Grey
Dialectical Hermeticist
Hilde opened her eyes to a gray world.
She knew this place, somehow. This cottage, time-torn and rain-beaten. And it rained forever, now.
She had walked the cracked boards and stroked the rotting walls, since waking up. Seen through holes in the thatch that were not holes. There were many places like that – gaps, breaks, places where the fabric of the structure was ghostly, as if her imagination was trying to fill in the blanks.
And these places she could touch, though she passed through the solid-looking expanses of the house as if they were air.
Beyond the walls, the garden, grass, the world only stretched so far. It ended in an impenetrable black wall, like shadows given form. She was trapped in the rainy circle of tired gray light that held the cottage and garden. Sometimes she could see lights, out in the perpetual night that bordered her world. Sometimes things appeared in the house.
The first was a bottle on the doorstep. Familiar and comforting, somehow. It glowed with a faint, golden light, and was the only thing with colour in all the world. The glass was clear; the liquid within amber. She reached for it, lifted it- No. The bottle remained. She lifted the colour of it to her lips, the ethereal glow of the glass and libation.
Fire. Heat. Pain. Feeling! The numbness, the cold and hunger, they were pushed away as the… the whiskey ran down her throat. Whiskey. She remembered it, fuzzily. The fire in throat and stomach faded, the spectre of the bottle was gone. The hunger returned though she felt… better. Less cold, but not warmer.
And she fell to her knees. And she wept.
The second thing was a cake. Small, dark, rich. She ate the colour, feeling the delicious crumble of the cake, tasting cherry and chocolate and brandy baked into it. This had glowed silver. Once more the cold, the gnawing hunger was driven back. Briefly.
In a rage, Hilde seized the faded gray cake that somehow still sat upon the table, and hurled it spitefully at the wall – through it passed, one of the shimmering unreal holes.
She could not touch it a second time, her hand passing through. And once more, Hilde wept.
The third thing came from beyond the dark. It shambled into her world, green and crooked. She hid, watching as it wandered around the house. Eyes bulbous, unfeeling. Hair like ragged red thread. Dry, rubbery flesh. Fangs protruding from the flabby mouth like broken glass.
When it had left, Hilde heard a voice.
“You did not have a cat. This was foolish.”
“Wh-What?” Hilde cried, clapping her hands to her mouth and stumbling from her hiding place in the pantry.
“You would not be so lonely, or so unprotected,” the voice continued, seeming to come from all around her. “It would have consumed you, were it not too mindless to find you.”
“Who are you?” Hilde asked, half-sitting on the floor, casting her eyes fitfully around.
“I am.” said the voice. “You have forgotten it all, haven’t you?”
Hilde thought about arguing, demanding answers. But it was true.
“I have. I don’t know who am I, only my name. I don’t know where I am, or how I came to be here, or where I was before.”
Hilde blinked, and began to cry again. Perhaps she had always been here.
“This is a desert on the edge of death. You stopped here, and may fall yet deeper if you are uncautious. Lost souls are like that, you see – they are heavy.”
“You didn’t tell me who you are.” Said Hilde, stalking slowly through the house in search of the voice’s owner.
“I am.” It repeated, and carried on.
“Apathy is absolute death, Hilde. Or worse. Remember that.”
“Worse? Worse than death?”
She felt so small, alone in the spectral rain.
“What could be worse than death?”
“You will see. For now, you need to feel again. Does it not assail you? The unbearable hunger? The cold? Passions will protect you.”
“Why are you helping me?” Hilde asked, stepping out into the garden, feeling sly and clever in her sudden suspicion.
The Voice was silent for a long time, then spoke again.
“That you think to ask is why I will not answer. Do you want to sink into the cold, Hilde?”
“No!”
A frantic, choked whisper.
“Then listen to me. Look, out into the long night – do you see the lights? Go to one. You will know what to do when you arrive.”
“But I’m scared.” She said, standing near the worn little gate in the wall, at the edge of the endless dark. “I… I can’t leave here, can I? What will happen out there…”
But there was no reply. Only the cold, and the hunger, and the distant light of lonely, broken stars.
