Ishmael tried to speak with Luc the next morning, but Luc wouldn’t look at him, let alone talk to him. His noble thoughts last night at dinner about making sure Luc won the contest had drifted away, and he wished he had left when he had the chance yesterday. He wished he had let Luc deal with the posticum closing on his own. No doubt, all would have worked out for him. But now Luc was stuck here and so was Ishmael—neither of them were where they were supposed to be—and nobody was happy.
After breakfast, Hannah, Thomas, and Ishmael returned to the Hall of Hue, where a flurry of whispers met him when he walked into the workroom.
“Don’t worry about them,” Hannah said, her round cheeks earnest. “It was an honest mistake.”
Ishmael cringed. It was a mistake, but it was a mistake he shouldn’t have made. He should have known the woolen bag was Luc’s, or he should have brought both bags, or at the very least, he should have checked what was inside of them. But to grab the wrong bag? That shouldn’t have happened. He knew it, Luc knew it, and everyone else knew it, too.
They took a seat at the back of the room near the other novices as Color Master appeared.
“The first business of the day is to remind you about the Jubilee contest,” Color Master said. “Yesterday, Head Master suggested that everyone enter. I, however, am requiring it.”
Ishmael jerked his head up.
“What did I say about breaking through a wall with a forehead last night?” Thomas muttered. “I sense a great headache coming on.”
“That’s not very practical,” Lilith said.
Matthew immediately hiccupped.
Color Master glared at him.
“Sorry!” Matthew plugged his nose to hold his breath.
“But what about Luc?” Jacob called out.
“What happened with Luc is an unfortunate incident and should be a cautionary tale to the rest of you,” Color Master continued. “However, this posticum has been planned for many months as part of our Jubilee celebration.” She nodded toward Lilith. “Whether you consider it practical or not, I want all of you to enter. The contest is not biased toward those who have a greater understanding of theory. This is an opportunity to think about color in a way that most apprentices do not get to until they prepare for their posticum. Each of you has instincts regarding color—insights and intuition about color harmony. Let this guide your plan. So, the rules:
“First. One entry per person. All entries deemed unfit according to the standards of color keepers will be disqualified.
“Second. Entries should include color schemes for the following base components: water, air, and foundation. Additionally, entries should include color schemes for flora and fauna for each of those base components, i.e., water plants, air plants, and land plants, and water animals, air animals, and land animals. Entries must be general enough to accommodate the work of the other Halls.
“Third. Each primary color must be represented in the entries. Additionally, no structures can remain uncolored.
“Fourth. Judging will commence immediately. Each entry will be blindly read, so names should be written on the back of the entry at the bottom. I will select one winner based on the following criteria: (a) originality, (b) creativity, and (c) feasibility.
“Fifth. The chosen artisan will be announced at the all-Commons assembly when judging is complete.
“Sixth. The chosen artisan will work with the other members of his or her spectrum who will aid in the coloration of the posticum.
“Seventh. Those who are chosen as artisans have the option of remaining in the posticum.
“These rules will be posted in the Hall for your reference, and entries will be collected here.” She pointed to a box next to her door. “They are due in two days’ time.”
The novices made their way back to the supply room, a look of disbelief on their faces, Matthew still hiccupping.
“Really?” Rebekah lowered herself into her chair, her usual enthusiasm wiped away.
“Luc’s going to win whether we enter the contest or not,” Jacob said with a sideways look at Ishmael.
“But Color Master said—” Lilith began.
“This is entirely for Luc since he got yoked with such a brother.” Jacob laughed and punched Ishmael’s shoulder, but Ishmael didn’t think it was funny.
Lilith shook her head, not convinced.
Rebekah said, “Well, if I have to do this, I’m going to use lots of yellow.” She hadn’t noticed Color Master walk in behind her.
“Like Luc did?” Color Master said. “Just make sure you include the other colors.”
Rebekah flushed. “Is Luc coming today?”
Color Master carefully folded her hands together. “No, Luc needs some time to himself.”
