A Blind Shepherd's Light

The countryside was bleak, leeched of any color it might have kept in ancient times.

Sarkis blinked against the harsh grays of the morning and wished the bleached sun would burn some chroma into his vision. None of the star's bright oranges touched the land's edges. It only scorched Sark's bare shoulders, clashing against the breeze of the summer morning. His curls-almost, but not quite Roman-ruffled in the wind. He sighed, stretching his shoulders out to the sky, and getting to work, grasping his crook with slender hands that held no blends at all.

The village of Phaeo was cursed, muffled under a thick blanket of bland discoloration by a malicious god, who heightened the city's weather and deprived the village from any color or hue. Even so, the people reigned on, burdened with the phantom feeling of a missing limb.

Fury built up in Sarkis' chest just thinking about it, squeezing his heart until it turned as white as the blazing sun above.

Choosing to focus on a different matter, he traipsed silently through the vast field of his backyard, humming cathartically. The long grass tickled his bare toes. Jogging to the long fence, he rapped his shepherd's crook against the wooden gate, startling the bleating creatures inside.

Dozens of beady eyes all turned to stare at him. Ruminants with thick coats of white fleece, as curly as Sark's own, pattered over to the gate, pointed ears flickering at him. He quickly unlatched the gate, stopping the overflowing herd of sheep in quick succession with his mighty stick. In his hands, it was a sword. Unfortunately, his profession didn't leave very much room for imagination. Truthfully, the entire suburbia of Phaeo left little room for anything other than mortal gruffness.

Cajoling the trotting herd up a familiar hill, Sarkis stopped at the crest, motioning for the wooled creatures to graze along the flat plain.

The crisp wind rustled against his clothing. He shook the cold off his fingers, noting the way his heart fluttered against his ribcage. Desperation ate at him, slowly rotting the fruit of life tucked closely under his soul. Soon enough, the essence of his village would be sucked out of anything that dared to live in it, dying with nothing more than blurry grays in their eyes.

As the sheep munched on their mundanity, Sarkis fell back against the earth, letting the grass lick at his knees. Pits of fatigue under his pupils pulled at his eyes like sandbags. He arched his back with a sigh of substance. Small footsteps battered through the dirt. A bleat followed in their wake, and soon, a body smelling of earthy lanolin plopped down beside him, leaning into the crook of his arm. Haig, one of his favorite sheep, blinked tenderly at him. He nudged the boy's chest with his nose.

"Hello, anoush," Sarkis whispered, running his hand through the lamb's thick coat. That musky smell tickled his senses. Angling his face up to the sky, he watched the swirling, colorless clouds, and tried to think of everything and nothing at all.

The sounds of clanging bells pulled him from his stupor. He quickly gathered himself, brushing off residual grass from his clothes, and plucking a bland dandelion from his hair. Sarkis whistled at the wooly creatures, then ran down the hill, urging them to follow. As his feet clopped against the ground, he stopped halfway, leading the last of the sheep back down the hill.

In that moment, Sarkis gained a renewed vigor, and the tired shepherd boy got an idea. A small thought of rebellion, if you will. He crouched back down to the merciful earth, relishing the feeling of the cold terrain against his skin, and braced himself, rolling down the hill.

Losing potential and gaining motion, Sarkis fought the stars in his eyes and the rocks under his bones. His troubles sluiced off of him like raindrops, filling his nose with the sweet scent of liberty. His inertia slowed to a stop. Picking himself up, Sarkis tethered himself back to his pressing job. He led the sheep back to their pen and shuffled home. The grass felt distant under his feet, as if it had migrated a thousand worlds away, dancing freely on the top of that hill.

The plate of seared whitefish clattered against the table. A pitcher of wine sat next to it. The smell of seafood wafted through the kitchen, sublime as it hit Sarkis' nose. He drummed his hands on the round table and looked up at his father, who flitted like a restless bird around the kitchen. The stout man shoved the curtains closed, rubbing his palms together, and fell into his seat next to Sarkis, grabbing the plate of whitefish in his large, rough hands.

"Did you complete all of your chores?" he asked, voice commanding in a way that didn't require projection.

"Yes, baba," Sarkis said, rocking impatiently as his father distributed the meal onto his plate. The man nodded, letting out a noncommittal grunt. His father was never impressed by anything. His skin was weathered, and his nose was crooked. He had lived through decades of a hard earned existence, and didn't understand validation. In the colorless shadows of their home, he looked as he always had; unpolished and impassive.

As he set the plate back in the center, he engulfed his son's hand firmly in his own. "Stop fidgeting."

Sarkis put a hand back in his lap, and used the other to carefully grip his fork. The dinner lapped through quiet waves of familiarity, and distantly stung of dissonance that gripped the boy's skin like a brand of blanched sunlight. He shoveled food into his mouth, careful not to make a noise as the steaming meal burnt his tongue.

"Slow down, boy," his father grumbled, raising an eyebrow. "Please wash up after dinner. The smell of the earth deluges you."

Sarkis dipped his head and twiddled his fork around, keeping his thoughts to himself. They brimmed over in his head like a boiling tea kettle, rising and whistling until-

"Baba, what was the world like before the Day of Darkness?"

