Colorless

by Rita Stradling

  All I wanted was to not think about the finger or any of the events that preceded and followed it today, but my mind kept flashing through each horror.

  When my dratted cousin had confronted the stable boy, I’d stayed seated in the boy’s sweaty embrace. After the toils of the morning, perhaps… perhaps I felt safe for just an instant in his arms. It was a weakness to lean on his strength, I knew that. However, that instant of safety had fled nearly as soon as it arrived.

  As the monks descended upon us, I panicked. I’d jumped from his lap, rushed between gawkers, and down street after street. I’d only stopped when my breath deserted me and I was hopelessly lost in Hopesworth’s winding avenues.

  With only the odd gas lamps to light my way now, I was beyond lost. I’d sat against the storefront of a closed bread shop and tucked my legs to my chest.

  My mind again fell to the image of the stable boy as I deserted him in front of the templum. How quickly I’d discarded the teachings of my father. I deserted my servant who only sought to serve me, who’d risked life and limb to retrieve me. And I’d abandoned him to the false accusations of my asinine cousin.

  Steadying myself, I tucked my arms between my legs and chest, hoping to save them from the cooling night’s chill. I knew I should stand again, that I should continue my search for a familiar road to lead me home, but my leg muscles had hardened to the consistency of rocks and refused to cooperate. The ache didn’t stop with my legs. Every muscle in my back and abdomen screamed at me as well. Whatever had kept me running from horror to horror today had long abandoned me and left me a pile of aching limbs on the side of a deserted cobble road.

  For a second, I thought I heard something. I examined the street. No one was there.

  It came again, a low whistling melody whispered down the avenue. It was a strange, faded refrain on the summer breeze that I would almost believe was the breeze itself if not for the melody. Each moment that passed, the tune grew in strength and volume.

  I tucked in closer to myself, huddling deeper into the alcove, still attempting to not touch anything with my cursed skin. Whoever was whistling would likely pass me as everyone else had when there’d still been pedestrians.

  Yet… after that rabid servant today, my confidence in my invisibility vanished.

  Down the street from me, a figure turned the corner. The large shadow approached, seeming in no hurry though the night was growing colder and darker by the minute. At first, I thought it a man from their girth and wide shoulders, but as they stepped into the light of the gas lamp, their female form illuminated.

  A sudden pulse of fear hit me when I saw the woman’s blue servant dress, but light licked across her features, revealing a much older woman. Though her height and posture suggested otherwise, the deep wrinkles webbing across her face made her appear ancient. The hair haloing her face looked to be the color of my skin. Its lack of color contrasted starkly with the rich fire-lit copper of her complexion under the gas lamp.

  Her whistling ended and she started singing in a deep, feminine voice, “Nirsha, Sun, Ester, Weire, it is them that we must fear.”

  As the woman approached, I uncoiled from my position, readying myself to run.

  “In the morning, it is Ester to rise, the gift of life to cherish and prize. Your life Sun will fill with toil, your roots he’ll plant in life’s soil.”

  Neither the tune nor the eerie hymn was familiar to me, which was strange as I knew most congregational hymns.

  The hulking woman came into view, but did not take any notice of me, looking only up the curving road. When she continued to gaze forward and looked to be passing, I settled against the storefront.

  “Weire, he will take all from you, in his crimson fires he will judge us true. Forevermore in Nirsha’s care you’ll remain…”

  I held my breath as she drew level with me

  “…because the spirit of all is her domain.”

  Directly ahead of me, she spun to tower over me.

  I gasped. Grabbing wildly at the façade I sat against, I stumbled to my feet. There was nowhere to go. Her figure blocked the light, leaving her a hulking shadow that filled the entirety of my exit from the storefront.

  Her low, melodic voice came out of her shadow, “I didn’t think I’d ever see one of you again.”

  “I’m not what you think I am,” I whispered.

  “And what is it that you’re not?” she asked.

  “An iconoclast.”

  “Ah, but you’re wrong, child. An iconoclast is exactly what you are.” She said nothing for a few seconds. I did not know what she could see while blocking the light as she was, but I felt her examining me. After what felt like an eternity, she said, “You can come with me if you want. But I’m telling you now, it won’t be any safer for you. If you stay here, you will be caught and die. But if you follow me, you’ll only be heading to a new type of danger.”

  She stepped back, giving me a small window of escape and letting the light from the gas lamp illuminate half her face.

  I didn’t move, not trusting that she truly gave me an escape nor her words—though they had been far from comforting. “Who are you?”

  “You won’t know me. I knew your father and mother, as well as knowing quite a bit about you, Lady Annabelle Klein.”

  “You do? Did you—did you work for us?” I stumbled over my words. “When I was young, I mean—not that I wouldn’t remember a servant.”

  “No. I never worked for your father, though it would have been an honor. My grandson did and still does, in his way. And that grandson is why I am out here; if you aren’t found, I fear he’ll run around these streets until his feet have worn off.” She stepped even further out of my path and into the light.

  “Your grandson is… the stable hand?” I whispered.

  “Dylan,” she snapped.

