Peculiar Soul - Chapter 8: Noumenon, Phenomenon

Chapter 8: Noumenon, Phenomenon

To bear a soul is to live life intensely, profoundly. Your every choice is felt one-hundredfold – your minor successes are celebrations, your errors become calamitous. It is this that people reference when they speak of the burden that ensouled bear, but to view it as some exchange of tribulation for power is nonsense; it is simply the weight of responsibility.

For some, the added strain is minor. With others the choice is between perfection and utter horror. A second’s lapse, a moment’s inattention may condemn another to death or worse. Some of us are fortunate, as I am, to have some measure 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. Sometimes 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 proved to be an excellent host, despite Michael’s earlier confinement. As the two entered his small hut Michael was struck by the rich smell of herbs and venison shot through with woodsmoke. Jeorg handed him a small wooden bowl, hand-carved and polished to a shine, then served him a generous portion of stew.

It was fantastic, though an impolite part of him wondered if perhaps his afternoon’s imprisonment and breakfast of hardtack weren’t providing some additional savor. There was bread, too, and small dishes of roast vegetables that glistened with oil in the firelight.

Jeorg did not speak during their meal, and Michael was too busy making up for his afternoon of deprivation to offer any conversation regardless. However, when the bowls were empty and the fire in the hearth danced lower, he stood to fetch cups and a small clay jug that held a rich wine, ink-dark in the firelight.

“So,” Jeorg said. “Why are you here?”

Michael gave him a considering look, and did not answer. If the man was willing to render him immobile for an afternoon of contemplation, he could afford a few seconds’ delay while he gave the question some thought. Those passed, and then a minute more.

Finally, Michael let out his breath and smiled across the table at Jeorg. “I don’t know,” he said. “You were right, earlier. I’ve been dragged along behind others all this way, and I’m grateful for their help – but they have their own purposes for what they do.”

Jeorg grunted and took a sip of his wine. Michael did the same, then lost his train of thought as the flavor made itself felt on his tongue. He took another sip, inhaling the smell of it, then swallowed appreciatively.

“This is excellent,” he said. “Is it from the grapes outside?”

“Yes,” Jeorg said. He did not elaborate further, and for a few minutes there was only the crackling of the hearth. “The key is time,” he finally said, arching one shaggy eyebrow at Michael. “Grow right, not fast. Always a price for taking an early harvest, and no sure rewards for a late one.” He took another sip. “Time, and care.”

He said nothing else for the remainder of the evening. When their cups were empty, he gestured to a door in the corner of the room, stirred the fire and stumped off through another door that presumably led to his own bed. Michael rose to investigate and found a room smaller than his old closet, with a simple wood-framed bed occupying most of its floor.

Michael looked around for a few moments. He had woken two mornings ago in his own bed, and today in a haycart. This room was not his, but it had a welcoming air – as if after a while it might be, at least for a time.

It was enough. He stripped off his boots and was asleep in minutes.

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 methodically 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 something indistinct, then tilted his head towards the axe and sat on a nearby stump. “Chop,” he said.

“I’ve 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 moment 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-stemmed 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 Michael’s 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 don’t use your soul for this?” he asked. “I mean, you’re an augmens. 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 met Michael’s eyes, taking a draw from his pipe. “What is a soul?”

“Um,” Michael said, off-balance. He hadn’t thought it such a strange question, but apparently Jeorg felt differently. “If you mean scientifically, then-”

“No,” Jeorg said. “What does a soul mean?”

Michael pursed his lips, thinking. Jeorg’s face revealed no clues, but neither did he seem impatient for an answer – Michael was beginning to realize what Vincent had meant when he said that things here happened on their own time.

“Power?” he ventured.

“Your father again,” Jeorg grunted. “Power and dominion exist for men. Souls aren’t men.” He rose, rubbing at his back with a grimace. “Most souls align with Form. Light is largest beside those. Why?”

“They’re simpler, or at least that’s the answer I want to give,” Michael said, scowling. “Is that my father talking as well?”

Jeorg smiled. “He’s not as wrong this time,” 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 same, 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 fundamental 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 Michael’s 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 screamed 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. Sibyl’s soul knows everything the world knows, but the world doesn’t 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 something the world cannot? The process, the context is a thing man makes. The continuous that contains the momentary. 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 he’d 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 something 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.

“Some 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 become violence, and the result may not be what you had hoped.”

Michael looked at the branch, considering. He had never thought much about the mechanics of the various alignments – they had seemed 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?”

Jeorg’s 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 placement subtly wrong to Michael’s eyes.

