Week 27 - Soul

Soul

Matthew Ryan Fischer

“The boy came to visit again. He sees into my soul and wants more, always more. He is the dangerous sort. Of that much I am sure. Anyone who is able to understand what we are and wishes to know more is the most dangerous sort of all.”  -- From the private journal of Alistair Geoffrey Doyles, September 17, 1846.

Alistair had never been known as a social being. But in that moment, he regretted answering his door more than any other day before. A boy, a madman, came knocking and Alistair had made the mistake of answering. Jonathan had been searching for a long time. Alistair, for his part, had changed his name and moved many times over the years and had previously felt secure in his current life. A foolish desire to live out his final days in one place had proven to be his undoing and most foolish indeed.

The boy had identified Alistair, identified his former life, his former deeds. And despite Alistair’s protestations, he would not be turned away.

Alistair had denied his name and denied any knowledge of what the boy was asking about. But Jonathan produced a copy of the book, of Alistair’s confessions.

That book! He has the book. That accursed wretched awful thing. Why had I written it? A moment of weakness. Desperation. The money earned, spent and gone. The absolution felt, momentary and fleeting. That worthless thing! I wish I had never written it.

Alistair tried to maintain his deception, but his eyes betrayed him. The moment he took his eyes off the boy and gazed at the book, Jonathan knew for sure.

My face had given the truth away. Despite all verbal protestations, this boy knew he had me.

The boy pushed his way inside, as if Alistair had the strength required to stop him. The boy explained he simply wanted to talk. They soon found their way to Alistair’s study, sitting across from one another before the fireplace.

Alistair supplied food and drink; Jonathan supplied ample questions.

Questions, always more questions. Who had I killed? Why had I killed? How had I felt? Why did I write it down? Was that part of the ritual? Was that how I gained their powers, their spirit?

It was folly. Alistair had been born as this something. No amount of questions could make this boy into anything. Still, the boy asked, and still, Alistair knew he must answer. The boy was tough. Dangerous. The boy might not have the gift, but he had the ability to instill fright. That much Alistair was sure of.

Alistair looked towards the fire for a moment. He wasn’t fast enough. He wasn’t strong enough. There would be no way to surprise the boy or force him to the flame. Alistair returned to his drink and pondered his too few options.

I was foolish once as a young man. I have been foolish as an old man. I cannot afford to be foolish anymore. This boy will kill me if given the chance.

“And how many have you killed?” Alistair asked.

“More than enough,” answered Jonathan.

Alistair took note – Was it a threat? Or an egocentric boast? Was Alistair meant to be afraid? More so than he already was? The boy was a third his age – taller, stronger. If the prospect of physical violence wasn’t enough, what would idle braggadocio alter? But perhaps the boy was no more than empty air. He words his claim in such a way that it says nothing or anything, thought Alistair. He comes to me seeking the answer. If he had done any of the things he claims, certainly he wouldn’t need to search down an old man...

Alistair was careful in how to proceed. The boy was conducting an interview, not there to hear an old man confess. Regrets and mistakes would be ignored. Slights or challenges would be seen as an affront or attack. Alistair had decided earlier that he would talk so long as the boy wanted to listen. If they were talking there was less of a chance of violence. Still, it seemed as if that were the boy’s only true predilection. Alistair feared greatly that sooner or later everything would eventually come down to the boy’s desire to see blood.

The boy concluded their first meeting, simply saying “I will return.”

Alistair considered fleeing, but thought better of it. He reminded himself of his old age. His body was failing him and he was unfit for the harsh trek of the open road. Besides, he told himself, the boy found me once. He is wont to do so again. And there is no way of knowing how he would react to an attempted flight.

Alistair decided it best not to provoke the boy to violence. If he was here to conduct an interview, why chance turning it into his own execution? Instead, Alistair resigned himself to a new life of looking over his shoulders and being scared of his own shadows.

The boy had said he would return, and so he did.

The boy came every day after that. They would talk morning until dusk. The boy wanted to know everything. The last thing he spoke, at the end of each meeting, was “I will return.” He always did.