She knew this place, somehow. This cottage, time-torn and rain-beaten. And it rained forever, now.
She had walked the cracked boards and stroked the rotting walls, since waking up. Seen through holes in the thatch that were not holes. There were many places like that – gaps, breaks, places where the fabric of the structure was ghostly, as if her imagination was trying to fill in the blanks.
And these places she could touch, though she passed through the solid-looking expanses of the house as if they were air.
Beyond the walls, the garden, grass, the world only stretched so far. It ended in an impenetrable black wall, like shadows given form. She was trapped in the rainy circle of tired gray light that held the cottage and garden. Sometimes she could see lights, out in the perpetual night that bordered her world. Sometimes things appeared in the house.
The first was a bottle on the doorstep. Familiar and comforting, somehow. It glowed with a faint, golden light, and was the only thing with colour in all the world. The glass was clear; the liquid within amber. She reached for it, lifted it- No. The bottle remained. She lifted the colour of it to her lips, the ethereal glow of the glass and libation.
Fire. Heat. Pain. Feeling! The numbness, the cold and hunger, they were pushed away as the… the whiskey ran down her throat. Whiskey. She remembered it, fuzzily. The fire in throat and stomach faded, the spectre of the bottle was gone. The hunger returned though she felt… better. Less cold, but not warmer.
And she fell to her knees. And she wept.
The second thing was a cake. Small, dark, rich. She ate the colour, feeling the delicious crumble of the cake, tasting cherry and chocolate and brandy baked into it. This had glowed silver. Once more the cold, the gnawing hunger was driven back. Briefly.
In a rage, Hilde seized the faded gray cake that somehow still sat upon the table, and hurled it spitefully at the wall – through it passed, one of the shimmering unreal holes.
She could not touch it a second time, her hand passing through. And once more, Hilde wept.
The third thing came from beyond the dark. It shambled into her world, green and crooked. She hid, watching as it wandered around the house. Eyes bulbous, unfeeling. Hair like ragged red thread. Dry, rubbery flesh. Fangs protruding from the flabby mouth like broken glass.
When it had left, Hilde heard a voice.
“You did not have a cat. This was foolish.”
“Wh-What?” Hilde cried, clapping her hands to her mouth and stumbling from her hiding place in the pantry.
“You would not be so lonely, or so unprotected,” the voice continued, seeming to come from all around her. “It would have consumed you, were it not too mindless to find you.”
“Who are you?” Hilde asked, half-sitting on the floor, casting her eyes fitfully around.
“I am.” said the voice. “You have forgotten it all, haven’t you?”
Hilde thought about arguing, demanding answers. But it was true.
“I have. I don’t know who am I, only my name. I don’t know where I am, or how I came to be here, or where I was before.”
Hilde blinked, and began to cry again. Perhaps she had always been here.
“This is a desert on the edge of death. You stopped here, and may fall yet deeper if you are uncautious. Lost souls are like that, you see – they are heavy.”
“You didn’t tell me who you are.” Said Hilde, stalking slowly through the house in search of the voice’s owner.
“I am.” It repeated, and carried on.
“Apathy is absolute death, Hilde. Or worse. Remember that.”
“Worse? Worse than death?”
She felt so small, alone in the spectral rain.
“What could be worse than death?”
“You will see. For now, you need to feel again. Does it not assail you? The unbearable hunger? The cold? Passions will protect you.”
“Why are you helping me?” Hilde asked, stepping out into the garden, feeling sly and clever in her sudden suspicion.
The Voice was silent for a long time, then spoke again.
“That you think to ask is why I will not answer. Do you want to sink into the cold, Hilde?”
“No!”
A frantic, choked whisper.
“Then listen to me. Look, out into the long night – do you see the lights? Go to one. You will know what to do when you arrive.”
“But I’m scared.” She said, standing near the worn little gate in the wall, at the edge of the endless dark. “I… I can’t leave here, can I? What will happen out there…”
But there was no reply. Only the cold, and the hunger, and the distant light of lonely, broken stars.