“Even in infinite variety the paths do not lead to every destination,” Jeorg said quietly. “Spark walks the minds of men – 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 tormentor, 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 don’t like your path, you can’t blame your feet.”

Jeorg kept his finger pressed into Michael’s chest for a long second, his eyes fixed and dangerous. For the first time, Michael caught a whisper of Jeorg’s soul. It shifted and scintillated like a prism in the old man’s eyes, each facet reflecting Michael’s face in a different way. Some of the men that stared back were frightening.

Shuddering, he turned away. Jeorg took a step back and looked at him, his expression troubled for a moment – then he shook his head and spat into the dirt. “Bah,” he said. “I ramble in my old age. There’s 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, that’s a graft. I’ve done that to every tree in my orchard.”

“I’m not talking about trees!” Michael said, his voice rising. “Spark does this to people. Sofia showed me, 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 men like Spark?” He snorted. “Do you think Vera is evil, bearing the soul she carries?”

Michael frowned. “Vera doesn’t use her soul. Vincent told me.”

“Vincent is stupid sometimes,” 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 moment, 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 meets loves her, it comes to her like breathing – natural, inevitable. When you met 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 wasn’t Shine trickery that made me like Vera. She’s been legitimately kind to me. She warned my father against hurting me, she stood up for me against Isolde and Vincent.”

Jeorg’s eyes glinted with another smile, not half so bitter this time. “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 that’s not the soul doing good in the world,” Michael said. “That’s Vera, doing good in order to ensure that her soul does no evil. It’s – 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. Sometimes 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 statement, signaling an end to the conversation. Still, there had been a stirring quality to some of what he had said – a resonance with the hollow feeling that lurked beneath his ribs in still and quiet moments. 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 time, huh?” he muttered.

Jeorg smiled. “It is the only way,” he said, taking a puff on his pipe, “to do anything.”

The next day passed similarly to the first, and the next after that. Jeorg never commanded Michael’s presence or gave him any instruction, but if Michael sought him out then he would give him tasks and answer questions in his cryptic, roundabout way. Sometimes he was infuriating, other times insightful. More often he was both.

Michael spent more than one afternoon sitting alone, seeking his space from Jeorg.

He enjoyed the silence of the clearing. Sometimes that felt oppressive too, however, and he would talk to Sofia – a half-conversation, but enough to put a dent in the solitude.

After several more days had passed, Michael found himself waking earlier. His morning porridge and tea was hot, now, though sometimes Jeorg left its preparation to him. The first time he tried the porridge was dry and oversalted. Jeorg made no comment except to brew another pot of tea.

The promised rebirth had not come by two weeks, nor at three. His soul remained elusive whenever he sought it, offering no clue as to its purpose or nature. Jeorg was sanguine when Michael came to him for advice.

“Not uncommon for a soul to be tied to something,” he said, sipping his wine after dinner one evening. The fire had gone low, although the lengthening days meant that there was still ample light filtering in through the window to paint his face in muted tones. “You see it often. Bonifices.”

Michael groaned. A bonifex was said to have a lucky soul, but only under specific circumstances. Some had genuinely useful talents, like an unusual facility with thrown objects or firearms. Others had more dubious skills – an old tutor of Michael’s had been able to open any book to precisely the page he intended. Bonifices were something of a joke among the community of Ardan ensouled, both for their odd natures and the difficulty of telling they had a soul at all.

“I’m going to be very disappointed if that’s the case,” Michael grumped. “Besides, bonifices are on the Life axis, and unless the Institute is losing its touch I’m of no alignment at all.” He paused a moment and frowned. “Wait, why are they Life in the first place? They don’t fit in with the others very well.”

Jeorg gave him a sly smile. “Not the first to ask that question,” he said. “Some think it’s about altering one’s own path. Seeing the correct places to step.” He took another sip, and his eyes twinkled. “Others think it’s a sign we’re wrong about the whole axis.”

“And what do you think?” Michael asked. “As a member of said axis, that is.”

“I think you should think about it more,” Jeorg said. “Come to your own conclusion. Hear what I think later. There’s only one chance to think about something fresh, pure.” He smiled toothily across the table. “Without thoughts from troublesome old men getting in the way.”

Michael shot him a mutinous glare; this was not the first time Jeorg had deferred a question in this way. “It occurs to me,” he said, “that it would also be a convenient way for troublesome old men to avoid answering a question for which they lack an answer.”

“See?” Jeorg said. “Wiser already.”

That and many other questions remained stubbornly unanswered, but their conversations did change certain things in Michael’s life. Jeorg no longer asked Michael to chop wood, but instead had him help with planting. The hard work took its toll on Michael’s clothes, so midway through the month of Seed he learned to sew.