During his many visits, they spoke of many things. The boy was always interested in how Alistair became what he became, not why. Alistair surmised that like himself at that age, the boy had little honor and few pangs of moral conscience. Alistair also surmised that the boy couldn’t exactly do what Alistair had done. The boy wanted to drain his victims, feast on their souls, gain their spirit and their power, but apparently despite his best efforts he had always failed. He asked Alistair again and again “how?” How had he done it? How had he made himself into a soul eater?

“Was it some trick or a spell? A demon’s deal perhaps?”

“I’m no sorcerer’s mage.”

“Don’t tell me you were just a writer, for I know that’s untrue. I’ve learned enough. I’ve traced your steps across the continent. You were a man that death followed.”

“No, it was never anything as simple as a story.”

“Then what did you do to them? How were you able to do the things you claimed? Can you really steal some person’s soul? Or maybe you were just a deviant that enjoyed the kill. And afterwards you searched for words that would help you to justify your actions.”

“I won’t lie and claim the killing didn’t excite me. But that was no pleasure. What I did was very real. And what I gained was as well. The good and the bad.” Mostly bad, he thought, but left that part out. The boy was so fanatical, and harsh truths would fail to dissuade him.

Alistair told him of many kills – why he had chosen them and what he had gained. He spoke of vast fortunes, abilities, energy and excitement. The boy made him talk of love and the losses that came from that. The boy seemed more interested in his pain.

“There was a girl. We were children, but we were grown. I miss her to this day.”

“What became of her? What did you do?”

“She was happy. Always. Always so happy… I wanted her happiness more than I wanted her.”

“So you killed her?”

Alistair was silent. Of course he had killed her. It was the only way.

“You killed her,” Jonathan said.

Finally Alistair nodded in agreement. He didn’t open his mouth to speak. He didn’t trust himself not to cry and he wasn’t going to give this boy that power over him.

“You killed her,” Jonathan persisted.

Alistair wondered why the boy wanted to hear the words. Perhaps he needed to. If he had gained nothing from his own killings, perhaps he took something from the misery of others. If that were true, he had come to the right place – Alistair had misery to spare.

Throughout their many visits, Alistair hated to admit it, but he began to appreciate the way Jonathan looked at him – the look of admiration, reverence. Alistair was no hero, but in the boy’s gaze, he suddenly felt he could have been one. For a moment, he forgot his fear and instead wanted to embrace the boy. Alistair had no family. He had been alone for so long now. A companion suddenly appealed to him and for the first time in a long time he regretted his many decisions to remain alone.

This boy could be my son. He’s certainly young enough, and we share so much already. The boy who could be my heir, my own. But he’s no son. He’s not looking for a father figure; he’s looking for a lesson in the destruction of human life. No one searching that darkness which we are is interested in love or redemption.

Yes, Alistair found that he liked Jonathan’s eyes. He liked the way the boy’s gaze made him feel about himself. He wanted to be as important as he was in those eyes. He wanted to feel like an idol, to be the greatness he had once been. It had been so long since he had been anything other than miserable with a sorry heart. It would be good to become something else once again.

Alistair resolved that he would start with the eyes and capture that gaze. After, he would work his way through the rest of the boy, and see what else he might have to offer.

It would be easy. The boy was there, trying to siphon off his strength, but all he was doing was reminding Alistair what it felt like to be alive. He would live again. The boy saw a weak old man, slowed by time. It would be easy to distract and surprise the boy. It would be easy...

Jonathan looked up at Alistair, his eyes bulging, the life being choked out of him.

“I never sleep well anymore… But tonight… tonight I will truly be free.” Alistair smiled. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you... thank you…”

Jonathan slowly lost his struggle. His life began to dim as Alistair’s grew stronger. The old man was ecstatic. But the boy didn’t look scared, no not at all. He had a solemn calm, a petulant smirk. He stared the old man down, and the last thing he said was “I will return.” For one moment, Alistair felt his grip weaken, for just a moment his resolve faltered, and for that moment he feared the boy just might be a man of his word.