  I jumped a little with the change in her tone. When she paused long enough that I was sure she was waiting for a response, I whispered, “I see. His name is Dylan?”

  “Yes, girl, Dylan, and my name is Sophie.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” I mumbled.

  “Sophie, not ma’am.”

  “If you wish… and Dylan—he’s searching for me?”

  She nodded. “He didn’t come home tonight.”

  “And he told you about me?”

  “He did not—but I remember—I know the signs to look for when an iconoclast transforms.” She turned, looking down the street in the direction she came from.

  I gestured at myself. “This has happened before? Is that what you mean by knowing the signs when an iconoclast transforms?”

  “I don’t have time to answer your questions, girl, I must be off. You can follow me or not. I cannot promise you safety—only a different type of danger.” With that, she strolled away.

  “Wait—wait!” When she didn’t wait, I rushed after her. “Are there others like me?”

  “Quiet, quiet, follow me,” she sang before she took up whistling again.

  When a few more of my questions received whistling in response, I did as she said and followed her.

  She set a brisk pace.

  We strolled from street to street. The houses alongside us diminished in size and grandeur, until most were little more than shacks. Wooden structures crammed against each other, each pushing closer to the next.

  The distinct reek of the Hutchings River Slough rose as we weaved deeper into the dark tenements. No gas lamps lit our path here. The only light emitted from a quarter moon and the low haze of firelight shining through dirty windows. Muffled voices chattered from open and closed doorways alike. We passed more than one set of eyes shining from within dark alleys, but no one stepped out.

  As we turned down yet another, even darker path, I began regretting my choice to follow her. I should have asked her to direct me to the manor, but instead I was tumbling into yet another—and maybe far worse—horror.

  All I had for reference was her claim to have
known my parents and her association with the stable boy. But what did I know of this boy—or Dylan, as she insisted I call him?

  I knew he’d come to help me. Other than that, I knew only of his bad reputation and ability to see me when so many others could not. It seemed he shared this ability with his grandmother and that rabid servant at the post office.

  Yet, instead of convincing me to flee, my thoughts spurred me to rush to catch up with the servant—Sophie. I stumbled over the uneven ground, looking to the moonlight reflecting off her servant’s dress as my guide.

  Sophie had told me several pivotal pieces of information in her speech earlier: she knew my parents, what I was, and that I wasn’t the first of my kind. If she was not leading me to my dismal death in this stinking slum, perhaps I’d found a source of genuine answers.

  All my hopeful thoughts fled me when we stopped in front of what could only be called a hovel. Even the darkness and moonlight could not mask its destitute state. The entire structure leaned to one side, as if a strong wind had blown it over without quite finishing the task.

  Sophie yanked open a heavy wooden door and continued to hold it, as if it might snap shut without her forceful hold. She glared at me when I didn’t rush into the darkness.

  “Is there anyone in there?” I asked, leaning forward in an attempt to see inside.

  Sophie only grunted in response. She turned and stepped over the threshold, leaving me on the street alone. As the door made to slam shut behind her, I rushed in on her heels and halted just inside the doorway.

  With a loud thwamp behind me, all light extinguished. I had thought the low, bluish moonlight and red haze far too little illumination, but its absence was profound in the absolute darkness. I listened for footsteps creaking over floorboards, but it was silent except for a quiet rhythmic breathing.

  There was a snick, and then a flare of light. Across a short distance, a flame flickered at the end of a matchstick. The flame moved, held to a wick that lit and spread a red hazy glow onto Sophie’s features.

  Sophie reached up with the candle and lit a second one. As I approached, the small one-room house flickered into view. The candles’ greasy meat smell stung my nose and coated my throat.

  Light licked over a small table surrounded by four chairs. A bowl sat central on the table, shadow its only contents. I couldn’t see the entire house, but from what I could measure, it was small and cramped with worn and weathered furnishings. I would guess the entire structure stretched to about a quarter the size of my private sitting room, if that.

  Low snores echoed from within the shadows on one side of the hovel.

  “There are others here?” I asked, as I attempted to see past the shadows.

  Sophie held a finger to her lips. “You won’t want to wake them, child.” Lifting her candle from where it dripped onto their small table, she nodded deeper into the house. “This way.” She stepped a few feet forward, stopping at a rusted and tarnished wood-burning stove. It was the widest I’d ever seen, the wood compartment tall and expansive. Even in its disheveled state, the stove shouldn’t be here.

  I’d never been in a peasant’s home before and was far from an expert on the layout, but I’d studied all my father’s ledgers and knew a servant’s pay. My father had kept me apprised of the market value of all items that we ordered for the estate, iron among them. Even with several salaries added together and with the depreciated value from the stove’s use, it would take decades for them to afford that much iron.

  Sophie set the candle on the top of the stove and opened its doors to reveal a lone log. She pulled out the log, setting it on the top of the furnace. Leaning further into the stove, she pulled up the metal floor, flipping it up and revealing a hole.

  She grabbed the candle and lifted it between us, her gaze examining my face. After a few seconds examining me, she whispered, “You knew this was here?”

  “No.” I shook my head. The greasy smoke of the tallow candle felt like it was dripping oil into my chest. I wanted to cough, but I didn’t dare.

