The splintered light, p.20
The Splintered Light, page 20
She nodded, and they stood there without speaking, just staring out at the blue sea.
Ishmael didn’t know what else to say. Hannah didn’t, either. She uncurled her arms, rubbed her hands together, and left.
Ishmael turned to watch her as she walked to the posticum exit. Her shoulders drooped, and the bounce she usually had in her step was gone. He wished she would turn around. If she turned around, he would know that everything would be fine. If she turned around, he could say something more, something important. He could apologize again, and maybe she wouldn’t go.
But Hannah kept walking. She reached the entrance and passed through, and then she was out of Ishmael’s sight.
Ishmael stood up, his heart aching. How could this have gone so wrong? He needed an ally right now, someone on his side. He needed a brother.
CHAPTER
41
It was late, but Ishmael tracked Luc down in the nearly empty workroom, staring into a spectrum.
Luc looked up when Ishmael walked in. “Brother of mine,” he said without a trace of emotion.
Ishmael licked his lips, suddenly nervous. “Luc,” he said.
Luc raised an eyebrow and waited silently for Ishmael to speak.
“I think, that is, we all think … Without Color Master here … I need …” Ishmael slumped against a workbench, and his words faded into silence.
“You need my help?”
Luc’s tone was so understanding that Ishmael almost believed he had been forgiven, that Luc had returned to being the older brother Ishmael had known and loved all these years.
“Please. I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“Come see the posticum.”
Ishmael explained what he and Michael had done while they walked to the posticum. When they arrived, Luc studied the foundation.
“It was supposed to be like what you and I did in the tower room. And it was—at least it was when I left before dinner. But something must have happened.”
“Your colors mixed,” Luc said, kneeling down to study the foundation. “You made a new color.”
“But how? This didn’t happen in the tower room.”
“The walls—the surfaces of stone—already have color so the dappled colors can’t permeate them. This”—Luc pointed to the foundation—“was colorless, so the colors soaked in and mixed together. While the color is nice—deep and rich—I’m afraid you’re going to have to contend with Color Master. I don’t think she’ll take kindly to you veering from the plan, even if you had good intentions.” Luc touched Michael’s contraption. “Especially when she finds out an apprentice from another Hall was doing your work.”
“But he wasn’t doing my work! He just gave me the light—”
“It’s not the way things are done here,” Luc interrupted.
Ishmael was desperate. “Is there anything I can do? Can I pull the colors back out—like with the second law of color? Make a spectrum and let them separate?”
Luc shook his head. “It’s kind of hard to fix something that covers the whole foundation.”
“I’m doomed.” Ishmael slumped down.
Luc walked a few paces, then said slowly, “Not necessarily.”
“No?” Ishmael clung to a shred of hope.
“What if you covered the foundation with trees and bushes and plants? That way you could hide the new color, and Color Master will never have to know.”
“But I’d need hundreds and hundreds of plants and trees to cover the foundation,” Ishmael said with dismay.
“It’s up to you, little brother. But I know what I’d do.” Luc walked off, his hands in his pockets.
The problem was that Ishmael didn’t know what he should do. He liked the new color. It was warm. It was comforting. It held most of the colors, except blue. Seen against the blue of the sky, Ishmael felt like the spectrum was complete. But would Color Master be angry about the way he colored the foundation? Luc thought so, and if Luc thought so, he must be right. Ishmael didn’t want to face her anger. Luc’s anger had been bad enough; he couldn’t possibly face anyone else’s.
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42
The next morning, he found plans from the Shape artisan lying on his worktable.
“These were delivered yesterday,” Matthew said. “From Shape.”
Ishmael fingered through page after page showing diagrams of trees and plants, some tall and spiky, some squat and fat, some round and bulbous, but all with the same pattern of roots, stem, and leaves.
Several of them looked familiar. Ishmael could see influences from the trees and plants at home. One tree had cascades of branches flowing down to the ground. Others showed flowers and fruit hanging from stems and branches and vines.
“So now what? Or do you need to consult with your assistant from the Hall of Manufactory first?” Jacob asked.
Ishmael tried to ignore the sarcasm in Jacob’s voice. He knew Jacob felt like Ishmael had betrayed their spectrum when he dappled the foundation with Michael, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. He could only add it to his list of good intentions gone awry.
Ishmael studied the forms of the plants and trees. Maybe Luc was right. “Luc suggested that we cover the foundation entirely with trees and plants. If we have enough, and if we cover all those trees and plants with green, you won’t see much of the mixed color underneath,” Ishmael said.
“You’re going to hide the color?” Lilith asked.
“I don’t want to get in trouble with Color Master.”
“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” Jacob said.
“And we won’t have enough green,” said Matthew. “That is, if you’re using the green that’s already distilled.”
“You’re right, I don’t think we have enough green right now, but if all the light that Color Master brings back is distilled into green—that should be enough. And don’t worry, I’m not going to chance using anything but distilled color.” Ishmael grabbed his slate and chalk, and began scribbling numbers on it. He tapped the chalk on the slate. “You know, I think we might just be able to do it. We’ll need about ten to fifteen more vials, though.”
