bookpub Chapter 8: Noumenon, Phenomenon
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 seconds lapse, a moments 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 Michaels 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 afternoons imprisonment and breakfast of hardtack werent 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 dont know, he said. You were right, earlier. Ive been dragged along behind others all this way, and Im 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.
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 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 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 mean, youre 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 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 mean scientifically, then-
No, Jeorg said. What does a soul mean?
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 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 arent men. 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?
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 Michaels 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.
Im going to be very disappointed if thats the case, Michael grumped. Besides, bonifices are on the Life axis, and unless the Institute is losing its touch Im of no alignment at all. He paused a moment and frowned. Wait, why are they Life in the first place? They dont fit in with the others very well.
Jeorg gave him a sly smile. Not the first to ask that question, he said. Some think its about altering ones own path. Seeing the correct places to step. He took another sip, and his eyes twinkled. Others think its a sign were 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. Theres 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 Michaels life. Jeorg no longer asked Michael to chop wood, but instead had him help with planting. The hard work took its toll on Michaels 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 didnt know you had this, Michael said, leaning down to inspect the wooden stock in the wan morning light. Whats 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. Im 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. Its an old Krenger, isnt 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.
Jeorgs 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 didnt think there were many-
Pots 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 didnt 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 mans silent, effortless passage through the forest. The undergrowth seemed to part for Jeorg, snapping back to claw at Michaels 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 boars 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 wasnt 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 lifes 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 weve 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 mans 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 Michaels hand, wiping the blood away with his handkerchief. Death.