A fork hovered near the man's open mouth. His eyes darkened, swirling with thunderous clouds as he knuckled the shiny gray utensil. "Our wine was red and our skies were blue." He huffed all the air from his lungs. "Do not speak out of turn again. You must hold your tongue, alright?"

Sarkis nodded.

"Good. Now, finish your supper and go wash up. The sheep await you in the morning."

The boy swallowed, fervently ignoring the way the prickling clench of his teeth felt like a decaying ache.

Despite his best effort, sleep evaded him like a rowdy lamb, slipping through his fingers. Sarkis groaned with every ounce of melodrama that he carried, but no god would let him drift off. There was no counting sheep when a choir of singing crickets was warbling outside his window.

With restlessness encroaching on his every breath, Sarkis decided he was going to emulate the crickets.

Taking ginger steps away from his bed, he quietly undid the latch on the window. Pressing both of his hands firmly to the glass to muffle the creaking sound that echoed through the dreary darkness, he pushed himself up onto the windowsill, then leapt onto the lush pad of grass. His heart jumped with him. The sky was vacuous and dark, shadowed by the clouds and lit faintly by the chalky hue of the moon.

He adored the moon more than anything else in the world. A grey constant object of an outer world, it provided the sullied microcosm of Phaeo with hope. Even if it didn't emit light, Sarkis could imagine its glow all the same.

Sarkis' feet sunk into the earth. He could feel each organism and every rock under his toes. Time lost all meaning with every step he took. Soon enough, he could hear the crash of waves along the shore. Their home sat atop a carpeted cliff of hills and houses above the water. The boy sat down at the edge of the bluff, settling against the soil. The wind howled against his skin, eager for the chatter of his teeth. But Sarkis was not cold. He stared at the endless expanse of the ocean, and yearned to see the light at the other end of the wretched tunnel, foolishly hoping it would pull him away from his realm of black and white.

Something flickered at the edges of his vision. Sarkis squinted.

There was someone dancing under the moon, gliding through the sand like a ballerina.

The flapping ends of a rich, red tunic spiraled through the wind. The figure held up a lamp to their face, and was washed in a glow of a dazzling yellow, short golden locks twiddling in the breeze. An icy cold exploded through Sarkis' body. His stomach squirmed as blooming butterflies erupted from cocoons within his intestines.

The image of the stranger was swathed in color.

Stumbling to his feet, Sarkis padded his way down the hill, pulse thumping through his senses. He tactfully slid down a slope of dirt, and vaulted onto the sand. There was no grace in the way he landed. The sand clawed at his feet. Sarkis didn't care; he bumbled across it, running with all of his might.

Birds were laughing in his ears. Everywhere else he looked, darkness reigned; the only source of hope was waltzing upon the sand.

"Wait! Please, I-" His voice was hoarse and frantic.

The world came to a crashing halt as his foot slid from solid ground. He thudded against the heavy mounds of time, grunting as the world spun. The moon, a curious mother, blinked at him. It was covered by a looming shadow, clutching a lantern with a flushed hand.

All the breath fled from his lungs.

She was beautiful, staring at him with owlish, rich brown eyes. Her hair was a halo of blonde waves, reaching just past her ears. She was adorned in that fine garb of red silk. A beautiful, wine red silk. The sensation of the word was a fantasy itself. Soft fingers clung to the lantern as she gazed at him, surveying every part of his face like a patient dog.

"Are you alright?" she asked. The boy of no color felt heat rise to his cheeks.

"How..." Sarkis' voice broke.

"Here, let me help you!" She stuck out her hand, beaming at him. With little hesitation, calloused fingers clasped soft ones. "I can't believe you're here. No one from the town dares to travel this far."

"Pardon me if I startled you." Sarkis gawked at the lantern. The girl followed his gaze, then looked out at the sky, a sad smile smudged against her lips.

"It's a peculiar place, isn't it? I can't imagine growing up here." She turned her contemplative gaze on him, brown eyes still gleaming from the lantern's touch.

"Where are you from?" The boy asked with quiet longing. He wanted to know everything about the luminous girl in front of him.

"An island, not far from here." She swept a hand out to the ocean. "My mother and I mainly hail from the sea, though." Alertness overcame her. She hastily curtsied. "I'm Ilene."

Slightly baffled, Sarkis followed her lead. "Sarkis." He bowed deeply. Ilene giggled. Straightening his spine, his eyes met hers. The tunic of wine fluttered in the wind.

"I've never seen red before," Sarkis whispered, fingers reaching into the space between them. Remembering himself, he pulled back. Something stormy raged against Ilene's bright expression. She stepped closer to him, an ardent look in her eyes.

"Will you meet me here tomorrow? I want to go on an adventure." Her voice squeaked with glee.

Flowers bloomed between his ribs. "It would be my honor. I'll be here by noon."

Ilene broke out into a wide, splitting grin, and Sarkis' pulse jumped. Even without the lantern, he swore that her smile ignited the warmth of her face. "I'll see you anon, then." With that, she jogged back into the night. All of the color Phaeo held went with her.

