Shades of Grey

DeMauve

“Good afternoon to you all,” the head prefect began. He was greeted with a murmured “Good afternoon” in return, the three thousand or so bored voices a low rumble in the hall. He was actually a long way away, but a large voice trumpet was suspended from the ceiling in front of him, and he spoke into that. Old Man Magenta’s voice was so loud, he never needed one.

I’d attended six and a half thousand assemblies in my life, and according to current longevity estimates, I would probably attend twenty-two thousand more before I was done. They were tedious after the first couple of hundred, and none but the Yellows really paid any attention past the thousandth. For the rest of us, assembly was just a hole in your lifetime, wrapped in boredom. Whispering, dozing, prodding one another and passing notes were so utterly forbidden that they simply weren’t worth the risk, so the majority of villagers used assembly as a time for silent contemplation. Fenton claimed to have learned to sleep with his eyes open, which would have been useful if it were true. I just used the time for doing mental arithmetic, refining my theories about enhanced queuing or trying to figure out a loophole plausible enough to enable me to go into the potentially profitable spoon business. It had been tried before, but never successfully. Randolph Aubergine had attempted to market “half-scale models” of garden trowels, but the concept didn’t pass the strict Rule Compliance Procedures, and the idea was abandoned.

My reverie was interrupted by deMauve, who had announced my name. I looked up guiltily to find everyone staring at me.

“. . . the Russetts have come all the way from Jade-under-Lime, in Green Sector West,” continued the head prefect. “I’m sure you will join me in welcoming them to our humble community, and offering them assistance in whatever way possible.”

He went on to explain how my father and I had ignored the substantial dangers in the trip to Rusty Hill, and how the Caravaggio would be having its official redisplaying celebration on Friday. Those who were still paying attention—quite a few of them, it seemed—applauded dutifully as we stood up to be recognized, and Dad and I nodded politely in return.

I decided it was probably best to listen to what was going on and leave my cutlery-inspired daydreaming for another day. DeMauve ran through news that, while pertinent to the village, was of little interest to me: Linoleum production was being cut due to deflation, and while bad news for the village profit-and-loss sheet—the color garden would be insipid within a month—it was good news for the Greys. Or at least, it would have been if the Council hadn’t also decided to cultivate another nine acres of glasshouse. By the mutterings on the Grey tables, it seemed that factory work, despite the industrial accidents, was still preferable to growing pineapples.

DeMauve paused for a moment, then turned over his notepad. As he did so, the door creaked open. The prefects looked up angrily to see who had dared to enter once assembly was in progress, but they all relaxed when they saw it was the Apocryphal man. He was covered in dried mud, was wearing only socks and carried a string bag with apples in it. He meandered over to the serving table, helped himself to a plate of rolls, then walked back out. DeMauve simply ignored him, and carried on as though he weren’t there.

“Many of you will know that the Great Western Pipeline was laid as far as Rusty Hill,” he continued. “As I have intimated in the past, I have been in correspondence with Head Office to see if the spur line might be continued all the way to East Carmine, and thus bring us within the National Colorization Program.”

Excited murmurings followed this statement as the residents mulled over the Chromatic riches this would involve. Not just a small garden, but the whole area surrounding the village—the trees, grass and flowers.

It would place East Carmine on the map and possibly, if its luck really held, enable it to host another Jollity Fair.

“This very day,” deMauve continued, “we have received a visit from a representative of National Color, and although what he has to tell us is not precisely what we might have liked, he does offer a possible solution to our request. I will let His Colorfulness fill you in.”

The Colorman stood up and joined deMauve at the lectern. His voice was more authoritarian than deMauve’s, but it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been ridiculously high and squeaky. This was, after all, a man from National Color. He represented freedom from a drab world, and the Word of Munsell personified. Everyone was in awe of National Color—even, it was said, Head Office.

Jade-under-Lime was already on the network, so I remained unex- cited by the possibility. I wasn’t the only one. I flicked a surreptitious look at Jane, who was staring at the table and scratching a bit of crud off her knife with a fingernail.

“Thank you for affording me the hospitality of your village,” the Colorman began. “I am humbled by the kindness you have shown me, and honored to be conducting the Ishihara on Sunday for the eight residents who have reached their twentieth year and are ready to begin discharging their Civil Obligation to society in a productive and meaningful fashion.”

