Monochrome (7 page)

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.

Since he figured out Abigail was a literature major, he sometimes spun around and quoted something, quizzing her knowledge of his favorite poets. If she answered correctly, he asked her when she’d read the piece and what she thought of the author.

Sometimes they would argue about which poets expressed themselves more beautifully, more fluently, and so on. When she answered incorrectly, he would feign exasperation and “school” her on the quote, quite annoyingly, but she enjoyed the game.

It made him almost giddy. He had a child-like love and wonder of literature that she shared. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d met someone who loved literature with such a passion, and she was in class with literature majors every week, but most of them thought Romantic poetry was corny. Or they were jaded, snobbishly unaffected by this or that book or poem because it didn’t fit this or that theory.

She enjoyed theory and debate, she enjoyed trying to understand historical snapshots captured in important moments, and the themes in whatever she was reading. But she also just enjoyed the sound of words fitting perfectly together, harmonious consonants and sound formed for each other, and so did he.

Ishmael spun towards Abigail, walking backwards, and she assumed he was going to shoot her another quote. “It’s your turn,” he said, instead.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“To test me.” He shot her a sly smirk.

“Ah! Let me think…”She thought carefully about the author she chose. She wanted to stump him to get back for his prior superiority. She thought about the authors he tended to quote—mostly male, romantic poets—and knew she had him.

“Got one.” He continued his backward trek and gestured for her to lay it on him.

She cleared her throat, and dropped her voice deep and mournful:

“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.”

She chuckled at his puzzled expression.

“What time period? Classical?” He asked, unsure. “Female?”

She answered the first question. “Her contemporaries were metaphysical.”

She grinned, knowing he’d never get it. He stopped walking and frowned.

“I don’t know.” He held up his hands, defeated, but smiling.

“Men very rarely read women poets,” she teased.

He rolled his eyes but nodded. “Yeah, yeah. You got me. Who is it?”

“That, unlearned man, is the poetry of dramatist and poet, Aphra Behn, ‘On her Loving Two Equally.’”

Ishmael motioned for Abigail to continue walking, but decided to walk by her side to make talking easier.

“You used my misogyny against me.” He nudged her with his elbow.

“I had to bring out the big guns. It’s one of my favorites,” she said, more reservedly.

“You’ll have to tell me the rest of it sometime.” He frowned. “Nightfall is coming and the fog will roll in soon. In about two miles there’s a place we can stop, but, you should know, it’s not a very nice place.”

“Well, I told you I wanted to stay somewhere cheap.” She studied his face, which darkened.

“I know you did. Only, this place is kind of a breeding ground for the down and out. The people there have no qualms about trading their grandmothers for a good memory.”

She didn’t want him to see the fear she felt, so she tried to keep her face expressionless as she asked, “What do you suggest we do, then?”

Ishmael scratched his beard. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. I know you’re married and are trying to make it back home to your family.”

Abigail raised her eyebrow at him, curious. “Yeah?”

“I think we should share a room.”

The words out, he turned his face from her, back to the reflective black pebbled path, and walked briskly ahead. She followed, not saying anything for a while. It was clear from his embarrassment he wasn’t hitting on her or trying to be inappropriate, but it was still a precarious position.

She barely knew this man and, though she was beginning to like him, she still wanted to be wary. She’d been misled by men before, and wasn’t about to let down her guard. The way he defended the actions of the Snakes, his own heavy guilt when the subject of his other Leads came up, all made her reluctant to put her faith in him entirely.

Not to mention the way his eyes made her dizzy and uneasy. He didn’t press the subject, since he was clearly uncomfortable even bringing it up. He walked on, hands in his pockets, head down. He was no longer the joking, smiling, youthful man who’d quizzed her on his favorite poets.

Abigail felt bad for making him feel disquieted by not saying anything. She was about to speak up when he cleared his throat hesitantly.

“Abby, I…” he started.

She held up her hand to stop him from apologizing. “Don’t worry about it. I know you’re not trying to hit on me.” She playfully slapped his hat over his eyes. “And, if you are, you’re way out of practice.”

He laughed as he fixed his hat. “I’m really not trying anything.”

“I know.”

He walked by her side, still a little nervous. “It’s just, I’m afraid if we don’t keep watch for each other in this place, one of us might get into trouble. It’s happened before. I lost one of my Leads to this town.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what happened. She was staying in the room next to mine. Her name was Peggy. She was a teacher, her husband of twenty years recently died. She was a mess when she came. I mean, a lot of people are, but she was almost crazy with sadness.”

He stared soberly at Abigail. “She didn’t really seem to want anything to do with life after he died, but I led her regardless. We got to the Hotel in Darkfalls, that’s the name of the town we’re headed into, and we checked in. I heard her crying all night.”

