To bear a soul is to live life intensely, profoundly. Your every choice is felt one-hundredfold - your minor successes are celebrations, your errors beco calamitous. It is this that people reference when they speak of the burden that ensouled bear, but to view it as so exchange of tribulation for power is nonsense; it is simply the weight of responsibility.
For so, the added strain is minor. With others the choice is between perfection and utter horror. A seconds lapse, a monts inattention may condemn another to death or worse. So of us are fortunate, as I am, to have so asure of protection that we may rely on. Others must resort to seclusion, which is an admirable sort of sacrifice.
But none of us may rest in our safety, for there are also those ensouled who witness the naked violence of their soul and shatter against it. It is the threat of these wounded beasts that calls us forth from our safety and isolation, to stand between them and our people. Sotis the pain that results is not all of their making; I will freely say that I have erred and in so doing condemned innocents to die.
Responsibility is inescapable. Even in death you simply pass the burden to another. So stand, and break, and crumble - and stand once more. Improve yourself relentlessly. The alternative is always worse.
- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 685.
Jeorg did not wake him the next morning. Michael arose to birdsong and the lingering aroma of cooked food that drew him out of his room and back to the kitchen. Cold porridge and tea sat near the chair he had used earlier. Halfway through the bowl he heard a sharp crack echoing through the clearing, followed shortly by another.
He finished quickly and rose to investigate. Once his eyes had adjusted to the blinding morning sun he sighted Jeorg thodically chopping firewood near the treeline. As Michael drew close the older man paused and leaned the axe against the woodpile.
Good morning, Michael said, offering him a smile.
Jeorg grunted sothing indistinct, then tilted his head towards the axe and sat on a nearby stump. Chop, he said.
Ive never chopped wood before, Michael admitted, walking toward the axe and hefting it tentatively - surprisingly heavy, with a long enough handle that he puzzled for a mont when placing his hands. Is there anything I should know?
Axe is heavy, let it fall, Jeorg said, leaning back and pulling out a thin-stemd pipe. Not on your foot.
That seems reasonable. Michael stood a piece of wood up on the block and eyed it, squaring himself and raising the axe high. He missed. The axe struck the gnarled wood Jeorg was using as a chopping block, gouging a divot from it and sending a shock up Michaels arms that made him wince.
Jeorg said nothing, so he collected himself and tried again. And again. On the third attempt he managed to strike the wood cleanly, although it did not split. Two more awkward strikes with the wood wedged against the axe did the job, however, and the halves of the log went tumbling to the side.
Michael looked at the fruit of his labors - then at the massive pile of unsplit logs standing close by. Chop, Jeorg had said.
So Michael did. He got better at it quickly, or at least he began to hit the wood more often than not. His arms and back quickly tired, however, and his hands chafed against the rough grip of the axe. Finally, breathing hard, he leaned the axe back against the woodpile and looked at Jeorg.
Is there a reason you dont use your soul for this? he asked. I an, youre an augns. You have dominion over things that grow. Why not just tell the trees to grow in the size you need?
Jeorg barked a short laugh. I hear your father, he said. Dominion, hngh. Stupid way to think of it. He t Michaels eyes, taking a draw from his pipe. What is a soul?
Um, Michael said, off-balance. He hadnt thought it such a strange question, but apparently Jeorg felt differently. If you an scientifically, then-
No, Jeorg said. What does a soul an?
Michael pursed his lips, thinking. Jeorgs face revealed no clues, but neither did he seem impatient for an answer - Michael was beginning to realize what Vincent had ant when he said that things here happened on their own ti.
Power? he ventured.
Your father again, Jeorg grunted. Power and dominion exist for n. Souls arent n. He rose, rubbing at his back with a grimace. Most souls align with Form. Light is largest beside those. Why?
Theyre simpler, or at least thats the answer I want to give, Michael said, scowling. Is that my father talking as well?
Jeorg smiled. Hes not as wrong this ti, he said, growing more animated. Souls are pieces of reality. Form and Light, matter and energy. They see what truly is. He pointed at Michael. You see the surface, only what bouncing light or vibrating air can tell. But - if you listen to your soul, you can see what it sees.
He gestured to the piles of logs, split and whole. Form is simple, he said. Binding or breaking is simple. Light and heat are the sa, two sides of a coin. Those souls only need direction from us, not instruction. The world knows matter and energy very well.
Michael nodded - he understood the words, but felt as though Jeorg was dancing around a more fundantal truth that he was failing to grasp. What about the others? Michael said. Truth and Life? And where do I fit in?
Impatient, Jeorg grumbled. Keep chopping. He ignored Michaels exasperated look and settled back down to his stump. Michael picked up the axe and attacked the wood with a renewed vigor borne of his frustration - which subsided quickly as his body reminded him why he had stopped in the first place. His arms shook lifting the axe and scread relief when it fell. Three, four, five logs tumbled in halves to the ground.
Finally, Jeorg spoke again. Truth is less simple, he said. Information. Sibyls soul knows everything the world knows, but the world doesnt know everything.
How can the world not know itself? Michael protested.
The world knows the log is split, Jeorg said, scraping a divot in the ground with his foot. He extended his other leg and etched another mark into the soil. It knows it can burn and make fire. But when you chop, you already know it is for fire. He dragged his heel between the two marks, connecting them with a line.
The world does not know this. Jeorg looked back up at Michael with a twinkle in his eye. Do you feel powerful, knowing sothing the world cannot? The process, the context is a thing man makes. The continuous that contains the montary. Sibyl may see everything, but only its bearer knows where to look.
