A Lady and a Fool: A Tale of Colour

A LADY AND A FOOL 

She woke slowly, the memory of beauty and Colour fading. When she opened her eyes the pang of loss cut so sharply through the last mists of sleep that she gasped. And wept. The tears slipped with the quietness of despair from her eyes, gradually wetting the pillow case. 

When her tears were spent she rose, dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, and went to meet the unvarying shades of Grey that filled her every waking moment. Every day of her life had been the same; Grey. Everywhere. Everything. Always. Grey. 

Recently she had come across a book that spoke little of Grey. It spoke of Red, Blue, Magenta, Orange, Scarlet, Brown. And more. But it never explained what these were. The desire to know had turned into a ravening thirst that was consuming her. 

And then the dreams. They touched the thirst, enraging it. Yet when she awoke, her soul returning with a thud to the mundane Grey, suffocating world of reality, she could never recall them; only a fading memory of a beauty that caught at her soul and released it to freedom. 

Now she moved through the house, her thirst raging, spirit fighting futilely against the pressure of the Colourless sameness weighing on her like a water-heavy bearskin, draining her energy and sapping her will. 

As she entered the breakfast room she gathered her purpose around her. He was there, sitting at the table in his usual spot, his usual breakfast of porridge and Kaf with the usual daily reports and news sheet spread out before him. 

“Good morning, my dear.” His usual greeting delivered in his usual tone daunted her. 

“Good morning.”

“Sleep well?” 

“No,” she murmured, “not really.” 

“Mmmm. That’s good, dear.” She was getting his usual attention. She gathered her wavering courage. “I dreamt of Colour.” 

“Mmmm?” 

“I dreamt of Colour.” 

This time he actually looked at her, frowning at this diversion from their usual morning conversation. 

“Colour.” Her voice was determined now. 

His frown deepened and his eyes centred on her, hands tightly grasping the back of her usual chair. 

“Colour?” His mind focused with a snap. “No such thing.” He folded his papers and placed them carefully beside his scraped-clean bowl. 

“If there is no such thing how would I know to dream of it?” She felt faint at her audacity. 

“Sit down. You should eat.” He reached over and picked up the dainty bell placed just within reach and rang it the usual three rings. Then he frowned as he noticed she had not followed his instructions. 

“I can’t eat. I must know.” 

He was upset, actually glancing around the room to see if anyone was listening. 

“Sit down, dear. You’re not well. We’ll talk after Watell brings your breakfast.” 

In the face of his sternness her courage trickled away. She pulled the chair back and sat, surprised how shaky her knees were. 

Watell brought her breakfast; the usual Grey fruit, porridge and Tay, and set it carefully in front of her. “Morning Miss. Nice day isn’t it Miss?” 

“Yes. Good morning Watell.” 

Watell picked up the dirty dishes from in front of her stern companion and retreated to the Kitchen. 

His gaze had never left her face. 

“Eat.” 

She ate. He finished reading his papers and folded them, placing them in the usual spot on the side table just within reach. 

“Now. What is this nonsense?” 

“I dreamt of Colour. If it doesn’t exist how could I dream of it? I must find it. I will!” 

“Indeed?” 

“I must! You don’t know … You can’t know …how important it is.” 

“This is dangerous talk, my dear. Enforcers listen for such talk to punish those who engage in it. Such people disappear. Forever.” 

“That’s just it! If it didn’t exist why would they be so worried about people speaking of it? A nonexistent thing cannot be a threat. Don’t you see?” She was desperate and could hear it in her voice, making it ragged.   

He frowned. “You’re not well, my dear. In fact, you look decidedly pale. I must insist you see the Physician.” 

She flinched. “You wouldn’t! You know I hate him. He … he drugs me so I can’t think. I won’t see him.” 

He was still frowning. “It’s those books you’ve been reading. They’re disturbing you, giving you nightmares…”

“Not nightmares!” She actually interrupted him. “Dreams! Wonderful dreams of beauty you cannot even imagine. Of freedom. Of no more Grey!” She stopped, abashed at her temerity. 

“Quiet! I won’t have this treason spoken in my house. You know the teachings. ‘Wise people know Grey is All.'” 

“Treason? …” She stood, her usual inhibitions brushed aside by her need for answers. “Maybe. I call it Tyranny and Bondage. I must know. I will find Colour.”   

He had risen with her, his face pale. He took a deep breath to calm himself before speaking, and when he did his voice was firm and controlled. 

“I thought this was a harmless phase you were going through. So I humoured you, let you read any book you wanted. I even let you pursue your ‘studies’ at the expense of other duties. I was wrong. 

“You know my duty; to care for you – ensure all your physical needs are met, make you happy. But I also have a duty to M’Lord. I should report this. You know that.” 

She held onto the back of the chair to keep herself from falling. 

