The Colorless Land

Chapter 1: Three Mothers

White light illuminated the icy cave, filtering through the clear cold air to fall harshly on every detail, sharp and unforgiving. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, never flickering, never changing, casting no shadow no matter what lay in its way-or who.

All along the cave stood rows and rows of children, the youngest maybe three years old, the oldest around fifteen. Not a single one of them moved or spoke. They stood perfectly aligned from youngest to oldest, backs straight, shoulders squared, their expressions blank and completely identical. Identical, too, were their clothes and their haircuts; their hair was snowy white, their skin the same shade of pale, their eyes pale gray and blank like fragments of ice.

The boy without a name stood in the same place as always. He had been assigned this spot for the year, until he grew older and was moved further back. The faces around him stayed always the same, but he paid them no heed. They were all the same as him; that was all he needed to know.

Along the front of the rows strode Mother. No one knew if she was truly anyone's mother, but they all called her that; she was, after all, the one who had raised them for as long as they could remember. The boy adjusted his posture. He didn't want to displease her. It would be ungrateful, after everything she had done for them.

"I see no missing spots," she said after she had walked along the entire length of the cave, taking in all the hundreds, maybe thousands of children lined up. "Excellent. I'm very proud of you."

The boy felt something stir inside him in response, but he let nothing show. Neither did anyone else. It wasn't their place to speak.

"Now that we're all together," she said, her voice reaching even the furthest corners of the cave with ease, "let us start today's training. The younger ones go with Auntie today. The oldest five years are with me."

A second woman strode in, almost as familiar to the boy as Mother. She, too, had raised them for all their lives, although most of them, including himself, would choose Mother over her. The boy was sure the young ones didn't like today's matchup, but still no one said anything. It was Mother's decision. Mother knew what they all needed better than they did.

Auntie led out the younger ones, her voice echoing through the passage as she split them in groups. The older children followed after Mother, routinely lining up in rows of three, their movements and footsteps in perfect sync. The boy wondered where she would lead them today. Until they became adults and were given their roles, there was much they still needed to learn.

Following Mother through the second passage, they left the caves, stepping out into the snow and following a flawlessly cleared road. On and on they marched, not slowing, not stopping, until they came at last to a hill full of snow-laden pine-trees.

"These," she said, "need to be felled and taken back to the base for fire-wood. I will now assign tasks to the different years. Listen carefully."

They all listened as she divided them up, and as soon as she dismissed them they all got to work. Some were in charge of providing the tools. Some were tasked with getting rid of the snow that fell down from the trees, both onto the ground and the roads and pathways. The boy was among the older ones and had to help chop the felled trees into easily carried sizes. He took an axe and started with routined movements.

Mother walked from group to group, giving instructions and teaching the ones who were unfamiliar with their tasks. The boy focused on his task. He knew she would most likely pay him no heed, except maybe to praise him if he did very well. All he needed to do was keep working.

And keep working he did, even when he grew tired and hungry and his arms began to hurt. It wasn't yet lunch-time. He couldn't stop. His body seemed to disagree, but Mother said exhaustion wasn't real. It was all up in his head, and if he kept at it without giving in, eventually it would disappear. If it didn't, he was simply weak.