The Colour of Heaven

by Runcie, James

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The feathers of the peacock are its enemy. There are some who say that we must take this stone to the ends of the world. Then, when we have journeyed further than any who have travelled before, we must throw it into the darkness that takes all life. Only then will we be free.’

  She turned the stone in Paolo’s hands. ‘Look into its veins. What do you see?’

  ‘Azure. Cobalt. Violet. It changes in the light. Perhaps it is the colour of the night sky.’

  ‘And can you see between the colours?’

  ‘Where?’

  She took his hand and ran her finger across the stone. ‘Can you not tell that another colour lies here, along this vein?’

  Paolo leaned towards her. The stone followed the curve of her hand.

  ‘Some men cannot see it.’

  Paolo could sense her breath in the cold air. ‘What colour do you mean?’

  She pointed to a strand of azure. ‘Perhaps you are like my son.’

  The boy was watching them.

  ‘He cannot see into the distance?’ asked Paolo.

  ‘No. He cannot tell colour: red from green, mulberries from their leaves. Everything is tone and shade; he cannot describe what he sees. Perhaps it is a punishment because I see so clearly.’

  ‘But he cannot speak?’

  ‘He can speak. He chooses not to.’

  ‘How long has he been like this?’

  ‘Since the day they came.’

  Jamal began to pull at her side. It had started to rain. Aisha ushered the boy back into the shelter of the cave.

  Paolo looked out from the mountain, down to the river and over to the hills beyond. So, he thought, it is for this that I have travelled.

  He tried to imagine the stone as paint, the wash of colour on walls, infinite space.

  Then he felt Aisha beside him once more.

  ‘Look at the light, over there, in the distance through the rain: the arc that hangs in the sky. What are the colours that you see?’

  ‘A dark blue at the base, a strange green, orange, pale gold.’

  ‘You do not see the violet next to the blue at the base? Or the colour between the orange and the gold?’

  ‘It is all one.’

  ‘You must learn to look between the colours. Can you see the lavender band?’

  ‘Show me,’ said Paolo.

  Aisha pointed. ‘Look. And there, beyond, can you see the fainter and fainter repeats of the main bow, the arch of purple, the strongest green?’

  ‘I can only see the main arc, vague in the distance,’ Paolo apologised. ‘I see sharply only when objects are near.’

  ‘Then we are opposite,’ Aisha replied. ‘I prefer distance. The weight of close colour is too strong.’

  They stood watching the rainbow. Paolo thought it looked like an upturned bowl of cloud. ‘Will you see your husband again?’ he asked. ‘In another life?’

  ‘I have learned not to expect such things.’ She looked up and noticed that Paolo was staring at the nape of her neck. The fall of her hair. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.

  Paolo blushed. ‘I am seventeen. I do not know.’

  ‘Then you must tell me of your life. It is, I think, your turn.’

  That evening, after Paolo had told his companions of the day’s events, Salek seemed almost cheerful. ‘You have spoken well and worked hard, Paolo. Now there is only one thing left for you to do.’

  ‘Don’t tease him,’ Jacopo interrupted. ‘The boy is still young.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ Salek insisted. ‘It is time. He is old enough.’

  ‘For what?’ Paolo asked.

  ‘You know perfectly well,’ said Salek. ‘It is what you have been waiting for.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish.’

  ‘I am not. I know women. I have seen the way she is with you.’

  ‘She pities me.’

  ‘No, she does not. You have crossed the world to find what your friend needs most. What might you do for her?’

  ‘Leave him,’ said Jacopo.

  Paolo thought he had only been excited by the stone; now he wondered if all his nervousness on the journey had been but the anticipation of love.

  That night he dreamed that he was trapped inside the mountain. He was surrounded by blue, by shadow, and by darkness. He could not see the ground underneath him or the route ahead, and walked with arms outstretched, as if blind, trying to find a tunnel that would lead him back into the light. He could hear voices in the distance, women laughing, and a great gathering sweep of sound as snow slid down from the rocks above. At the same time the uneven floor of the cave began to give way beneath his feet. To move in any direction meant darkness and danger, and yet he knew that he could not keep still, that he would have to search for a way out.

