Monochrome

Eleven days after New Years', the war ended; three days after that, a ship appeared on the horizon. They were finally going home.

Cans were emptied of beans and sauce, cleaned with briny water, and foamed over with beer. The cook spooned out heaps of food, scorning those that stopped at three or four rations and yelling at others that hadn't even made it that far. For the first time in weeks, the camp of soldiers acted with complete ease—a shiny oak-leafed officer even mixed with the dirty-nosed enlisted (though he merely puffed on his cigar and smiled like a sleaze with a secret). The Earth sensed the occasion, too, halting the rain if just for a day. Above them, the sun blazed, its glare crested by grey waves.

James sat quietly watching the ocean. At his back, tents fell, rowdy men howled, meshtins clanked, and the occasional smoke bomb aroused shouts of victory as they splurted and fizzed. In his hand, James held a crude statue of a horse. It was half-carved, blackened at one side, and splintered down the mane, but a late member of the squad had carved it, so James held onto it. Today, James considered that man a brother—a brother whose remains were scattered in a patch of trees some hundred miles back. The squad had reclaimed what they could of him, but very little had been salvaged from the wreckage. It had been the first death their team had experienced. 

James had known the poor fellah best, so he had agreed to send the horse up North to whatever kin would care to have it. The war was over now. He would have to stay true to his word. 

"Where you off to?" Cal yelled after him, shuffled steps quick to close the distance between them. 

"I gotta clear my head," James said. He looked down the shoreline. The beaches were rocky this far west, inhabited by grey birds, grey fish, and, just beyond the treeline, grey bears and coyotes. Grey crabs as big as James' fist fought over a dead fishtail. As James approached, the ruffians cleared, but a smaller crab, formally concealed, decided James was no threat and took what chance it could at the feast. The shore ahead bent around a cliff that jutted outwards, obscuring the rest of the path. James craved the solace and quiet beyond.

"You wait a shake then, mate," Cal said, interrupting his thoughts, "and I'll come with. The war may be over, but that ain't mean shite about safety 'round here. Could be teams comin' to wipe us out any moment. You want a drink?" James declined, though he did request a cigarette if there was any tobacco to spare. Cal grinned and threw back his bean can before hoisting it directly into the air and hollering for a refill, offering a "tenner" to anyone willing to spare a pack. 

James took a long drag as they walked, gray smoke the only thing between them for a time.

"Excited to head back?" Cal asked. The noise of the camp had become distant. 

"Can't be much excited about heading to nothin'," James said.

"Not even your folks?" 

"Died before I went and enlisted." 

"Ah."

"You?" 

"Yeah," Cal said, kicking a stone. "I expect a bit more respect now. Real war hero--how'd yah think it, yah know? I think us lucky; the unlucky ones went and got 'emselves dead. I ain't looking to let that luck putter out, neither. Politics, I think. That's my next fight." He puckered his face in an attempt to look serious, puffing out his chest and extending his can. "For the state, I'll says, I went and almost died. Now I'm back and ready for war again. For the people who's really gone died and for those that don't got to if we keep our caps cool. Vote for me if you know what's good for yah!"

At that moment, Cal looked younger than he ever had. Perhaps it was the peach fuzz that refused to grow along his chin. Perhaps it was the flush that the alcohol aptly applied to his skin--or maybe it was his grin. Whatever it was, for the first time since his deployment, James stared into eyes that looked inspired. It wasn't the ignorant sort that fresh recruits come in with, either, the kind that dies before the first week is out. No, Cal, 19 years, skinny as all hell, and ruffed up by a year of outdoor living and war, held wisdom alongside his passion. James, despite his desire for peace, respected Cal's declaration. 

"I don't much like the thought of another fight," James admitted after a while of walking. He put the cigarette to his lips. "I think I'll just find someplace to settle down." 

"A doll and a kid?" Cal asked, though his voice was distant, no longer interested in the small talk. Cal's head, James knew, had wondered; men often retreated into themselves, imagining places and events that belonged to people they had been or could be. It was the most popular pastime, forgetting the present self and situation. 

After a year, it was easier that way. "Perhaps," was all James said in response. He stuffed the horse into his pocket alongside his now-full cigarette tin.

The bend that James had stared down eased forward subtly, nothing like the sharp turn it had seemed from afar. James hadn't realized he was going around the cliff before he had already cleared it. He absently noted that he could no longer hear the camp, and, had it not been for Cal beside him, James would have thought of himself in a completely new location. Not only was it quiet, but the backdrop of grey had been adapted into a brilliant assortment of stones that sparkled under the sun's intensity, red crabs that ran sideways along the stretch, and birds with wingspans as large as James' that dove, their white feathers pristine as water droplets surrounded their magnificent forms with rainbows. Rather than stretching further, the beach curved around itself, creating a clear cove filled with unusual fish and coral. At the center of it all, a throne. 