He shook his head. “A few hours after I fell asleep, I was awakened by the breaking of glass. I ran to her room and the door was open. Her room was freezing. The window was broken and Peggy was nowhere in sight. I leaned over the windowsill…” His face was pale. “I wish I hadn’t. At first, I figured she just jumped. She
was
pretty bad off. But then, why was her door open? Who leaves their door open at night? Who fails to open the window before jumping? And she was…”

He gulped, his face still horrified. “She was on her back. I admit to never having thought about window jumping, not being too crazy about heights, but I’d probably turn around to do so.” He shook his head. “No, someone visited her. I just feel it. I don’t know why or who, but somebody pushed her out of the window. I’ve been reluctant to stop there ever since.”

Abigail felt sick to her stomach. Ishmael sounded nervous, angry and sad since she met him, but this was the first time he sounded terrified. He struck her as a very brave man, though not always entirely sensible.

He shrugged off the awful memory. “That’s why I suggested what I did. You don’t have to make a decision about boarding until we get there, but I’m not sure I’ll sleep if I think you might be in danger. I don’t want to feel responsible for something like that happening again.”

Hearing the fear in his voice and noting his obvious reluctance to make her uncomfortable, decided it for her.

“I don’t need to see it. I believe you. We’ll board together.” She patted him on the shoulder.

“Thanks for trusting me. I know you don’t know me well, or have any reason to. I think, for best measure, we should take turns sleeping when we get there.”

“If you think it best.”

Ishmael reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette. “I do.” He placed the cigarette in his mouth and paused while he lit it.

“We’re out of danger from the Snakes, then?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, they won’t approach us here, not when we’re so close to town. They’ll wait until we’re alone. It’s less hassle to catch up with is us in the woods. Less people to worry about. Not that people around here are real proactive.” He motioned she should look ahead.

She rubbed her eyes in astonishment. They were surrounded by navy trees a minute ago, but she now saw dim lights and shabby, shagging brick buildings not twenty feet ahead. “How did I not see an entire town before now?”

He shrugged. Smoke billowed from his lips as he answered, “Things sneak up on you here.” He jerked his head towards the lights of Darkfalls, walking to greet them. Abigail’s hands shook as she followed close behind.

SCANNING THE
DINGY BUILDINGS
and disheveled people, Abigail wondered if she’d made the right decision about staying somewhere cheap. Ishmael seemed to agree with her decision, but he was uneasy here. His eyes nervously scanned those who passed, the alleys they walked by, and even the rooftops above. He smoked nonstop, rolling his cigarette in between his fingers between drags.

She thought she’d be relieved to leave the silent echo of the forest, but the mumbled desperation of the occupants in Darkfalls was worse. For the first time, she felt a chill in the air penetrating her jacket. It was the first change in the void atmosphere, but it didn’t make her feel more comfortable. Quite the opposite, really. It was depressing that the only temperatures in this place were non-existent and cold. She wrapped her grey scarf around her neck and buttoned the top button of her jacket. Her breath billowed over her scarf in a puff of mist that mingled with the smoke from Ishmael’s cigarette.

The streets in Darkfalls were packed dirt, littered with trash and cigarette butts. The place smelled like a farm, a stark contrast to the absence of smells in the woods, but there were no animals in sight. There were only dirty, ragged people sleeping propped against buildings, out of good memories to trade, their clothing neglected in caked muck.

One man, about thirty-years-old, held a sign scrawled in some black chalky substance: “Will work for moons or memories.” His eyes were blacker than the darkest night and held none of the sparkle of Ishmael’s. His face was ghostly pale, almost corpse blue, but when he twisted towards them, Abigail swore it shone a silver gleam.
It’s just your eyes. Everything looks like that here.
Ishmael put his hand on her back, whispered the word “Roamer” and directed her away from the man. She shivered.

They passed a dimly-lit two-story building, in which a handful of scantily clad women hung down from the windows, beckoning to Ishmael as he passed. He whistled their way and winked at a young, dead in the eye red-head as they passed, her ample, pale cleavage spilling from a scarlet teddy. Abigail wished she hadn’t heard the proposition the red-head called out after them. She blushed furiously just overhearing the word “cock.”

“Gross, Ishmael, focus,” she scolded.

“I give her a moon and she gives me a good memory. Fair trade,” he joked.

She punched him in the arm. “Good memory? That’s what you call a good memory?”

“Better than nothing.” He noticed the disgust she shot at him. He lit another cigarette. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you tonight. I don’t mess around when I’m on business.”

She sighed.
He’s clueless.
“I wasn’t worried about me, dummy. I’m worried you are so low that woman is the only option you think you have to make a good memory.”

He flicked an ash from his cigarette. “Yeah, well, that’s just how it is. Unless you’re putting out tonight.” He poked her.