  Blue flares illuminated parts of his path and led him into the light between shadows. As he made his way south Paolo began to see shapes, different forms, all in one colour, bleeding into each other so seamlessly that it was almost impossible to distinguish the nature of objects. At one point he thought he could see Simone, painting the walls of the cave by the light of a fire, complaining that he did not have enough pigment. It would be exhausted before he had finished the sky.

  In another false opening, Salek reached out to him, his arm discoloured by a livid blue bruise. He was trying to guide him out of the cave, but just as Paolo attempted to hold on to his arm, the figure vanished, and he found himself alone once more, his path blocked by rock.

  Women in the distance appeared to beckon him forward but Paolo knew that it must surely be a mirage, a dream within a dream from which he could not wake. He tried to cry out, find help, or rouse himself from the dream, but no sound came from his mouth. The back of his throat had been sealed.

  Then he saw Aisha in a gown so pale that it was almost white. She was walking towards him, and yet, at the same time, she gained no distance. She was eternally out of reach, holding the lapis lazuli in her outstretched arms, saying: ‘The colour of heaven. The blood of angels.’ The light increased in intensity until it was almost dazzling, shining directly at Paolo.

  He raised his hands, clasping them against his eyes, feeling the heat burn on his fingers, and then staggered forward, for he knew that he could not stop. He had to escape the cave and flee from this dream.

  Then he felt the ground change, the whiteness soften, and the air cool. Before him, outside the cave, across a stretch of pebbled shore, he saw a turquoise ocean and an azure sky. He ran towards the sea, his bare feet slipping on the stones. But as he ran, the tide appeared to ebb at the same rate, and he knew that he could never reach the water’s edge. The faster he ran the more the tide receded, further and further from his grasp.

  A terrible heat burned through his body. He looked up for the sun, to see where this sudden warmth had come from, but it surged at him from all sides. The temperature rose so fast that he could no longer move. His only hope of calm lay either in the distant sea ahead or amidst the cool pebbles beneath his feet.

  He longed to fall but his body would not obey. All he had to do was to let his knees give, but they did not move. He looked down, and found that the whole of his body apart from his head and his arms had now become as rock and that he was as blue and as solid as the mountain.

  How could he turn himself back into flesh? The only way in which he could reach the ground would be to cut away at his own body, to chisel and to hammer just as they had struck at the mountain. He would have to destroy himself.

  Perhaps these rocks and pebbles were the remains of all the men before him who had tried to gain access to the secrets of the mountain.

  Now Paolo began to punch himself, hurting his hands on the rock of his body. He looked at his arms, the only flesh he could see. How could they compete with the stone?

  As he struck out he noticed that the blood across his knuckles was blue. He watched it seep from his hands and drip onto the ground, wondering how much blood he had left. Then he felt his body su
rge and fall forwards, his face thrown against cold stone.

  He sensed the sharpness of oblivion, and death no longer worried him. There would be no one to trouble him any more, no orders to take. He would fall into the dark-blue sleep of forgetfulness.

  He rested and waited, listening to his own breathing. At last he became aware of a presence, a figure lying beside him. Paolo opened his eyes and saw a woman’s arm, coloured with the lead blue of flesh before death.

  He pressed down onto the large smooth pebbles, raising himself to see the pale form on the shore.

  It was his mother.

  When Paolo woke he did not believe he had done so. He had long known not to rely on his sight, but now he doubted if he could trust his thoughts.

  Later that morning he followed Jamal up the mountain once more to work amidst the women, heating, freezing, and striking the rock. As he climbed he found that he could not stop thinking of Aisha. He wanted to see her again, and when they reached the summit he kept looking round, hoping that she might be near. If her son would only speak then he could have asked him where she was or followed him to her, but Jamal seemed only interested in watching his visitor work.