It was a good opener, and safe. Nothing controversial. He had everyone’s attention, and after outlining how every village was deserving of National Color’s fullest consideration in the pursuit of full colorization, he went on to describe the work that was being undertaken on everyone’s behalf, and how color was a privilege that had to be earned, not a right to be expected. It sounded like a speech he had given many times, as he doubtless had, since all villages wanted pretty much the same thing—more color. It was only in his final sentence that he got down to realities:

“Crucially, connection to the grid relates to your scrap-color collection numbers, which I am sorry to say have fallen far short of the target.” He directed this comment at the prefects, who looked uneasy. “If deliveries to Central Recycling can be stepped up,” he carried on, “National Color will happily reevaluate your submission at a later date.”

He thanked us for our time, was greeted with applause, then returned to his seat.

“Our thanks go to His Colorfulness for his words and thoughts on the subject,” said deMauve, who had retaken his place at the lectern, “and I want to make perfectly clear that our missed targets do not reflect upon the toshers, washers, sorters and packers who have been doing sterling work for many years. No, the problem is twofold: increased Fade, which is out of our hands, and lack of raw material, which we might be able to do something about.”

He paused for effect.

“That is why, with Harmony, Little Carmine and Great Auburn all worked out, we have decided to relax the Rules on how far toshing parties may go. As of today, High Saffron is once again within limits.”

I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but by the murmuring around the hall, it seemed to be something that generated universal unease. I caught Dad’s eye, and he shrugged; he didn’t know either. But deMauve hadn’t finished. Before toshing parties were consigned to High Saffron, a comprehensive study needed to be carried out of the terrain and scrap-color potential, ease of extraction and so forth—and he needed volunteers to go over there and have an initial look.

“Since the Rules state,” he continued, “that full disclosure of the risks must be divulged, I have to report that we have sent eighty-three explorers to High Saffron over the past half century, and all of them failed to return. Obviously,” he added, “the village is prepared to be generous in these matters. One hundred merits have been allocated for those who undertake this hazardous duty. After they return,” he added, in case anyone was thinking of having a splurge on some up-front cash. “So—any takers?”

Unsurprisingly, he wasn’t swamped by volunteers. In fact, the room was so quiet you might have heard a drop of paint splash.

“Very well,” said deMauve. “I will leave you to muse on it and contact me directly.”

He spoke a bit more about auditions for Red Side Story, related the news that Travis Canary was missing, presumed Nightloss, then gave the usual warnings about potential swan attack and Lightning Avoidance Drill. After that, he paused briefly to gather his thoughts.

“Today’s lesson is from Munsell’s Book of Truth, chapter nine.”

“This is where we’d use the Redlax,” whispered Tommo as deMauve opened the heavy book on the lectern. I had to admit that it would be quite a prank, and at least make one of my twenty-eight thousand assemblies truly memorable.

Six thousand eyes began to glaze over as deMauve began, and three thousand heads filled with thoughts regarding other matters—of perhaps one day owning a personal color garden, or maybe a spoon; of the spouses they’d most like to have, then the ones they’d probably end up with. The words had been read so often and so fervently that they’d lost all meaning and were now just an annoying hum.

It was a reading from “Abominations ,” and after deMauve had droned on about the sin of waste, poor hygiene, bad manners and overpopulation, he got to the nonconjoinment of complementary colors. That was at least amusing, because he referred to youknow by its forbidden name, which always made the juniors giggle.

Fortunately, deMauve read only a short extract. I think that, like us, he was hungry and just wanted to check off all the boxes and get on with it. After we recited Richly hued be those who are worthy to enjoy the balance of Chromatic Harmony and murmured Apart We Are Together, we sat and waited while the dinner monitors brought tureens of lamb casserole to each table, along with baskets of rolls and dishes of vegetables that had been overcooked perfectly. I have to report that the food was considerably better in East Carmine than in Jade-under-Lime, although table manners were markedly worse.

“I have a toe in my water,” said a young lad named Arnold.

“Treat it politely,” said Tommo with a smile. “It might be a prefect’s.”

Talk soon got around to Travis Canary’s walkout. The prefects had vetoed a search on the grounds of “wasted effort,” but on reflection, I wasn’t surprised Canary had done a runner. If he’d wanted to go to Reboot, he would have stayed on the train.