Abigail slapped away his hand, annoyed, and shook her head. “You give up too easily. Did you even try to get out of this place when you first got here? Or did you just let it suck you in immediately?”

Ishmael spun around, anger in his speckled eyes. “There was no reason for me to. I didn’t have much to go home to, Abby. I didn’t have someone who cared whether I ever came home or not. So why don’t you save your judgment?”

She wasn’t sure whether to be angry with how he was talking to her or sad because he felt unloved. “I just don’t see how that’s possible.”

He stared at her, confused by her answer and reaction. “How
what
is possible?”

“I like you and I’ve only known you for a day. I can’t imagine no one became attached to you in Reality.”

Ishmael’s expression went from angry to forlorn. “The fact you haven’t known me for long is probably why you still like me. People don’t grow fonder of me upon a longer acquaintance.” He laughed harshly. “My sulky temperament is interesting at first, but it’s not an act. This is how I am, and most people who are fond of it at first grow weary of it after a while.”

She frowned. “What about your family?”

“They didn’t understand me, and weren’t around much.”

She sympathized there. Her family never understood her. She stood out like a sore thumb with a liberal bent at gatherings. “Okay. But they loved you, right?”

“I don’t know! I guess. Why do you care? And could you possibly ask more questions?”

Abigail didn’t get angry with him. He was obviously trying to avoid talking about anything difficult or real, and she wasn’t going to push him. “Sorry. I withdraw the question. I just know even though my family doesn’t understand me they love and appreciate me. I hope yours did too.” She looked around. “So, where is this place?”

“Sorry about the outburst. It’s just…”

She waved a dismissive hand at him. “Don’t worry about it. It’s getting chilly and I want to go inside.”

He took notice of the air for the first time, and rubbed his arms over his grey pea coat. “You’re right. The fog’s coming soon. It’s always cold when the fog hits. The Inn is just ahead and to the right. Let’s get inside.”

Ishmael led them to a worn building that seemed to have survived, just barely, hundreds of years of dirty, ragged travelers. A sign hung from a dilapidated wood awning. Abigail read it aloud.

“Last Resort.” She laughed in spite of herself. “Charming.”

Ishmael chuckled. “At least it’s witty.” He pushed through a door once painted red, but which was badly peeling, revealing the navy color of the wood comprising most of Monochrome. Inside, the lobby of the “resort” was barely warmer than outside.

There was a diminutive blue fire burning in a sooty fireplace to the right of the front desk, but it served only to highlight the shabby interior of the lobby in an eerie glow, rather than warm it. Behind the desk was a graying man with purple circles under his bespectacled eyes. He was tall, wearing a white shirt, suspenders and a black bowtie. Abigail thought he resembled an overdone stereotype of a horror film desk clerk. That thought didn’t make her any happier.

Ishmael approached the desk, his steps creaking along the way. “We need a room.” He told the tall man when he reached the desk.

The clerk lifted his chin, taking them in with an arched eyebrow. “
A
room? Meaning
one
room?” the man asked Ishmael in a British accent.

“Did I say two rooms? Yes,
one
room.” Ishmael leaned towards the man, challenging him with his body language and tone.

The man shrugged tiredly. “As long as you have proper payment.”

Ishmael fished around in his pockets. “How much for your cheapest room?”

The clerk cleared his throat. “Three moons.”

Ishmael slapped his hand down on the counter. “Do I look like a sucker? Nice places charge three moons, and this is
hardly
a nice place. Don’t fuck around with me and my Lead. You’ll be sorry if you do.” His voice made the chilly room glacial. Abigail shivered and fiddled with her scarf.

The clerk, unfazed, met his glare. “You’re a Guide, then. I miscalculated your time here. It’s your eyes. My mistake.” He cleared his throat. “A man has to make a living around here, as you well know,
Guide.
”

Ishmael shot the man daggers but backed off. “What is your price?”

“One moon.”

Ishmael nodded and fished in his pocket, pulling out a smaller rock than he used at the bar.

Abigail stopped his hand before he placed it on the counter. “Ishmael, you can’t pay for everything. If you run out of money, you’ll have to give up a memory.”

He shook her hand off. “I’ll pay my half. You pay yours.” She was hurt by his tone and rough demeanor, but nodded in consent. He handed his rock to the clerk. The clerk scratched at it with his fingernail, and, appeased, put it into an old-fashioned cash register made of wood. It clanged eerily against the quiet of the lobby when he opened it to drop the rock inside.

“Now the lady.” He motioned towards Abigail. “For you, one purple. Unless you have currency?”

She shook her head. The man turn to a wrought iron cabinet that held bottles glowing in different colors—pink, purple, blue, yellow, and gold. He unlocked the cabinet with a large, rusting skeleton key and pulled the purple bottle from the shelf, placing it carefully on the desk. He tapped his finger on the desk, expectant. Ishmael nodded at her. The clerk was asking a fair price.