  At times the boy stood too close, irritating in his proximity, and appeared to be judging Paolo’s ability to strike at the rock. At one point he was almost hit by the swing of the pick.

  ‘Step back,’ Paolo snapped.

  Jamal looked at him with curiosity, surprised by this loss of temper. He moved away, and then returned within minutes to stand as close as he had done before, deliberately defiant. There was a stubborn determination in his eyes and Paolo recognised that his father must have been the same. It was a look that claimed the land.

  Paolo returned to work. The rock split under the weight of his attack, but the vibration surged back into his hands. He dropped the pickaxe and closed his eyes. Debris collapsed around him. Dust, rock, and powder cascaded into his hair and onto his face. When he opened his eyes to find his bearings, another spattering of dust dropped into his right eye.

  He turned away from the rock face and smarted, walking out of the cave and into the light, raising his hand to extract the dust.

  Then he heard Aisha’s voice. ‘Wait.’

  He half opened his left eye as the right screwed up in pain. He could just see her lifting the edge of her blouse up to her lips. She folded a piece over into a thin strip and wet it with her tongue.

  ‘Here. Let me. Close your eyes.’

  He felt the cloth against his eyes, brushing the dust clear.

  A piece of grit had lodged on the side of his nose and Aisha blew the speck away. ‘There.’

  Paolo rubbed at his eyes and opened them. He saw her face close to his, the pores of her skin. Quickly, briefly, she stroked his cheek. As he felt the tenderness of her touch he noticed the blue of the stone underneath her fingernails.

  She smiled and stepped back. ‘You have done well.’

  ‘I have worked hard.’

  ‘Then you must be rewarded.’ Aisha reached into a sack and picked out a stone. ‘Here. Take it.’

  Paolo held out his hand and she placed the lapis in his palm. It was paler in the bright light of the afternoon, half bleached by the sun. ‘I hope your friend in Siena will be happy.’

  Paolo looked back at the mountain. ‘I can hardly believe I am here. It is like a dream.’

  ‘No. It is no dream. This is the life we have.’

  The air was colder, and Jamal came and stood by his mother’s side, his presence suggesting that they make their descent before the evening mist and darkness. Aisha nodded, and adjusted her headscarf, wrapping herself against the cold. They took the longer, shallower path, and Paolo swung his sack over his shoulder before steadying himself for the route ahead. They walked in silence, concentrating on keeping their balance. Mother and son held on to each other as their guest followed behind. Only when the ground became even did he speak again.

  ‘There is something I would like to ask,’ Paolo began.

  Aisha let go of Jamal’s hand and let him run ahead. ‘Which is?’

  ‘I would like to know why you have been so kind.’

  ‘You need to know?’ She was almost amused.

  ‘I do not need to know. I want to know. I am not certain why. Perhaps you can teach me.’

  ‘I have nothing to teach. Perhaps you should not ask. I might change my mind.’ She smiled.

  ‘Do not do that.’

  They were nearing the settlement, and the women who had stayed behind were preparing a broth of chicken over a simple fire.

  ‘It is hard,’ she began, ‘but I think I am weary. Tired of defending such a mountain. We should move on to new lands, fresh hunting grounds. We stay here in memory of our men, but it is too painful. Perhaps if we give the stone away, we might redeem the past.’

  ‘I am not sure I understand.’

  ‘Perhaps you do not need to. Only make sure your friend paints well. Another life. A better life. I would see such a world.’

  By the time Paolo returned to the tent, his hands and his cheeks had frozen. He hoped that Salek and Jacopo had prepared a fire.

  As he thought about his two companions he realised that he had almost started to resent the time they spent in prayer rather than in practicalities. At least Salek always checked the mules and the safety of their possessions but Jacopo appeared to do little apart from pray and watch other people work.

  Paolo pulled back the flap and entered their dwelling, lowering his bag and tools gently to the floor. ‘Look,’ he said. He opened his sack and placed a large piece of lapis on the floor.

  Jacopo was drinking tea and appeared unsurprised. ‘How much will she give us?’