“Why is he so upset?” Thomas said. “The thought of being walled into a posticum makes me twitchy.”
Color Master chose her words carefully. “During creation, each posticum becomes a special place for the artisans, almost sacred. It becomes the place where they are most comfortable, because it represents the best that is within those apprentices. The posticum calls to them, and becomes their heart’s desire.”
“I see. As you cooked the porridge, so must you eat it,” Thomas said.
“But what do the artisans do once they go into their posticums?” Matthew asked.
Lilith’s nose crinkled. “It’s awfully small to spend the rest of your life there, isn’t it?”
Color Master walked to the far side of the table. “They go on creating there, but in a slightly different way. They live their lives. They get married. They have children. Their posticum grows and matures, as they grow and mature.”
“But how does it grow, when the wall surrounds it? Do they take down the wall and rebuild it?” Ishmael asked.
“Godfrey Wright designed the wall to expand when there is need. The posticums only close so each creation remains separate from other creations.”
Ishmael couldn’t begin to understand how a wall could enlarge on its own, but he wished he could bring one of those walls back to the farm to replace the crumbling ones awaiting his return. That is, if he returned.
“Hasn’t anyone ever stayed in the Commons?” Hannah asked.
Color Master shook her head. “Each apprentice is given a posticum. The wall knows how many apprentices are here; it knows when each apprentice is ready to become an artisan and how many posticums to open. That is the natural order here.”
“You got to stay,” Jacob pointed out.
“My presence here is entirely different from Luc’s situation. The posticums are a special place for each artisan. It is their creation, even though, to an outsider, they seem like just another place.”
“What about going home?” Ishmael asked. “Does anyone ever go home?”
“Returning to one’s home is a dangerous thing.” Color Master’s long face was grim. “There are certain risks, certain … dangers involved. The danger is not necessarily one of physical harm, though the potential for violence still bubbles in some of the surrounding posticums. No, once someone has been a part of the Commons, it is difficult to go back to what was before.”
Ishmael thought about that day in the tower with Luc, about what he’d seen so far, and compared it to the farm. He feared Color Master was correct.
“When a person sees more than others but can do nothing with that sight, they become susceptible to a certain type of madness. I’ve seen it happen more than once. It is never wise to go back.”
She peered at Ishmael. He was certain she knew his intentions. Liquid guilt poured through him. How could he have expected Luc to return home to help Mam run the farm again? How could he expect to return home?
“Enough chatter,” Color Master said. “We have work to do.”
While she demonstrated how to make a swab, another apprentice stuck his head in the door. “Color Master, the rear distillation machine isn’t working again.”
Color Master pursed her lips in irritation. “I want you to practice making swabs. Materials are up here. And no nonsense like the other day.” Color Master pointed to a basket of twigs and a crate of linen strips at the front of the room, and left with the apprentice.
“Have you thought about your entry yet?” Thomas asked Ishmael as they each took a handful of twigs and several strips of linen.
Ishmael made a sound of derision. “My entry doesn’t matter. Luc needs to win.”
Thomas nodded sagely. “Give a person a head start and he will win the race.”
“You need to stop blaming yourself, Ishmael,” Hannah said. “It was a mistake. Anyone could have done it.”
“I should have known which bag was his. I should have chosen the right one.” Ishmael almost wished a posticum would open up right there so he could crawl into it and disappear into its nothingness. He walked to the window and settled his hand on the stone sill.
Thomas made a loop out of a linen strip and tied a twig to it. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Mistakes happen.”
“That’s not much of a proverb, Thomas,” Ishmael said.
“It wasn’t meant to be a proverb. Mistakes do happen.”
“That was one mistake that shouldn’t have happened. And now Luc won’t even talk to me. I have to make sure that he wins this Jubilee contest.”
Hannah gently asked, “Why? I mean, it’s likely that he’ll win anyway, but I thought you wanted him to go home.”
“I did. But he’s my brother. I can’t have him think I’ve sabotaged him.”
“You didn’t, did you?”
“No!” Ishmael was wounded that Hannah would think that.