“I know. I also know you care for me and want me happy. Can’t you see? It’s not enough. There is more to life than Grey and Enforcers and the Unmaker. If there wasn’t I wouldn’t yearn for it so much. Don’t you see? There isSomething else. Some other Ruler, some other Colour.” She paused and gathered the shreds of her purpose around her.”I can no longer live here.  You have been kind. You have looked after me. But it is not enough. I must leave to find it.” 

He blanched, his face the palest Grey she had seen it. “Leave? You can’t. Where would you go? How would you live? Who would care for you?” 

“I … I don’t know. But I must leave.” She paused, then finally used his name. “I must, Lance. I’m sorry. I cannot abide it here any more. I’m slowly dying. Please understand. You have been good. And it isn’t enough.” 

He looked at her, his eyes stricken as her determination convinced him of the truth of her words. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed. He tried again. 

“I … I will not report this conversation until morning tomorrow. It is the most I can do.” 

She sagged against the chair with relief. “Thank you.” 

“I wish you well, my dear.” He paused. “I will hope not to hear or read,” he waved a hand at the papers so carefully folded and placed on the side table, “of your failure to find what you seek. 

“Now, I have duties to see to.” 

“Fare well.” She watched him walk with his usual measured tread across the room and out the door. Then, shaking, she returned to her room to gather the few things she would need. 

She crossed the ‘Garden’, named after a place of beauty she had read of and went out the front gate, acting as on her usual weekly trip to the Market.

She crossed Market Square, leaving by the West exit, and making her way through alleys to the north. Looking carefully around, feeling a threat in every shadow, she emerged onto the only street she knew that would take her to the North end of the City. She jumped and barely stifled a scream when a hand clasped her shoulder. But when she turned, hand to mouth, it was only a Fool.She sagged against the nearest wall, taking deep breaths to calm herself. 

“Pretty Lady,” the Fool said. “Did I startle her? Did I frighten Pretty Lady? This Fool meant no harm. No, Jestor meant no harm.” 

His apology touched her. 

“No harm taken. You frightened me, that’s all.” 

“Poor Jestor is sorry. Only wanted to help. Thought you were lost. This is a bad road. Enforcers say so.” 

“Do they?” She stood and straightened her clothes, all the while examining him. He wore the checkered and patched tunic that was the hallmark of Fools (those deemed lunatic by the Unmaker) who were known to wander the streets performing for a morsel of food. Failing that, they attached themselves to someone they deemed kind and stuck with them like an old sore until, in frustration, they were fed. It seemed this one had chosen her. Perhaps it could be turned to her advantage.  A lady with a Fool in tow would attract less attention than a lady completely alone. 

“Yes. Bad road, Miss. Shouldn’t go there.” 

“Go where, Jestor?” 

“There. That way,” he pointed North. “They say bad places are there. But,” his face turned sly and he looked furtively around,  “Jestor has been there. And Jestor is not bad.” 

“Really? You have been that way before, Fool?” 

“Yes, Lady.” 

“And?”

Jestor smiled, looking around, then moved closer.  “Very pretty there, Lady.  Very pretty.” Then he backed up a pace and stood straight, nose in the air. “They say it’s a bad road, Lady.” 

A man passed them going South. 

She wondered. He smelled better than most Fools she had come across and there was a gleam of intelligence at the back of his eyes. 

“I would like to see where this road goes, Jestor. I would see for myself if it’s bad.” 

“Oh, Pretty Lady!” He glanced around again, then, with a sly wink, “Jestor show you? Jestor a good Fool, Lady. Clever Fool, Jestor.” 

She smiled, for the first time in days. 

“Yes. Show me, Jestor.” 

“Oh, Pretty Lady!” he exclaimed, turning in circles and doing a jig. “Jestor a clever Fool.” Then he stopped and sidled up to her. “Pretty Lady have food in her nice basket?” 

She smiled again. “Yes.  Pretty Lady has food, but not now. We will eat later OK?” 

“Yes, yes.”  He nodded vigorously. “Follow Jestor, Lady. This way.” And he started North, dancing, doing his jig and twirling around every few steps. 

As she followed him he told her stories. First was an unbelievably pathetic story about his own sad childhood, ‘though she caught a gleam of laughter in his eyes at the saddest parts. Then an equally unbelievable story about a beautiful Duchess Lady who pined away waiting for Jestor to return and wed her. And so the stories went. It made the time pass quickly, and the way seem not so long. 

She marvelled at his energy, gambolling around laughing and singing his tales, or mournfully shuffling in a dirge at a particularly pathetic part. 

Between every story he would clap his hands and dance around her saying, “Clever Jestor. Good story, yes? Good story?” until she would agree and tell him he was very clever, and it was a wonderful story. Then he would clap and dance and start another one. 

Slowly his stories changed. They became variations on the original Duchess, but now she was pining, not for Jestor but for Someone or Something else. Then she sent Jestor on a quest to find the thing she sought. Then she went herself. And with each story the gleam of intelligence grew more marked in his eyes. 