  Paolo could not believe that this was all Jacopo appeared to care about. ‘I do not know. As much as we can carry.’

  ‘Then we must start, and work quickly,’ said Salek. ‘If we stay too long we will be trapped here for the winter. The mountains will be impassable. We must prepare to leave.’

  ‘But we have only just arrived.’ Paolo thought what staying for the winter might mean. Shelter, warmth, and Aisha. Perhaps he should cut the stone more slowly. ‘We need enough for two mules.’

  ‘One mule,’ argued Salek.

  ‘It is a big wall for Simone to paint,’ Paolo insisted. ‘And there will be other frescoes. We can sell to other painters.’

  ‘Will she give it to you if she knows you are so keen to sell it? Has it not been given in friendship?’

  ‘It has.’

  ‘Then stay in friendship,’ said Salek. ‘And talk with her once more. Perhaps we should leave you alone.’

  Paolo felt himself blush.

  ‘You must be wary of widows,’ Jacopo said ominously, ‘especially those who are still young.’

  ‘I do not know why you are telling me this,’ Paolo answered and sat down by the fire. ‘Nothing has happened.’

  ‘She is older than you,’ said Jacopo. ‘And she loves the man she has lost. There will be none like him. The worst that can happen has happened. Having lost everything she can now lose nothing.’

  ‘I think she has hope.’

  ‘And I think she has not. She does not mind if she dies now or tomorrow. She can risk anything or everything. This makes her dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘She has suffered. Now she will want revenge: against the world, men, fate, and destiny. Perhaps even you …’

  The next morning Paolo found the excuse he needed to see Aisha once more. Although he could imagine how the stone might become paint, he asked if he could see how the lapis changed when it was cut, ground, or polished. He wanted to watch her make articles of trade: rings, brooches, jewels, and amulets.

  ‘If you help me,’ she answered, ‘then I will show you.’

  She sat at a low wooden table, chipping away with a small iron hammer, and then trimmed the edges to create the oval shape for a brooch. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I am going to put the stone in the vice. Pass me
the saw.’

  Paolo watched her lean forward and cut away at the lapis. Then she ground the surface to remove any burs.

  ‘I need a pan of grit and water,’ she said. ‘It is there.’

  Paolo poured water and coarse sand into the pan.

  ‘Remember the lid.’

  Aisha tipped the stone into the container, and sealed it. ‘Now shake the stone, washing and grinding it down.’

  Paolo began to shake the pan vigorously.

  ‘No.’ She stopped him. ‘Gently. It takes time. Rock the stone against the sand. Imagine you are searching for gold with a sieve.’

  ‘I have never done such a thing.’

  ‘Here,’ she said, taking the pan from his hands. ‘Let me show you.’

  She began to rock and tilt the mixture. Paolo listened to the sound of the stone against the sand and watched the light fall on her hands. He looked once more at her eyes and thought how swiftly they could move between joy and sadness. They could gleam and they could darken. Even her laugh was underpinned with pain, as if it should have lasted longer and could never quite finish, dying before it had reached its height.

  ‘Now you.’

  Paolo took the pan and began to rock the lapis against the sand once more.

  ‘Better. We must take great care.’ Aisha was almost amused by Paolo’s attempts to refine the stone. ‘I would have thought that you, knowing of glass, would see how fragile the world can be.’

  ‘Not stone.’

  ‘It can crack as easily as glass. It has flaws.’

  ‘In Venice there is a special glass which shatters if any trace of poison touches it.’

  ‘You poison each other in Venice?’

  ‘Every day.’

  She laughed once more.

  ‘I would like to know as that glass knows,’ said Paolo. ‘To be able to tell, immediately, if things are wrong. To trust. To know where I am going. To believe the ground beneath my feet will hold me. That I will not stumble or fall.’

  Aisha decanted the mixture and dried the piece of lapis in a cloth. Then she sat down and began to polish the stone. ‘If you had known tragedy, then you would expect disaster and lose such fear. Live as if you were already dead.’

  ‘Is that what you do?’