As that month waned, Michael found Jeorg up earlier than normal one morning. There was no breakfast on the table. Instead, the disassembled parts of a worn rifle had been set out in meticulous order. Jeorg was in the midst of running a cloth through the barrel when Michael stepped into the kitchen – he did not look up, but grunted his customary good-morning.

“I didn’t know you had this,” Michael said, leaning down to inspect the wooden stock in the wan morning light. “What’s the occasion?”

“Hunting,” Jeorg grunted. “Good season for hog. Salt some, eat some.” He gave the cloth another pass, then looked up at Michael. “Sausages.”

Michael nodded. “I’m convinced,” he said. He busied himself preparing their usual porridge, lit a fire in the stove, then returned to the table while he waited for the mixture to boil. He found himself studying the weapon as it was slowly reassembled; it was oddly familiar.

Suddenly, he had it – this was a service rifle, an older model that he had seen in some of his textbooks. “It’s an old Krenger, isn’t it?” he asked. “Like they used to use around the time of the Esroun armistice.” He looked up at Jeorg, who made no move to answer.

“Were you a soldier?” Michael asked.

Jeorg’s hands paused for a brief moment, then he continued his work of fitting the gun back together. “No,” he said, his hands moving in quick, practiced motions. “Never a soldier.” He finished reassembling it, then grunted and laid it to the side.

“How did you come by this, then?” Michael asked. “I didn’t think there were many-”

“Pot’s hot,” Jeorg grunted. Michael looked up at him in confusion, but then the hiss of porridge splashing on the stove had him hurrying to move their breakfast from the heat. By the time he had finished stirring it, Jeorg had ducked out.

Michael had never considered himself particularly gifted in the social arts, but even he could tell it was something of a sensitive subject for the man. He didn’t bring it up as Jeorg lectured him on the proper workings of the rifle, or while he practiced his marksmanship on an old bit of metal Jeorg had lying around.

He took to shooting faster than axe-work, as it happened. When the pair of them left for the woods some hours later, he was carrying the rifle while Jeorg picked their trail ahead of him. Michael felt like a lumbering bear compared to the older man’s silent, effortless passage through the forest. The undergrowth seemed to part for Jeorg, snapping back to claw at Michael’s face and arms when he followed.

Finally, Jeorg raised his hand – then pointed. In a clearing ahead there was a lone hog browsing its way through a bush, its head down amid the leaves.

“Above the front shoulder,” Jeorg advised. “Take your time.”

Michael looked at him incredulously, but received only the usual silent stare in response – so he sighed, went to one knee and sighted down the weapon at the boar. It was a big beast, large and shaggy with the remnants of its winter coat still clinging at its haunches. He breathed in, then halfway out.

The shot took the boar at the base of the neck, and it fell to a twitching heap as the woods came alive with the noise of other creatures voicing their alarm at the clamor. By the time they made it to the boar’s side it had gone still, although one wide, panicked eye tracked Michael as they approached. His chest felt tight like a drum, the hollow feeling behind his ribs growing and reverberating with every step he took.

His disquiet and nausea were not improved when Jeorg handed him a long horn-handled knife.

“You want me to, what – cut it?” Michael asked helplessly, holding up the knife. Memory drummed at him relentlessly – the bed, the blood dripping down-

Jeorg nodded and bent down beside the hog, touching a finger to its throat. “Here,” he said. “Quickly.”

Michael tasted bile as he knelt down beside the hog and pulled the knife out of its sheath. He could smell the musky stink of the animal this close, tinged with an acrid hint of sweat and fear that pulled at the ache in his chest.

“Quickly,” Jeorg said again, insistent.

The knife went down, then up. Blood dampened the soil as the light in that lone panicked eye dimmed, its motion stilling. The ache wasn’t something he could push to the side anymore. It was as though the dying creature was tugging at the core of his being, drawing all of his focus down to where its life’s blood pulsed slowly out once, twice – then not at all.

The ache seemed to snap taut, then vanished to leave Michael panting and sweaty on the forest floor. Jeorg stood a pace away, his face impassive.

“Hurts,” Michael gasped. “What-”

“A hint,” Jeorg said grimly. “The first one we’ve had.”

Michael struggled to his feet, grabbing a nearby sapling for balance. “You knew this would happen?” he asked. There was a sharp note of betrayal in his voice, half-unintended, and he saw it impact Jeorg in a brief, subtle wave – then the old man’s face was again neutral, his eyes calm.

“There was a chance,” Jeorg replied. “Had to find the key your soul was waiting for. Danger, excitement, fear.” He reached over and took the knife from Michael’s hand, wiping the blood away with his handkerchief. “Death.”