Divine images were carved into the white, clay-streaked stone. Eight-eyed angels sat in the same scene as modern, baby-faced ones; beside them were three-headed monsters and beautiful women with tails. Swords, bows, and guns were held in the hands of caricatures, both human and animal, long streaks carved into the sky above them. A collection of bones, both from sea and land animals, had been laid out along the throne's base. Rather than the grim feeling James often felt when seeing carcasses, these had been arranged in a way that struck James as wonderful. Atop the throne sat a woman. 

James threw out a hand to stop Cal. Cal snapped, coming back to himself and stepping backward. "Who the hell--" 

"Wait," James muttered, tugging on Cal's shoulder to pull him further back. They hadn't yet been spotted. The woman hummed lightly to herself, her attention affixed to whatever she held in her lap. Shells had been braided into the tight, black coils of her hair; bracelets made of wood and coral adorned her upper arms, and white tattoos created impressive images around her forearms. She was nude beyond the jewelry. 

Cal's hand was on his gun. James could tell that he was itching to move--shoot or yell, those were their only options. Still, James hesitated there. Something felt...odd. 

"You do not need to hesitate, my child." 

James jumped; Cal acted. Cal's gun was drawn before James could recover his nerve. "Who are you, and where you from?" 

"Who are you, and where do you come from, child?" she repeated accusingly. She hadn't looked up from the project in her lap. Finally, James drew his gun. 

"Is your village near?" James asked. "Is there anyone with you?"

"There are many with me," she responded. James noted, with some astonishment, that she had no accent when she spoke. Her pronunciations were better than Cal's, who's street jargon had only been encouraged by the vulgarity of war's company.

"How many?" 

"More than you and your men could ever kill, I fear." She paused her movements, her face solemn for just a moment. She looked much like Cal had. Lost, distant. "Though you certainly try," she said quietly, a mutter that James didn't feel was for him. He cleared his throat. She came back to herself. "It is not them I have come to discuss, however," she declared. 

"Discuss?" James asked. "You have come to speak with us?" 

"I have come to speak with you, yes." 

James and Cal hesitated. "I--Our camp's over there," Cal said, motioning back the way they came. "You'll have to follow us s'that--" 

"I have not come to speak with your camp, Calvin Fenning," she said sternly. James thought that, for just a moment, she sounded a lot like his mother. "And I haven't come to speak with you, either."

"The cooze knows my name," Cal said, his voice pinched. That was all James heard before Cal disappeared. James shouted in surprise, his finger tightening around the trigger of his gun when it, too, disappeared. 

"Where did he go?" James demanded, falling forward, searching desperately for his gun. 

"He is neither hurt nor dead," the woman said calmly. Her voice sounded like it floated across the wind, a ship on a calm sea. The water splashed, another bird tossing up a chorus of color.

"I--That wasn't what I asked!" James spluttered, stepping back and preparing to retreat. In the silence of the night, he often thought he had gone mad. Today, under the sun, he was sure of it. 

"What do you believe in, child?" she asked, hands continuing to tinker with what she held in her lap. Was he fast enough to escape before her concentration broke? "God, humanity, self? What is it that you place worth into?"

The beach made it hard to run, he knew that much, but at least he had left his pack back at camp. How would he explain Cal's disappearance without sounding completely insane? Or, worse, without the whole squad swarming the woman and her reinforcements picking them off from the trees? The war was supposed to be over, damn it! 

"Would it be easier for you if I made it impossible to escape?" Her tone was nonchalant, almost annoyed by his actions. 

"I--"

"I asked you what it is you believe in. You are no fish, so quit presenting yourself as one." She turned to him. Her eyes were brown, and James felt nothing short of an ocean within their intensity. Dread and awe mixed like poison in his chest. "Speak," she demanded. 

"I do not know," he said, more honest than he would have liked. "I do not know what I believe in." 

She turned back to her task. "Why? You've had plenty of time to think about it. Do you believe there to be a higher power?" He denied that he did. "And what of goodwill? Do you believe in goodwill?" This, too, he felt inclined to deny, though he was not so confident as he had been with the first question. "Beauty then, do you believe in beauty."

"Sure," he said.

"And what is beauty to you?" 

He hesitated. "A clear day, a pretty lady, a piece of art. I don't know what you're looking for." 

"My child, you are alive," he was beginning to doubt such things, "and yet you speak of beauty like a man bored with his list of spices." Contemplating her work, she lifted her project to better view it in the light. "Do you not feel you have cheated someone with so little sentiment?" 