Jeorg puffed at his pipe, humming low while Michael tried to process what hed said. I suppose, he said, frowning at the mark etched into the dirt. I saw a little of what Sofia sees and I nearly passed out from how - much there was. She seems like she can focus pretty well on just the important pieces, though. Is that sothing you taught her, when she was here?
No, Jeorg said. Every soul is different. Learning to hear it is personal. Not an easy thing to teach. And Truth - those souls see different things than Life. Life is process and possibility, the branches and roots the lines make. He got up once more and walked to a nearby tree, placing his hand on a smooth stretch of bark.
Every day this tree makes choices, he said. Simple choices, tree choices. Grow a branch here or there, twist the roots left or right. Infinite trees that could have been. Infinite paths never taken. He removed his hand from the tree. Where there had been only unbroken bark, a small, green branch wavered uncertainly in the breeze.
So paths are easy to walk. No consequence, no burden. Jeorg smiled and gave Michael a wry look. Different than asking a tree to grow into firewood. The change grows to beco violence, and the result may not be what you had hoped.
Michael looked at the branch, considering. He had never thought much about the chanics of the various alignnts - they had seed either self-evident, as with his father, or so mysterious as to be unknowable. His brow creased as another thought pressed itself on his mind.
Spark, he said. Is that what he does to people? Forces them down a path that suits his purpose?
Jeorgs eyes narrowed. His hand gripped the branch that he had created and wrenched it from the tree with a splintering crack. He brushed a few flecks of bark from the end before jamming it roughly back into a different spot higher up on the trunk. Bark splintered, sap dripped - and Jeorg removed his hand, leaving the branch wedged into the tree. It jutted away at an awkward angle, its placent subtly wrong to Michaels eyes.
Even in infinite variety the paths do not lead to every destination, Jeorg said quietly. Spark walks the minds of n - without a path, cutting to the state he wishes.
Michael looked at the branch and thought of Peter, the vacant look in his eyes as he pleaded to return to his torntor, insisted that he had to go back. What an evil soul, he muttered.
Evil? Jeorg said, arching an eyebrow. Evil is a thing that man makes. Souls are not evil. Swords and guns are not evil. Dangerous, yes. He walked up to Michael and stood in front of him, jabbing a finger into his chest.
The soul reveals, he said. It amplifies. But only you know good and evil. You are the glass through which this mote of the universe sees itself and all the rest of creation. Wherever you lead it, it will follow. If you use your soul to bring joy or despair, look to yourself and think - I did this. My actions, my consequences. If you dont like your path, you cant bla your feet.
Jeorg kept his finger pressed into Michaels chest for a long second, his eyes fixed and dangerous. For the first ti, Michael caught a whisper of Jeorgs soul. It shifted and scintillated like a prism in the old mans eyes, each facet reflecting Michaels face in a different way. So of the n that stared back were frightening.
Shuddering, he turned away. Jeorg took a step back and looked at him, his expression troubled for a mont - then he shook his head and spat into the dirt. Bah, he said. I ramble in my old age. Theres nothing profound in it. It is no harder to be good with a soul than without.
How can that be? Michael objected, pointing at the branch crudely affixed to the side of the tree. How can that ever be good? Trampling over what should have been to get what you want instead?
Jeorg raised an eyebrow and looked up at the branch. That? he said. Done with care, thats a graft. Ive done that to every tree in my orchard.
Im not talking about trees! Michael said, his voice rising. Spark does this to people. Sofia showed , I saw what he did to her friend. There is no use for a power like that in the world.
No? Jeorg asked, the hint of a smile drifting bitterly over his face. And you think the world is such a just and caring place, without n like Spark? He snorted. Do you think Vera is evil, bearing the soul she carries?
Michael frowned. Vera doesnt use her soul. Vincent told .
Vincent is stupid sotis, Jeorg said. Of course she uses it. A soul is not a spade or a hatchet. Not a tool to be set aside when work is done. It is part of you. Easier to walk without making footprints than to live without using your soul. He sighed, then reached up and touched the branch he had placed on the trunk. His fingers obscured it for a mont, and when they withdrew there was a healthy growth of wood around the base. It now looked like there had always been a branch there, strong and natural.
There is nothing wrong with desire, he said. Vera uses her soul to ensure that everyone she ets loves her, it cos to her like breathing - natural, inevitable. When you t her, did you feel violated? Did you feel like she had etched herself into your mind like a wound, raw and bloody?
no, Michael said, frowning. But it wasnt Shine trickery that made like Vera. Shes been legitimately kind to . She warned my father against hurting , she stood up for against Isolde and Vincent.
Jeorgs eyes glinted with another smile, not half so bitter this ti. That is the difference between Vera and Spark. Vera understands the importance of drawing the paths between what is and what she wishes to be. Of all the steps before the last. She earns what she takes, and never asks for more than that.
But thats not the soul doing good in the world, Michael said. Thats Vera, doing good in order to ensure that her soul does no evil. Its - kind of horrible, actually, to think that such a lovely person is burdened with such a thing.
Do you think she was always as she is now? Jeorg asked. Souls are drawn where they are needed. We are inevitably remade by their presence. Our old lives disappear, and a new person is born. Sotis very different from before. He sat back down on the stump and smiled beatifically at Michael. The old Michael Baumgart did not chop wood. To be reborn, practice living differently.
There was a sense of finality to his statent, signaling an end to the conversation. Still, there had been a stirring quality to so of what he had said - a resonance with the hollow feeling that lurked beneath his ribs in still and quiet monts. Michael reached for it, but the feeling passed on like water slipping through his fingers.
He sighed and picked up the axe. One day at a ti, huh? he muttered.
Jeorg smiled. It is the only way, he said, taking a puff on his pipe, to do anything.
Reviews
All reviews (0)