  I knew I should run. If I climbed in that hole, there was a distinct possibility that I would never climb out. I should run. But I wasn’t going to. I stared into the woman’s rough-hewn face and whispered, “How would I know that this was here?”

  Her cerulean eyes lit with an amused light. “You didn’t seem surprised when I lifted the cover.”

  “You shouldn’t have been able to afford that much iron.”

  “Ah… your father told me he educated you as he would a son.” A smile touched her lips. “That must have been an unpopular decision.”

  “Most considered it my eternal shame.” I nodded past her. “What is in the hole?”

  “You father’s only legacy, aside from, perhaps, yourself. Though what you’ll become, only time will tell.” She shrugged.

  “If I climb down, will you lock me in there?”

  “That is a worthless question. I could say yes or no, but you’ll only truly learn if you go down there.”

  “It’s worth the weight of your word, whatever that might be,” I insisted.

  “The weight of words. That is something I understand. Then I will give you my word, I will do all in my power to ensure that the way out will be open to you.” She held out the tallow candle to me.

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  “If I don’t find my grandson, something else will. I cannot wait any longer. I can tell you one thing.” She nodded down to the hole. “You’ll be safer in there than you will be up here.”

  Reaching out, I took the candle. I hissed in a breath as hot grease dripped onto my fingers.

  “Be very careful,” she said before veering around me and walking away into the shadows.

  There was a creaking of floorboards, a quiet thwap, and then the soft sound of snoring filled the house.

  Taking one last steadying breath, I walked forward and climbed into the hole in the furnace. My injured hand gripped the candle as tallow dripped over the length of my gloved fingers. With my free hand, I held onto the wooden rung of a ladder. I felt for the next rung with my booted foot and then the next. I had been descending for what felt like twenty feet.

  This close to the river, I would have believed it impossible that such a tunnel would remain dry, but this deep I could not even smell the Hutchings—though the smell of my candle was no improvement.

  As I descended, my teeth began to chatter. The temperature underground felt about the same as reaching into an icebox, but with my entire body.

  Stepping down once more, my boot connected with wood. I stumbled off the final rungs and righted my dress as I turned around. The tunnel I had been expecting was no tunnel at all, but a room too large for the light of my candle. I held the candle up, seeing a few square wooden structures in a vast room.

  I set my gloved hand against the wood-paneled wall beside me and followed it for some distance around the room until I found a lamp. Taking off the glass cover, I lit the fuel and replaced it.

  A soft glow filled the space around me. A large worktable stretched to one side. A carving tool lay beside a small metal plate with a copper sheen.

  Behind the table, a wooden structure ten feet tall towered. A system of pulleys and gears held it open. In its center, another copper plate had been fastened into a large wooden press.

  Lined all around the walls, from top to bottom, sat jars filled with a black liquid.

  I carried my candle to the nearest plate, where a drawing sat, a drawing someone had been referencing to carve into the wax on the copper. I leaned forward to gaze at the sketch.

  It was both exquisite and familiar. I would know Fauve’s sketches in any form. The sketch consisted of four parts. The first was of a farmer digging up food. The one following it was of that same farmer before an empty table. Below these scenes was a scene of a lord sleeping; before the scene that followed was of the same lord feasting. Below it was the question: How are we different?

  The way the sketches were
rendered, however, was deliberate. The farmer Fauve had sketched, while wearing commoner clothing, was positioned the way the famous depiction of Sun, the god of life, stood in so many templum paintings. The farmer even held Sun’s famous scythe and beside him sat a dog resembling Sun’s wolf form.

  The lord had a similarity to an iconic depiction as well, reminiscent of the depictions of Weire’s judgment. The lord’s depiction, however, looked splayed out like the spirits determined unfit for Nirsha’s realm, the ones cast back into Ester’s cold embrace and cycled once more through the world to prove their worth.

  The images were so reminiscent to those portrayals, any illiterate peasant would understand the message without needing to read the words.

  My legs shook, and I stumbled my way onto the chair beside the copper plate.

  The image was… its existence was almost unfathomable. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. I’d heard blasphemous mutterings, even the odd curse in the gods’ names, but this… this was different.

  This image was like my father’s whispered word, advantageous, an accusation beyond simple discontentment.

  I looked around at what I could see of the room, at the hundreds of bottles that must be ink.

  With the current rate for ink, each bottle would go for a half-gold piece. If I added the price of the copper plates, the acid-washes wax and paper, it would amount to a small fortune.

  My father’s only legacy, Sophie had said.

  It was likely my mother’s as well; her father had patronized the original copper-etching press—though those had been used exclusively by the Congregation and their spread of the daily devotions and parables.

  When I’d gathered enough energy to continue, I stood and wandered to the papers that were laid out just beside the press itself. The inked sketch did not quite have Fauve’s perfection in form. The work could have been done with a lighter hand, but the image still told its story. It depicted the House of Lords building in the capitol southern city, Terra Firma. But standing on its steps were commoners, each with one hand held up, holding aloft a piece of paper. Your House, Our Home, it read.