“That might be possible.” Lilith looked around at the others. “How should we apply the color?”
“Quills would take too long, and swabs just wouldn’t work. See?” Ishmael held out the plans from the Hall of Shape.
Jacob nodded. “Too much detail.”
“Maybe dusters?” Lilith said.
They looked at her blankly.
“They’re like sifters, but on a much bigger scale.”
“How do you know this?” Ishmael asked.
“I read up on other methods of coloration after we saw Luc’s posticum.”
Ishmael decided to ask Ethan for more flora to cover the foundation.
And then? Well, they’d just have to work quickly to color it all.
Ishmael walked through the entryway into the workroom of the Hall of Manufactory and looked around, appalled. Stuff was everywhere: most of it was piled up in the middle of the floor, some spilled off workbenches, and some crowded the shelves. But the sight confirmed his plan for the posticum: he could barely see the floor for all the stuff that was on top of it. If there were enough trees and plants, the ground of the posticum would be covered.
Ethan sat at his drafting table, surrounded by parchment. Below him were wadded-up balls of paper. “Ishmael!” Ethan said, sitting up so quickly that he nearly tipped over his stool. “How goes your work on the posticum?”
Ishmael grimaced. “I wonder if you could adjust the plan a bit?”
Ethan set his pencil down and swung his legs around to face Ishmael. “Do you need fewer plants?”
“Actually, I wanted to see if you could cover the foundation with more flora than are in the plans.”
Ethan crinkled his eyebrows. “More? I figured we’d build only two of each kind of vegetation because of the color shortage. We were going to send over most of the flora this afternoon.”
Ishmael shook his head. “I’d rather have the foundation covered. Can you do that?”
“Yes, but are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“If you think that’s best.” Ethan picked up his pencil again. “I’ll let you know when we’re done.”
“Thanks.” As Ishmael left, he heard Ethan directing the other Manufactory apprentices to make more leaves and stems.
Dozens of carts rolled over the courtyard stones pushed by the Manufactory apprentices. If Thaddeus, the Motion apprentice, had been watching from the tower above, it would have looked like a mass exodus, a caravan of epic proportions. He would have thrilled to see the movement, but he wasn’t watching. He was in the Hall workroom, thinking about Dora, the girl from the Hall of Shape, who walked with a rolling grace that captivated him.
Down in the courtyard, there were few people to witness the carts delivering the flora to the posticum. The carts bumped over the uneven surface, jostling the flora inside, setting the leaves quivering. Burlap-wrapped trees and bushes and plants, shovels and spades, were all bound for the posticum. This was going to take some time, but soon the foundation would be covered.
SHAPE
Several days later, Dora walked across the courtyard with a spring in her step. She carried nothing. Empty hands, empty fingers. No pencil, no paper, no round-handled basket. The emptiness was a new feeling, a curious feeling since she had been tied to the plans for the Jubilee posticum for days now. She had been working on a long-necked land animal whose neck was much too long for its legs. It would never balance, because the geometry of it was not right. Too much line, not enough circle. Dora needed a break.
Also, she needed to confirm that the Hall of Manufactory had followed her designs with the flora, that there were large areas of merriefield, a tiny, low-growing plant with three circular leaves, as well as smaller plots of the less-detailed, spiky tallgrass in the posticum.
If she were honest, though, she had an even more profound reason for checking the posticum. It was a reason that had been blossoming in her mind over the past week, ever since that Manufactory apprentice talked to her. He had told her about his hope to collaborate, to help the Hall of Hue, but at the time, she had been miffed because of what he had done to her hexagon at the challenge, and she sent him off, saying she didn’t understand what he meant. His words had stayed with her, though, and she began thinking about how all the pieces of creation fit together.
Dora loved the principles of Shape, and she knew she could design shapes well, but without the efforts of the other Halls, the shapes she made would be pretty hollow. Where would the Hall of Shape be without Manufactory? The output from the Hall of Shape would only be drawings on a page without the skills of Manufactory. Likewise, where would Manufactory and Shape be without the Hall of Motion? Their shapes would be stiff and stagnant. And the other Halls? Undoubtedly, their work had to be part of one great whole.
As she walked along, she realized that just as Shape was dependent upon Manufactory and Motion, the work of the other Halls was dependent upon the Hall of Shape. She had a responsibility to Scent, Sound, and Gustation in the structures Shape created for them.
Hue was different, though. Hue didn’t need separate structures for their work; they overlaid it upon what already existed. There were no specks or splinters Shape needed to design for Hue. Nor did they need Hue to add to their designs.
The Shape apprentice stopped walking.
If Shape wasn’t dependent on Hue and Hue wasn’t dependent on Shape, then they could help or hinder each other at will. They could be allies for no reason other than sheer goodness.
That was a beautiful thought.
