before raising his own silver hand, palm out. The lantern tattoo was mirrored on his hand, and he placed it against Ishmael’s injured palm. A burst of silver light blinded Abigail for a moment and was gone.

  “Very well, Guide. A good trade. We will take the blue memory now, however, since the woman cannot be bound by our rules.”

  Ishmael nodded, his shoulders slumped, and Abigail stepped forward, a memory already secure in her mind. She held a hand out to the young female Roamer, who unearthed a small clear bottle with a cork stopper from a pocket on her thin dress. The Roamer took the cork out and met Abigail’s offered memory:

  Abigail held a white dress, covered in a 70s strawberry print, up to her chest. It fell just past her knees and sported a wonderful large collar. “I think this one will fit. Aunt Mary used to be my size.”

  Marie nodded her head in approval, light brown eyes shining. “I like that one.”

  She rummaged around a little, while Abigail took off her jeans and t-shirt to pull the dress over her head. It fit like it was made for her. A musty attic smell clung to it. She breathed deeply. She loved that smell.

  Abigail walked to a standing mirror in the corner of the room and examined herself. She’d lost a mass of weight over the summer. She hadn’t tried to, it just happened. She spent a lifetime being chubby, and now it was gone. She hadn’t worn a dress since she was little. She was always disappointed they were tight and ill fitting. The strawberry dress brushed her knees and hugged her new waist. She grinned at the woman in the mirror, who looked so much like a taller version of her mom.

  Marie giggled from her spot deep in the walk-in closet. “Come here, Abs.”

  Abby swayed over to Marie who was saying, “I found my outfit for today.”

  The laughter in her voice told Abby it was a good one. Marie held up a polyester jumper that must’ve been Uncle Bill’s. Abigail laughed so hard she snorted.

  The jumpsuit thing housed a zipper running the entire length of the waist, and it was an awful baby blue. It was the perfect size for Marie, Uncle Bill having been a little hefty even when he was younger. Marie undressed and pulled the jumpsuit on. The long bell bottom legs were dragging on the floor, which made the suit even more ridiculous.

  Marie was going to win 70s spirit day, if she could get to the school without tripping.

  “How are you supposed to walk in that?” She asked through laughing snorts.

  Marie held up a finger. “So glad you asked!” She shuffled back to the walk-in closet, the large, triangular collar on her jumpsuit flapped as she shuffled, bringing Abigail to tears with laughter.

  Marie bent over, rummaged a little more, and shouted, “Ta da!” She faced Abigail and held out the two most hideous platform black shoes. “This should make up for my short legs.”

  Abigail threw herself on the waterbed behind her in a fit of hysterical laughter. Marie pulled the shoes on, tied them and struck a disco pose.

  Abigail held her middle, which ached from laughter. “Oh, God, Marie. Uncle Bill wore that!”

  Marie peered into the mirror behind her and shrieked out a string of giggles. Slow steps approached the room, and the door swung open.

  “What are you girls…” Aunt Mary stopped in her tracks and covered her face. “Oh, no! You found it. Isn’t it hideous? It’s perfect, Marie.” She crossed her arms reservedly, smiling out of the corner of her mouth.

  She turned to Abigail on the bed, and her face took on a serious expression, her eyes far off. “That dress was the one I wore to my first date with your Uncle. Stand up.”

  Abigail stood up, worried over the expression in Aunt Mary’s eyes. Maybe she didn’t want her to wear such a special dress. But Aunt Mary shook her head. “Well, it was made for you.”

  Abigail grinned with her whole face. “Really? I can keep it?!”

  Aunt Mary nodded once and snickered at Marie. “Thankfully, your grandpa didn’t wear that outfit to our first date, Marie, or you wouldn’t be here today.”

  Aunt Mary shook her head. “You can keep that, too. Please take it! Just don’t let grandpa see it. Oh, Lord!”

  She left the room, her shoulders shaking in quiet laughter.

  Abigail snorted, “Marie, you look ridiculous! You’re gonna win spirit day for sure. And, if you don’t, I’m going to file a complaint.” Both girls broke down in laughter.

  Tears fell from Abigail’s face at the loss of the sweet memory, so dear to her. The tears came from the knowledge, too, that Marie just lost Aunt Mary, a woman more like a mother than a grandmother to her cousin. Abigail thought to take herself out of the world before her time, when Aunt Mary would’ve loved to stay. Marie could’ve lost them both. She was Abigail’s oldest friend and favorite cousin. I’m so selfish.

  When the young Roamer put the cork on the small jar, she could feel the void the memory left behind. Hints of Marie’s strawberry lemonade lip gloss wafted passed Abigail’s subconscious, but she couldn’t remember why.

  Ishmael came to her, and put his arms around her waist as her muscles went limp. “You’ve not slept, Abby. Just lay down.”

  He helped her to lay where he once rested and covered her with her warm coat. She’d no strength to argue and no will to. Her eyes were heavy, but not as heavy as her loss.

  She kept them open long enough to see Ishmael pour a dime-sized portion of the powder delicately into the shaking hands of the two Roamers.

  The older Roamer motioned for Ishmael to take some as well but he shook his head. “I’ll probably regret it, but I want to feel whatever comes.”

  The young Roamer shook her head in confusion. “It will only be sadness and loss. That’s what she’ll bring you.” She inclined her head towards Abigail, thinking she was already asleep.

  Ishmael shrugge
d and pocketed the bag of dust. “All the same. I want to feel it and remember it.”

  The older Roamer shrugged and he and his companion sat on the other side of the fire pit, holding their faces to their palms, a finger to one side of their noses. They both snuffed the silver dust up their noses and lay back on the ground. The young one licked the remnants from her hand, and put her arms behind her head.

  Ishmael sat in front of Abigail with a handful of sticks he’d gathered from where the Roamers approached. The last thing she saw before closing her drooping lids was the figure of Death peeking out from behind a tree, not far off. The older Roamer made a shooing motion with his hand, and the Nightmare vanished.

  *

  She was awakened by deft fingers running through her hair. She opened her sandy eyes and saw Ishmael looking at her admiringly.

  It took her a moment to move, the motion of Ishmael’s fingers lulling her mind and putting her at ease, but she eventually noticed the Roamers had left. “When did they go?”

  He continued to run his hands through her hair. “About an hour ago, after first light. They came down a little from their high, and, by the time they were their greedy selves again, it was first light.”

  “Well, it smells a lot better now they’re gone. I mean, it doesn’t smell like much, but it doesn’t smell like them. Why do they smell like tin?”

  “That’s just how Dusties smell, like Silverdust.”

  She put her hair behind her ear, not really wanting to know the answer to the question she was going to ask. “So you use it?”

  He chuckled. “No, but one of the boss’ recruits does. It fell out of his pocket after he got done smacking me over the head with his baton. He’ll probably regret the day he ever saw me. That was a lot of Silverdust.”

  He frowned. “I mean, I have used it, but I didn’t like it. Most people try it here, and a lot of people like it. It keeps you from wanting things: food, drink, sex, pretty much everything. You just don’t care. You don’t feel. You don’t think. It’s like being a tree or a rock. You’re present, but not involved. But it’s fairly fleeting, and then, if you want to continue feeling nothing, which has its perks, then you have to keep paying for it. I prefer to smoke, eat, and have sex when I can. I like thinking, though I don’t always like feeling.”