After one particularly pointed story, she stopped and leaned against a wall. He came back and, looking slyer than usual asked, “Good story? You like Jestor’s story? Clever Jestor.” 

She felt fear twist her stomach. She was up in the North end of the City where no one reputable went, with a Fool who was not what he seemed. Was this a trap? Had Lance told on her before he said he would? Or was this apparent Fool set on this road to catch people like her, lead them on, then dash all their hopes and turn them over to the Enforcers? Despair washed over her. She fought against it, deciding if all was lost, she would at least have some answers before the end. 

She slid down the wall until she was sitting, her basket on the road before her. 

“Who are you, Jestor?” 

He laughed. “Silly Lady. Jestor is a Fool. Only a Fool.” 

“Yes. A very clever Fool. Too clever by half. I want the Truth, Fool.” 

“Ah. Truth!”  He looked furtively over both shoulders then crouched down in front of her. “Jestor is a Fool sure enough, Lady. So the Enforcers say.”  He turned his head to look over his shoulder then slid his eyes back to her, “You know the Rule, Lady.” 

“What Rule?” 

“The Rule, Lady. They teach it every Restday.” Then he jumped up and danced around until the woman and child passed. When he came back to her feet, for only an instant the light of intelligence was clear in his eyes. This was important. He was trying to tell her something. 

While she puzzled over it she pulled food out of her basket; a crusty roll each and some cheese. Suddenly it hit her. She dropped her roll. 

“The Rule…” she picked up the roll again, hand shaking in excitement, “the Rule says,” she glanced at him, “‘Wise people know Grey is all there is.  Grey is beautiful.'” 

He jumped up in glee, laughing at her cleverness. “Yes. Yes, Lady. Jestor is not wise like that. No, Pretty Lady. Jestor is a Fool by that Rule.” 

She stared at him, her mouth open. “You mean …?” 

“Yes, Lady.” He came and helped her to her feet. “Pretty Lady may be not wise either, hmmm? Pretty Lady clever like Jestor.” 

In a daze she let him lead her down the street.   

She wasn’t aware how long she followed him in this daze, but when she took stock of her surroundings again it was getting dark and they were in a part of town she had never known existed. The buildings were decrepit and garbage littered the street and piled against the walls. 

Jestor led her quietly and quickly in and out of the piles of rubbish. When he felt her eyes on him he smiled, a normal intelligent smile. 

“Almost there, Lady.” His voice was different; firm and knowledgeable. “The greatest danger is here. You must trust me now, and say nothing.” Then a more familiar gleam came to his eyes. “Trust Jestor, yes?” 

He paused at the next corner, then moved quickly between two buildings and stopped at the next. He let her look cautiously around the corner. “See that small gate? That’s it.” 

“What?” 

He laughed softly. “The Pretty place, Lady.  The place they say wise people never find.”He seemed to listen carefully, his head on one side.  Then he nodded and took her hand; his strong and sure in hers. 

“Now! We run, Lady.” 

And run they did, in a burst of speed, straight across the intervening space, avoiding a pile of rubble, and straight toward the gate. She thought they would run right into it, but at the last moment it opened and closed behind them. 

She stopped dead. 

All around her were trees, tall and strong and healthy and … Colour!  And a man stood before her in a … Colour … uniform! 

Tears came. “Oh. It’s true.” She fell to her knees and ran her hands over the Colour grass, trying to feel the difference. “Oh, Lance. It’s true. If only you were here …” The tears ran down her face. She was oblivious to the two men standing grinning at her, afraid to blink lest it disappear in the split second that would take. 

Jestor knelt and lifted her, his voice gentle. 

“It’s true, Lady. And real; the most real thing you will ever experience. It won’t go away. I promise.” 

She turned her eyes to him and was startled to see that he was Colour, his checkered and patched tunic riotous with it. She gasped, hand to mouth.  He laughed, a joyful free sound. 

“You changed!” 

“No, Lady. Only now you see. This is how I always was. Although,” he gave her his sly grin, “much cleverer, yes?” 

She laughed. “I can’t believe it. How can you wear that and not get caught?” 

“Ah, but they, the wise ones, are blind, Lady. They cannot see what they believe does not exist.” He turned to the other man. “This is Timel, Lady. He will guide you to the Compound. I must return. Don’t worry,” he added, in response to the panic that flitted across her face, “he will see you safe. They will care for you well there.” 

“But, how can you go back?  How can you abide it after…?” she waved her hand toward the rich foliage. 

“I see Colour even there, Lady, ‘though it is faint. And others seek, like yourself. It is my job to find them.” 

“Are all Fools like you?” 

He laughed. “No. I will see you when next I visit the Compound.” He turned to go then turned back. “What is your name, Lady?  So I will know who to ask for.” 

“My mother named me Rose.” 

“A good name, Lady Rose.” He smiled and lifted her hand to his lips.    “May you find many.”