It excited her, and she began walking toward the posticum again. Dora thought of the Hue artisan. Over the past few days, she had watched his shape change as his shoulders sagged more and more under the burden of responsibility he carried. She herself could do something more to help him, couldn’t she? She had already made the water cover the majority of the land to help, but Michael must have thought there was something she could do since he had approached her. She didn’t know the first thing about color—she only knew shape, but she would find some way.
By that time, she reached the wall surrounding the posticum. It was all she could do to keep from charging in, but she placed her fingertip on the stones, tracing their shapes and the lines between them in order to calm herself. She stretched out the moment of anticipation until she couldn’t bear it anymore, then ducked through the archway.
Though she had worked on the merriefield drawings for days, she wasn’t prepared for the reality of the sight. She found herself utterly entranced by the curving pathway through trees leading down to the water. It was neither line nor circle, but somehow both. She paused to look for the low-growing plants, and there they were, clumped in masses underneath the trees. Farther on, she saw fields of the grasses ruffled by the wind. Yes, it was exactly as she wanted.
Ethan, the Manufactory artisan, stood by the water. He held a small tool in his hands, which he twisted and turned while he waited.
She called out to him, and he spun around, a friendly smile on his face.
“Is the flora acceptable?” he asked, walking to her.
“It’s lovely.”
“I’m pleased with it myself. If it passes your inspection, I’ll notify the Hue artisan to let him know it’s his turn.”
The Shape apprentice lifted her head. “I’ll take the message, if you’d like. You must have other things to do?” Maybe this was the opportunity she needed to discover how she could help Ishmael.
He laughed. “You wouldn’t mind? I have a list of things to do about a mile long. Adding this extra flora set my schedule back.”
“I won’t be missed,” she said. Not for the short amount of time it would take to walk to the Hall of Hue and deliver a message. She could look at the Hue artisan’s face, study its shapes and its planes, and see if the answer to her question of how to help lay in its lines and its curves.
They left the posticum together, heading toward the corner where the Hall of Hue and the Hall of Manufactory met.
“Ishmael really asked for more flora?”
“He did indeed. Thanks again.” He stuffed the device into his pocket, and they separated at the entrance to the Hall of Hue.
She linked her fingers together and walked to the workroom, nervous excitement shooting through her. She peeked through the door, taking stock of all the shapes in the room. The long, rounded glass vials; the squat stone jars; the wide, flat worktables. It pleased her.
She spotted Ishmael in the midst. The Shape apprentice was more determined than ever to be an ally to the Hall of Hue. “Excuse me?” She knocked on the door.
Ishmael looked up. He recognized Dora and smiled. It seemed like a million years ago that she competed in the order and chaos challenge.
“Ethan asked me to deliver a message.”
He rose from his bent-over position into a straight line, and it made Dora want to encase Ishmael in a protective circle. “Ethan said to tell you he was done with the trees.”
The roundness of relief and then lines of apprehension played over his face, one after the other, and he said, “Already?”
“Was that sooner than you had expected?” she asked, taking a step closer.
“Yes.”
“But why did you ask for so many more trees? I thought you were running out of color.”
Worry lined his face. “I am. You wouldn’t understand. You’re not from Hue. It’s complicated, and I don’t have time to explain.”
Her jaw dropped open into a small oval—a circle that had been squashed—when she realized what he had done with those four small sentences. He had started with a conclusion—a dot—that he drew out into a line and then another line, line after line until he had boxed her up and labeled her as a member of the Hall of Shape, incapable of being or thinking or doing anything else.
She looked away, only to notice that the other Hue novices had stopped their work and were staring at her. This was not going the way she had hoped. “Just because I’m not from Hue doesn’t mean that I don’t understand complicated things or that I can’t help.”
The Shape apprentice turned and left. So much for goodwill. So much for being allies.
As Dora walked away, she wondered if that’s what she had done with Michael when he had asked for her help: boxed him up and labeled him a Manufactory apprentice, incapable of anything except following directions and building things. Overcome by shame, she realized that’s exactly what she had done.
When she reached the Great Courtyard from the Hall of Hue, a gust of wind swirled around her, blowing away all of the dots and lines and shapes confining her. It made her catch her breath as it pushed her onto the stones surrounding the fountain. She sat down hard. When she pulled her hair away from her face, an unusual sight caught her eye. In front of her, a spiral of dust twisted in the air, going around and around. She stared at it, mesmerized.
“What are you looking at?” a voice asked her.
Without turning her head, she pointed toward the spiral of dust. “The shape … it’s so fluid. It’s neither circle nor line.”
The breeze died, and the dust fell to the ground. She finally turned toward the voice.
It was the Motion artisan, Thaddeus. He had kind eyes and hair that stood up in every direction. The shapes she could find just in his hair! It made her smile.
“Did you want to see it again?” he asked, the waves embroidered on his uniform pocket rippling merrily.
“Yes, but … the wind dropped.”
Even as she spoke, the wind swirled around her again. She looked at the Motion apprentice. He had a sly look on his face.
“You did that?”
He smiled. “Beginner’s stuff in the Hall of Motion.” He lifted his hand and the dust began to swirl.
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