James' heart sank. He shoved his hands into his pockets, finding only his cigarette tin, loose pebbles, and a single piece of gum. The horse was gone. 

The woman held it in the light. The burned side had been widdled clean, the half of it that had been more block than horse was delicately sculpted, and a shiny finish had been applied, making it glow in the sunlight. 

"What have you done?" James screamed.

She turned it over. The bronze glare was blinding. "I finished what another began." 

"That wasn't yours to take, and it damn well wasn't yours to fuck with!"

"Was it yours?" She asked, no more curious than she was shocked or angry.

"It wasn't yours!" he repeated. 

"If you cannot believe in a higher power, goodwill, or beauty, then why is it that you stand while the man that began this project is dead?" she asked. "I finished this piece because it held the sensibility of an artist. Potential wasted is a crime not even hell can remedy. Though, you don't believe in a hell, do you?" He did. He had lived it for the past year.  

"You've ruined it!" he shouted indignantly. "It was never meant to be finished, you dumb cooze!" 

"And who are you to decided that?" she shouted back, facing him again. "Who are you to decide what art should look like? You've no appreciation for it anyway." 

"I know enough to not fuck with something that was found in a dead man's trousers! What of his family? It wasn't my job to fix it. That was all we had left of him!"

"What is beauty to you, then? Did you believe this beautiful?"

"What do you want from me?" James demanded. Mind games had never been his strong suit; he was a rifleman, not a scholar. 

She settled herself back into her throne. The white stone had changed; images along its side were no longer those of the Divine, only chaos. "What is it that you will do with your life? Around you is nothing but death. Even before the war, you were surrounded. And yet, you see nothing to derive meaning. Passion created you, raised you, and was killed in front of you. You feel no debt to it? None at all?" 

"I didn't kill him! He stepped on an IED. There was nothing we could do for him!" 

"And of your family?" 

"A car accident! I can't be blamed for that, either!" 

“The men you’ve killed? Are you not to be blamed for those?”

“I--They would have just as easily killed me!”

"It makes no difference!" 

"Why are you trying to make me feel guilty? I joined my service. I did my time and protected my state. Is that not enough for you?" 

"No, because you did it without belief in even that. You are here because you had no other place to go." 

James turned to stare at the water. Everything within it was pronounced; the colors hurt his eyes. He fished out a new cigarette and nursed it until grey smoke blocked out the sheer potency of the cove. "What's the point? If I had believed in some all-knowing power, I would still be here. If I had painted or wrote, I would still be here. I am moving forward as I see fit. Why does it matter what I believe? Let other people decide what I believed in after I'm gone. What great importance is there to art if you end up in the same grave as everyone else?" 

Silence spread between them. James was neither affected nor moved when, like a mirage in a desert, his memories began to play in the water. Birds continued to dance around the monotonous film. Had he been alone, James would have decided himself properly gone, a felled step on an IED or taken by a hidden sniper, but he didn’t put it past the witch to know his mind. He watched his childhood morph into his present. The reel, uninspired, ended on his reflection, the butt of a fag smashed between his thumb and forefinger. Nothing more came.

"There has been no harm done," the woman said at last.

James looked at her, confused. She only motioned at him. He hesitated before checking his pockets. The horse. It was returned to how it was, half-carved and burned and splintering.

"Art is not a thing we do for ourselves," she said. "Perhaps, at first, we think it is such. A knife and a block is a good friend for a lonely night. But in the end, our passions bring more to others than they do ourselves. You do not see beauty, goodness, and fate because you think neither of yourself nor others. Life is not a thing to get through, my child. It is a thing to lose yourself in. It may be your efforts that another man reaps the benefits from." She nodded once more to the horse. 

James frowned down at it. When he looked up again, the throne was gone. Everything was grey. 

"Where you off to?" Cal yelled. James turned around, shocked to find himself back at camp. 

"Cal!" James cried, reaching for him to make sure he was real. "Where the hell did you go?" 

"The john, naturally. If I would've known you wanted to hold it, I would've invited yah. Do you want a beer?" He held up his bean can. "If you keep standing here lookin' all lost, you're not gon' get none, I assure yah that." 

"I--yeah, I'll take one." James stared down the shoreline. The jagged cliff spread into the sky, but the passage around it had been overtaken by the tide. James sat down as Cal hollered for a refill and for another can to be cleaned. Someone called dibs on the beans. James grabbed his pack and fished out his hunting knife.

"Hey, you're finally fixing it up," Cal said, sitting down next to him and handing him a can.  

"Yeah,” James said, accepting the beer. “It'd be a shame to see it go unfinished."