“No one ever gets lost at night and returns,” observed Daisy, “except Jane, of course.”

I tried not to appear interested.

“Went missing for three days and nights,” whispered Doug, “eighteen months ago. She wouldn’t say what had happened to her or where she had been—just said she couldn’t remember anything until she wandered back into the village.” He leaned closer. “Her clothes were torn and she had lost her shoes—feet badly cut.”

“She hasn’t really been the same since,” remarked Daisy. “Before, she was weird but relatively calm.

After—well, are you playing in our annual hockeyball thrashing?”

“I guess.”

“Then you’ll find out. If Jane looks like she’s going to tackle you, just let her have the ball and run the other way. Courtland tried to demerit her for a dress code infraction once and she went for him.”

“In what way?”

“Attacked,” said Cassie, speaking for the first time, “and rightly so. Courtland’s a beast and a liar.”

“She went for his eyes,” added Arnold, “gouged his cheek so hard he needed nine stitches. She’s for Reboot the day after her Ishihara, no doubt about it. And if you ask me, the best place for her. If there is anyone who most represents the dis-words, it’s her: disruption, disharmony and discourtesy—she’s got the lot.”

The conversation turned to High Saffron’s having been opened to toshing, and how the Council had shown unparalleled optimism in thinking that anyone would risk almost certain death to go there.

“It’s a large town to the west of here,” Tommo explained, “on the coast. It’s been abandoned since the Something That Happened, so is totally ripe for mining—raw scrap lying around in abundance, of a hue so bright even the lowbies can see it. Spoons, too, they say—and parrots of a color that everyone can see.”

“How is that possible?” asked Daisy, and Tommo shrugged.

Apparently, an attempt to build a road to High Saffron had been abandoned thirty years ago. Of the eighty-three who had been lost to the village’s exploration in the past fifty years, half had been overnighters on the way to Reboot, who had undertaken the hazardous duty in return for enough merits to buy themselves out of their below-zero merit status. But those willing to have a crack at High Saffron were fewer and fewer these days. Considering the odds, the Night Train suddenly looked quite attractive.

“I think it was flying monkeys that got them all,” said Arnold.

“You’re right,” said Doug with a sigh, “that’s exactly what got them—and they’ll get you, too, if you don’t hang some spinach in your wardrobe.”

Arnold sensed he was being mocked and fell silent. Flying monkeys were like Pookas, Khan, Freddie and the Hairy Irrational—something parents used to frighten small children who weren’t yet able to grasp the concept of Rules, Hierarchy or merits.

“Has anyone here actually seen a Pooka?” I asked.

“They say Rusty Hill’s full of them,” said Doug, pulling a face. “Echoes of the Previous.”

“I’ve heard some good Pooka stories,” said Arnold, “I sometimes frighten myself when I’m telling them.”

It was as I thought. Pookas were similar to masters and swans—often talked about, seldom seen. But I pushed them to the back of my mind. I was in no doubt that Jane would carry out her threat if I strayed from the path she had given me.

Dessert was prunes and custard. The prunes were as prunes are, but the custard was grey and unappetizing. Old Man Magenta might have been a colossal pain in the hoo-ha, but he always insisted that the custard was a bright synthetic yellow—sometimes paid for out of his own pocket. It was his single redeeming feature.

As it was being served, Bunty McMustard cast an imperious eye in our direction. At her own insistence, she was the permanent manners monitor. As she approached, the others at the table went quiet, sat up straight and tucked in their elbows. Instinctively, I joined them.

“Hair getting a bit long, Cinnabar?” she sneered.

“Bunty,” said Tommo in an even tone, “I’m disgusted by your ugly face.”

The whole table, and several about, suddenly went deathly quiet.

“What did you say?” said Bunty.

“I said, ‘This custard, my, has a lovely taste.’ Why, what did you think I said?”

She glared at him, then at us. We all looked back with expressions of innocence. She gave out a “harrumph” and walked off.

“You are so going to Reboot,” muttered Daisy, who could hardly stop herself from giggling.

“Bunty’s a hoo-ha,” he replied. “Doug, did you manage to slip the toe into her pocket?”

He nodded, and we all burst out laughing.