Sarkis looked up at the moon. For the first time in a long time, a smile stretched across his face.

The next morning, after he'd hurried through his chores and visited the sheep, herding them along like a border collie gone mad, Sarkis raced down to the beach. He floundered through the sand. Shifting on his leather clad feet, he fiddled with his curls. Hungry seagulls skated across the water, the fish below them flouncing under their claws. Sarkis pitied them. He envied them.

"Sarkis! You're here!" Ilene bounded towards him, gracefully padding along the sand. She looked brilliant-completely soaked with color. Today, she wore a vibrant blue garment.

"I have to say, I like that color more than the red," Sarkis admitted. Ilene twirled happily in response.

"I'm going to wear a new one every day." Ilene declared, a steely fire in her eyes. Something pleasant curled inside of his stomach. "Now, I want to show you something." She grabbed his arm and yanked him along the coast with soft fingers. Those squawking birds soared across the gray sky.

Soon enough, Ilene stopped in her tracks, shining with a proud ferocity. "Welcome!" she announced, stretching her arms out to something in front of her.

A wooden ship of elegance sat in front of them, parts of it disassembled to create roof panels and walls. The entire front of it was still intact. The ship was a behemoth, growing with every step they took. Standing under it, the seemingly small ship looked to be three times their size. Lights were strung along the edges. Fabric hung along the doorway.

“You live here?” Sarkis whispered in awe.

Ilene bobbed her head. "We ran into trouble out on the sea. Since I couldn't go anywhere else, I built this," she smiled shyly.

"It's wonderful."

"It's not exactly finished. I'm not very skilled with woodwork." Ilene mused, ducking her head.

At this, Sarkis perked up. He squeezed his fingers against his calloused palms and said, "I could assist you. My father is a carpenter, so I've picked up bits of his craft."

The girl's eyes blazed with a renowned excitement. "Oh, would you? I would love the company!"

"If you're alright with holding off on our adventure." Sarkis teased. Ilene laughed, holding out a hand. He grasped it easily, and followed close behind as she led him into her world.

Soon, sunset broke over the clouds, a mix of swirling grays and muted light. Walking back home, Sarkis felt as warm as the sun itself. Even covered in grime and exhaustion, the boy felt like a fresh monochrome painting. He smiled to himself, thinking of the way he'd crooned with Ilene, fixing her house. Even surrounded by tools and wood, the world was brimming with ataraxia.

With the sun high in the sky day after day, Ilene and Sarkis ran all throughout Phaeo, curling their toes in the squelching soil of the ocean, and cooing over the stray dogs. Sarkis relinquished his crook for a day and let her be the shepherd. She balanced the cane on the tip of her fingers and nose until they both collapsed in a heap of giggles. They darted through a neighbor's garden, plucking ripe pomegranates off of brush. They sat on the tallest hill, watching the cyclical ocean waves while pulling apart the fruit. Their fingers and faces were stained with juice. And even though he couldn't see the color, Ilene assured him that it was as red as her dress on the first day they met. With the sweet, tangy pomegranate juice on his tongue, bliss covered the dismal world in bright, blonde triumph. Ilene touched his face with her stained fingers, painting dots of glory along his cheekbones. Once they were finished, Sarkis obtained a wild expression and tipped to the side, careening down the hill. Ilene squeaked, then snorted as she recognized what he was doing. She quickly mimicked him, tumbling close behind.

They laid, spread-eagle and breathless, squinting at the sun. Ilene's short locks spilled out onto the close blades of grass. They stretched out, hand in hand. Her smile was broad and pearly. Her figure was adorned in an ornate green, spilling out like moss against the earth. True to her word, with every day they spent together, she wore a different color. Regal purple, aquamarine, pink as fresh as tulips. She described every one of them, spinning and smiling.

"What color is my hair?" Sark wondered out loud, chest rising and falling.

"A deep brown." Ilene played with the grass. "Like coffee."

"Ah," he nodded soberly, "I'm a delicacy."

"You wish." She shoved at his arm. Chuckling, Sarkis turned on his side, taking in every groove of her face. She met his gaze, unafraid. Her cheeks were as rosy as a mythical sunrise. Internally, Sarkis was afraid. He kept waiting for his dream to end. Despite himself, he outstretched his fingers and grazed her cheek. Ilene simply closed her eyes, long lashes fluttering. His skin burned with a fire he couldn't see. The sun fell behind a cloud.

The two friends stood up, looking out towards the gloomy sky. A surge of courage overcame him. Slowly, he cupped her face, waiting. Rays of intensity swirled in Ilene's eyes. And at the bottom of the slope, two shadows collided with a kiss of life. Their souls intertwined as they embraced.

Sarkis held her and rasped, "You made me brave."

Ilene's expression was utterly gentle. She smelled of pomegranates. "See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." He echoed.

Gradually, their hands unlatched. Sweet Sarkis hiked home, boxed in by a bleak village. A new world exploded behind his eyes. The syrupy fruit under his ribs flourished at the thought of seeing light again tomorrow.