blue landscape. Though she still hear nothing but Ishmael’s light steps and her own breathing, she kept thinking of Geoff, imagining his black hair, the same dark, greasy color of his eyes.
They used to be blue . Or so Ishmael told her. But she saw Geoff in everything around them, with Eric behind him, prodding him forward, his sick mind bent on reaching her. To keep these thoughts at bay, Abigail did she always did when she was nervous, she recited a poem under her breath. It instantly calmed her when she was upset. She studied the back of Ishmael’s coat, noticing the way his back formed a perfect V, broad shoulders and narrow waist. She quickly looked at her feet, not trusting the pull of her blood when her eyes slid over her Guide’s body.
Her voice was a hesitant whisper:
“Since all that beat about in Nature’s range,
Or veer or vanish; why should’st thou remain
The only constant in a world of change,
O yearning Thought! that liv’st but in the brain?”
Ishmael slowed in front of her and raised his head. She lowered her voice, embarrassed he might hear, but he dropped his head again, still lost in his own mind.
“Call to the Hours, that in the distance play,
The faery people of the future day
Fond Thought! Not one of all that shining swarm
Will breathe on thee life-enkindling breath,
Till when, like strangers shelt’ring from a storm,
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!”
Ishmael suddenly stopped short to face her, amazement written into the lines around his eyes. “Keep going.”
She blushed and did not continue, too embarrassed he had, indeed, been listening. He stepped closer, a feverish set to his eyes. “Finish the poem, please.”
He wasn’t asking. He was imploring her to finish, as if her finishing the poem was the most important thing she’d ever do. She closed her eyes tightly. She couldn’t finish the poem staring into his pained, expectant face. She cleared her throat, wracking her brain, and began again: “Yet still thou haunt’st me; and though well I see,
She is not thou, and only thou are she,
Still, still as though some dear embodied Good,
Some living Love before my eyes there stood
With answering look a ready ear to lend,
I mourn to thee and say—’Ah! lovliest friend!”
She paused, trying to bring up the last stanzas, but it was difficult to finish the poem with the image of Ishmael’s expectant expression playing before her eyelids.
“Finish it.”
His tension was so thick she felt his strain, his clenched fists, his expectant stare, even with her eyes shut against him. She backed up a step.
“That this the meed of all my toils might be,
To have a home, an English home, and thee!
Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one.
The peacefull’st cot, to moon shall shine upon,
Lulled by the thrust and wakened by the lark,
Without thee were but a becalmed bark,
Whose Helmsman on an ocean waste and wide
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.”
She stopped, for a moment, and listened to the rush of Ishmael’s breath. She wracked her brain, feeling a strange pressure to give him what he wanted to hear, feeling the importance of her words pulling at him.
“And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when
The woodman winding westward up the glen
At wintry dawn, where o’er the sheep-track’s maze
The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist’ning haze,
Sees full before him, gliding without tread,
An image with glory round its head;
The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues,
Nor knows he make the shadow he pursues!”
She opened her eyes and immediately met the black depths of Ishmael’s. She backed up further and found herself against a tall, skinny tree.
He noticed his proximity, backed away and lowered his eyes, suddenly perplexed by his own behavior. “Sorry. I just…Coleridge, right?”
“‘Constancy to an Ideal Object’,” she breathed.
He backed away even further and sat down in the black-blue dirt. A waft of the azure
They used to be blue . Or so Ishmael told her. But she saw Geoff in everything around them, with Eric behind him, prodding him forward, his sick mind bent on reaching her. To keep these thoughts at bay, Abigail did she always did when she was nervous, she recited a poem under her breath. It instantly calmed her when she was upset. She studied the back of Ishmael’s coat, noticing the way his back formed a perfect V, broad shoulders and narrow waist. She quickly looked at her feet, not trusting the pull of her blood when her eyes slid over her Guide’s body.
Her voice was a hesitant whisper:
“Since all that beat about in Nature’s range,
Or veer or vanish; why should’st thou remain
The only constant in a world of change,
O yearning Thought! that liv’st but in the brain?”
Ishmael slowed in front of her and raised his head. She lowered her voice, embarrassed he might hear, but he dropped his head again, still lost in his own mind.
“Call to the Hours, that in the distance play,
The faery people of the future day
Fond Thought! Not one of all that shining swarm
Will breathe on thee life-enkindling breath,
Till when, like strangers shelt’ring from a storm,
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!”
Ishmael suddenly stopped short to face her, amazement written into the lines around his eyes. “Keep going.”
She blushed and did not continue, too embarrassed he had, indeed, been listening. He stepped closer, a feverish set to his eyes. “Finish the poem, please.”
He wasn’t asking. He was imploring her to finish, as if her finishing the poem was the most important thing she’d ever do. She closed her eyes tightly. She couldn’t finish the poem staring into his pained, expectant face. She cleared her throat, wracking her brain, and began again: “Yet still thou haunt’st me; and though well I see,
She is not thou, and only thou are she,
Still, still as though some dear embodied Good,
Some living Love before my eyes there stood
With answering look a ready ear to lend,
I mourn to thee and say—’Ah! lovliest friend!”
She paused, trying to bring up the last stanzas, but it was difficult to finish the poem with the image of Ishmael’s expectant expression playing before her eyelids.
“Finish it.”
His tension was so thick she felt his strain, his clenched fists, his expectant stare, even with her eyes shut against him. She backed up a step.
“That this the meed of all my toils might be,
To have a home, an English home, and thee!
Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one.
The peacefull’st cot, to moon shall shine upon,
Lulled by the thrust and wakened by the lark,
Without thee were but a becalmed bark,
Whose Helmsman on an ocean waste and wide
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.”
She stopped, for a moment, and listened to the rush of Ishmael’s breath. She wracked her brain, feeling a strange pressure to give him what he wanted to hear, feeling the importance of her words pulling at him.
“And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when
The woodman winding westward up the glen
At wintry dawn, where o’er the sheep-track’s maze
The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist’ning haze,
Sees full before him, gliding without tread,
An image with glory round its head;
The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues,
Nor knows he make the shadow he pursues!”
She opened her eyes and immediately met the black depths of Ishmael’s. She backed up further and found herself against a tall, skinny tree.
He noticed his proximity, backed away and lowered his eyes, suddenly perplexed by his own behavior. “Sorry. I just…Coleridge, right?”
“‘Constancy to an Ideal Object’,” she breathed.
He backed away even further and sat down in the black-blue dirt. A waft of the azure
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