She shut her eyes. Ishmael said the correct memories would present themselves when asked for and he was right. A few hundred wonderful memories played on the back of her eyelids in a matter of seconds: her first martial arts belt, being presented with author of the week in kindergarten, a few wished for Christmas presents, and so many more.

These were all fun memories, but not overly important to her. One flashed across her eyelids and caught her attention. This was the one. She held the memory firmly in her mind:

The Opera House was beautiful on the inside. It must’ve been magnificent when it was first built. She tried to imagine the dresses worn by the town’s local ladies decades ago, when it first opened. It still held remnants of its former glory in the gold gilding of columns and the badly faded pictures of romantic scenes painted on the ceilings above. The air smelled strongly of popcorn, body spray and, Abigail smiled, attic. It smelled like her grandma’s attic in here.

That thought calmed her nervous brain. She kept telling herself dating wasn’t a big deal. Tons of people dated all the time. Toby probably dated lots of girls before her. But she was chubby at thirteen, with frizzy hair and thick glasses. She wasn’t used to being asked on dates, so, of course, she was elated but suspicious when Toby asked her to go the movies with him, yesterday during P.E.

Everyone went to the Opera House on the weekends to see movies released in bigger towns weeks ago. But she was never a part of “everyone,” until now. She wasn’t popular and was never included in an invitation to the “cool” hangouts before. Her hands started sweating at the newness of it all, so she tried to stop thinking.

She peeked over at Toby and grinned. Toby was her height, with a medium build, a buzzed haircut, and a mischievous smirk. Her cousin warned against him because he was a rumored pot-head, but she liked him.

A sense of humor and low expectations worked for her. And he made her feel pretty, which was something she almost never felt. Toby grinned nervously back at her and asked if she minded sitting high up, in the balcony area. She didn’t care either way. She was too happy to be where she was to care. Toby led the way up an old, spiraling iron staircase.

Abigail felt giddy, observing the crowd of people she recognized from her junior high and older kids who must’ve come from the high school.

“Wow, this place is packed,” she whispered to Toby. He shrugged, not impressed.

He must come here all the time. She was immediately embarrassed by her naivety. He pushed through kids his size and older, without a backward glance, and she shyly followed, quietly excusing herself when she pushed through people. He motioned for her to be seated in the balcony row nearest the ledge, when they finally made it up the staircase.

Abigail sat in the middle seat and scanned the rows of seated kids and adolescents gazing at the screen expectantly. She noticed a mean girl from her Social Studies class standing in the aisle, talking to her friends. She chuckled deviously. Toby sat next to her. Her quiet laugh drew his attention.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, standing to view the crowd below.

She was embarrassed, but decided it was best to answer honestly because she was a terrible liar. “I was just thinking it would be easy to throw things at Molly from here,” she admitted, nodding towards the beautiful, black-haired fourteen-year-old below.

Molly always picked on Abigail for being chubby. Molly was not chubby—she was thin, blue-eyed and perfect.

To her surprise Toby laughed. “That girl’s a bitch!”

Abigail rarely heard someone her age swear before. Bitch. The word sounded both honest and demeaning. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it, except if it applied to anyone, it applied to Molly. “Yeah, she is. She’s always mean to me.”

He frowned. “What does she do?”

Abigail blushed but admitted, “She makes fun of my weight. But whatever. She’s stupid and that’s worse than fat.” She looked away from him and down at the perfect Molly, jealous she would never look as nice in a dress as the slender cheerleader.

Toby sniffed. “Ha. Well, she’s about to regret it.” Before she was able to stop him, he took a quarter from his pocket, raised his hand high, closed one eye to aim and chucked the quarter in Molly’s direction. The quarter smacked her on the forehead.

Molly threw her hands up to protect her face, but she must’ve forgotten she held a full 24 ounce cup of soda. The quick movement sent the soda from her hand, all down the front of her white cotton dress.

Toby pushed Abigail down behind the railing, hiding them from view. Molly and her friends squealed and scanned the balcony, but the theater lights went dim at just the right time. Abigail and Toby watched from above as Molly, red-faced and wet, complained to her friends until they accompanied her to the bathroom. On the way to the bathroom, she saw Molly tell an adult theater attendant what happened.

Molly motioned at her dress and pointed to where they were hiding. The attendant nodded and headed for the balcony steps. Abigail’s heart pounded in her ears. She watched Toby to see what to do next. His face was a mask of mischief. He shot up and grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet. He kept her hand in his as they sneaked their way to the right side balcony seats, away from the scene of the crime.

He sat down, a mischievous smile pasted on his round face. “Don’t worry about what Molly thinks. I like you. You’re smart and pretty.” His face flushed and he faced away from her, but kept her hand in his. Toby’s warm, slightly sweaty hand squeezed hers throughout the movie.