“Absolutely not,” Sound Master boomed.
Ishmael and Phoebe had come right over and explained the situation to him.
“I can’t see how this would benefit the Hall of Sound,” Sound Master continued. Everything about him dwarfed Ishmael—his voice, his girth, his whiskers. “We sing, your color moves? It appears to me that it benefits the Hall of Hue, as it allows the Hall of Sound to do your work, correct?”
This was not going well.
“It’s not just moving one thing to another place,” Ishmael said.
Phoebe took over. “This could benefit everyone at the Commons, and it would just be for the next two days.”
“My answer is still no.”
“But, Sound Master—”
He sliced through the air with his hand. “No arguments, Phoebe. You have been released from your duties here because of a debt you owe to the Hall of Hue. The other novices have their own work to do. As it is, you are far behind your fellow novices, and I don’t know how you are going to catch up. I will not jeopardize the progress of the others to solve problems,” he said with a sideways glance at Ishmael, “for this color novice.”
“But—” she said.
“Are you a novice in the Hall of Sound or the Hall of Hue?” the Sound Master thundered.
Phoebe seemed to shrink. “The Hall of Sound, sir,” she whispered.
“Remember that,” he said. He nodded, then dismissed them, motioning toward the door.
They shuffled out, and the latch clicked with a sound of finality as the door shut. From the other side came the echo of Sound Master’s footsteps as he walked in the opposite direction.
The ensuing silence dropped on them like a wet blanket, heavy and cold.
“I’ll never be able to color all the trees in time now.” Ishmael dreaded the thought of the thousands of trees awaiting attention.
“Is that so bad?”
“Yes! Color keepers are supposed to honor each color. All posticums are supposed to have a minimum of the three primary colors. If Luc has his way, only one of those colors will be represented, and there won’t be balance. This is the worst thing a color keeper could do. There won’t be diversity. There will just be monotony everywhere.”
The two apprentices left the Hall of Sound and walked through the courtyard.
“Thank you for trying, Phoebe.” Ishmael hung his head. “Do you think …” Ishmael paused. “No, never mind. It’s too ridiculous.”
“What? Tell me.”
“I wondered if you thought maybe … I could do those vocal exercises? You could teach me, and maybe I could move the color?”
She looked uncertain. “Ishmael, I can’t even see color. If I am blind to the most basic element of your art, what makes you think you’d be open to the most basic elements of mine?”
He didn’t want to tell her about how he saw colors when he ate, and how none of the other Hue apprentices did. “It was just an idea.”
She clucked her tongue. “Fine. Open your mouth, like this.” She relaxed her face, letting her jaw open slightly.
It felt ridiculous, but he did as she said.
“Now, take a deep breath, here in your gut, and let it out.” A lovely high tone burst forth from her core.
Ishmael took a deep breath and let it out with a croak. “So much for that idea.” He started walking back toward the posticum. “I’d better go. I have about a million trees to color.”
“Oh, never mind that.” Phoebe grabbed his arm. “I’m coming, too. I’ll try to get just the leaves this time.”
“What? You heard Sound Master. You can’t help.”
“He never said I couldn’t help. He only said he wouldn’t release other novices from their duties to help.”
Ishmael thought back over what he had said. She was right. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Positive.”
Ishmael smiled. “Let’s go, then.”
They hurried back to the posticum. After a few trials, Phoebe figured it out: aim high and let the color drape over the jagged edges and soft curves of the leaves.
Ishmael let Lilith hold the vials while Phoebe sang. Thomas and Michael had gone off to a different section and the others had returned to their areas, so Ishmael gathered several vials of green and a couple of swabs and headed toward a section of trees that hadn’t been colored yet, all the while listening to Phoebe sing.
Phoebe’s exhibition opened up so many questions. How did the sound of her voice carry the color? How did it have the power to do so? Ishmael could imagine the wind in the heavens and the waves of the water carrying color, the currents of water and air pushing it along by the force of their strength. But song? He didn’t understand even the most rudimentary parts of it. How could it move the particles of color?
The breeze brushed against him, and he closed his eyes, trying to understand. With his sight darkened, he no longer saw color through his eyes. It was still there in his head, but the colors were dimmed, and he found that by dimming the colors, he could sense other things around him. The breeze. The ground underneath him, heavy, dependable. The light falling softly down. The stones of the wall. The far-off roll of the waves. The silence. There was much about the world that Ishmael did not understand, but he felt the beauty of it all.
By the end of the day, he and the other novices had each colored almost two dozen trees, scaling the trunks, blowing the color off the swabs, and descending. Thomas and Michael had colored double that with Michael’s device. But Phoebe and Lilith had colored acres of leaves as far as her sound could travel.
But still the dark color moved up the tree trunks, threatening to bring Luc’s plan to fruition. Time was running out.