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Chapter 7
Fisher walks to your side and attempts to interpret the sign on the mirror. His face slips in and out of contractions set off by confusion. The squinted eyes and wrinkled brow are the first indicators of illiteracy, and his cocked head is the last.
“You can’t read, can you?” you ask impatiently. Fisher responds with a modest shake of the head. “Fisher, it says to follow you.”
“It does?”
“Yes.” You hate that you need to explain this. You also hate that the sign is right. I do need to follow Fisher. He may be the only person who can help me out of the Green Gash. I already assumed that was true. I just hate the fact that Cemone has, again, told me what to do using a sign made with my blood. Frustrated the only feasible solution seems to be, to leave. You walk away from the garage door towards the edge of the canyon, ready to climb.
“Icarus, where are you going?!” Fisher unnecessarily screams.
“I thought we were leaving.”
“We are.”
“I was about to climb my way out,” you say, pointing to the edge of the canyon. The end of the high canyon is just as green and grass-covered as the entrance, although it doesn’t seem nearly as wet.
“We won’t climb out.” Fisher gives you a look of shock. “We’ll walk out.” Then he crudely explains the existence and function of stairs that lead out of the canyon: “…you see, Icarus, they’re like ledges that rise up, but only a little bit each time.”
“Just lead the way, Fisher.” With this command, you and Fisher start walking south, parallel to the canyon wall you attempted moments ago. There doesn’t seem to be anyone here at all, except for Fisher that is. I wonder how it is that he even found this place. Or even ended up living in it? Maybe he’s some modern-day nomad. A man committed to living away from the world in search of spiritual enlightenment or other philosophical reasons. Although, Fisher’s dedication to keys somewhat disproves that idea. Where did he even get his clothes and how is he feeding himself? The biggest question, though: Who is Fisher Price? I remember him mentioning a mother, but I’ve never seen her. Maybe she’s real in the Norman Bates sort of way. More questions like those pondered jump around your head as you follow Fisher to a now visible stairway.
The stairway out of the Green Gash might be fifty feet high and about four or five wide. You don’t know the exact substance the stairway is made of, but a good guess might be granite. The black- and white-colored stone reminds you of Chicago and its constant supply of the sediment. Fisher waits for you before he starts climbing the massive staircase. This is Fisher’s attempt at a courtesy: a change you are happy to see. Mostly because everyone you have met this past week, including Fisher, has hurt or nearly killed you.
Reaching his side, the two of you trudge up the stairs in unison. Thirty feet up and tired, you put a question to Fisher that you should have asked much earlier. “Fisher, where are we headed?” you casually inquire. Depending on Fisher’s response, you may be able to determine your current location and expected time of arrival.
“To The Solstice, Icarus,” he replies.
“But where is that? Is it near Istanbul?”
“I don’t know what that is, Icarus.”
“It’s a city.”
“Is that like a place?”
“Yes, Fisher. It’s a place, in Turkey. Have you ever met someone that’s Turkish?”
“I think I met a Catholic once. Is that like Turkish?”
For a moment, you wonder if Fisher is telling a joke about the religious history of Turkey. You then realize that he isn’t, and begin to ask him another question, but it dies in your mouth as the two of you reach the top of the stairway. Atop the final step you understand why the Green Gash has its name: everything else in sight is yellow, golden, or brown. All around all that can be found is the yellow flat world that leads to the Green Gash. At first the brilliance of the sun makes the yellow field unbearably bright, but your eyes seem to adjust. After doing so, two things become noticeable: the narrow apartment from which you’d traveled to the Green Gash in the first place, and an assortment of trees far off on the horizon.
The apartment looks about two miles away. At this distance, you can see it in its entirety. Before, you presumed that the single apartment was just oddly placed, but now at this distance you see that isn’t true: four other apartments stand next to the one in which you awoke. Their tiny rooftops just slightly peeking out of the entrance to the Green Gash. Maybe this has to do with the government testing. I wonder if Fisher knows anything about this. Maybe he was even a part of it. Turning to ask Fisher if he knows anything about the apartments, you are surprised to see him crying. One look around you try to see if anything may be frightening or hurting Fisher. The yellow and golden world surrounds you both, and none of it should illicit a reaction like this.
“Fisher, are you alright?”
Fisher slowly turns to you and laughs. “I don’t often get to leave the Green Gash, Icarus,” he tearfully replies. “Sometimes I feel like I’ll die down there. Alone.” The explanation of his apparent happiness is difficult to comprehend, along with the already strange nature of Fisher’s being. With everything presented, one question begs to be asked.
“Who are you?”
Fisher turns back to you, tiny streams flow down his cheek from his dusty gray eyes. “I’m me. I’m Fisher Price, remember?”
In his eyes are sincere confusion mixed with honest joy. He reminds you of a small pet, eager to leave its cage upon seeing its owner. You offer Fisher your congratulations with a pat on the back. “Yeah, I remember, Fisher.” The two of you smile in this small celebration of leaving the Green Gash and continue to stare at the horizon.
As the sun rises the beauty of the landscape grips you. The golden glow of the outside world matches the warmth of the sun. This comforts you unlike anything you’ve experienced before. The view radiates a soothing jubilation with its natural simplicity. You could never feel this in Chicago. I’ve never been more free than today, at this moment. After a few minutes of staring, you calmly suggest that the two of you continue onward. Fisher wipes his eyes and agrees. “Which direction then, Fisher?” you happily ask.
“I don’t know, Icarus.”
You sigh as Fisher, again, tells you he doesn’t know something. I wonder if ‘I don’t know’ is Fisher’s catchphrase, and if he is saying all of this on purpose. Maybe this is part of some long, convoluted game where Thomas tortures me with an idiot for owing him money.
“Well, where would you go if I weren’t here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I figured!” Agitated and upset, you exit the conversation with stomped steps forward. You try to think of a possible way home when something moves in the corner of your eye. Flying out of the blue sky is what, from a distance, looks like a small bird. The bird is of some significance, as it is the only creature you’ve seen in the area and it is clearly descending towards the two of you. As the bird approaches, you can tell it’s a duck.
“Look, Icarus! It’s Philip!”
As you turn to gawk at Fisher’s remark, the small duck lands softly between the two of you. The duck is somewhere around two and a half feet tall, with shiny streaks of green and blue on its head; its bill is the standard yellow, while its breast is a modest brown. The rest of the duck is most likely this color, but you can’t be sure because the small duck is wearing what looks like a small pale blue cardigan. The cardigan is made of tight-knit work and looks handmade. It fits perfectly around the duck’s wings and is monogramed “P.S.D.” This is certainly the strangest thing you’ve seen today, as well as the cutest.
“Do you know this duck?” you ask. You’re hoping Fisher will regale you in some mild tale of how he is an eccentric European who likes to dress his pets and pretends to live in a canyon. Or that he is a schizophrenic who has mild delusions when his duck is not around. You are disappointed when Fisher explains his connection to the animal.
“Of course I know him. He’s our guide.”
Great.