“It’s just … it’s easy to see how you might have thought he would go home with you.”
“But I didn’t!” Well, he had thought it, but he had discarded the thought as soon as it entered his mind.
“What do you mean, Luc would go home with you?” Rebekah said. She looked confused and hurt and accusatory all at once.
Ishmael looked at each of the faces surrounding him—the faces of people that he belonged with—and he knew he had to tell them why he had really come to the Commons. He knew, also, that in doing so, the sense of camaraderie they held as a spectrum would change irreparably. He sighed and began, “My father died this past year. He was digging a new well, and it caved in on him.” The words were still difficult to say, and he paused to catch his breath at the sudden ache inside. “That left Mam with everything—the two flocks of sheep, milch and wool. The half-dug well. The pasture fences that were falling apart. The leaking roof. The broken latch on the springhouse.” Ishmael felt the words drip out of him into a steady flood. He finished with, “I came to the Commons to beg Luc to come home with me, to help Mam, to help all of us.”
Thomas’s eyebrows puckered. “But you see color.” His voice took on a note of hurt. “You belong here. With us.”
Ishmael nodded. “I know. But I also belong at home. As soon as Luc is chosen for this posticum, I’ve got to return home.”
With her gaze on Ishmael, Rebekah spoke, her voice sad. “There are seven colors and seven novices. What happens to the spectrum when one of us is missing?”
Ishmael ran his finger along the edges of the stones in the wall under the window.
“We need you, Ishmael,” Hannah said.
“You’re the backbone of our spectrum,” Lilith added. “If you’re not around, we won’t have balance.”
“Jacob can become the center of the spectrum, and it will be as if I were never here,” Ishmael said.
Jacob straddled a seat. “You can’t just erase yourself from our spectrum.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Matthew said.
“Nothing would be the same if you weren’t here,” Rebekah said.
Thomas’s straight eyebrows puckered. “Where something is thin, that’s where it tears.”
“I’m sorry,” Ishmael said. “Really, I am.” There didn’t seem to be anything more he could say.
His remorse wasn’t satisfactory for anyone, though, and the novices each drifted back to their work leaving Ishmael standing by the window.
Ishmael picked over their words. He had never felt quite so special. And he had never felt quite so awful. With his hand still on the stone windowsill, Ishmael whispered, “I hope Luc does win. I really do. And then I wish the Jubilee posticum would open so Luc could have his new posticum and this misery will be over.”
THE STONES
The stones quivered. They had thought their penance was served. Hadn’t they led the boy to his brother? Hadn’t they shut the brother out of his posticum? Wasn’t that penance enough? They had thought so, but they were mistaken—they read it in the palm of the boy’s hand. Closing the posticum without the brother inside had only made things worse.
The novice, the one who had been betrayed by dirt and rock, had asked for a posticum. He had wished for a posticum, clear as anything. Perhaps if the stones gave him this posticum, his problem would be settled and they would be absolved from the shame and the dishonor of a moment of weakness at a half-dug well. Maybe it would make things better with the brother. They sighed. They didn’t want to—not so soon after the last one.
Opening a posticum was painful, and the grinding against the other stones rubbed away bits and pieces of their edges. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst was enduring that position for such a long time. You might think that holding still would come naturally to a stone, but even stones get restless. Each opening was a sacrifice. Each creative period was a sacrifice. But they knew their sacrifices were absolutely necessary—for new worlds, new domains, new possibilities, new life—especially now, if they wanted to serve their penance. Otherwise, they would have ignored such a request. After all, they were the stones. They didn’t take orders from anyone. But this request was different. This was a sacrifice they must willingly make. There was no other way.
Still, this would take a very long time, this opening. A very long time.
The stones felt that twinge again. They had barely gotten comfortable from the closing of the last posticum, and now, once again came that pinch, that deep-down pushing, the struggling, as each stone was forced closer and closer to its neighbor. This was their penance. They accepted it, but that didn’t mean they enjoyed it. No, sir, they didn’t like it one bit. But this time, they would be stronger.