Peculiar Soul

Chapter 18: Drift

Chapter 18: Drift

Recognition of the self is not a simple thing; our close perspective distorts our view and makes it hard to discern truth from illusion. Often our baser fears and needs skew our perception - that we are flawed is inevitable, but even the best men shy away from confronting their flaws for fear of that intimate and personal disquiet that follows.

To have a soul makes this at once easier and more difficult. It is an abrupt and dramatic change, and the attendant shift in perspective can be enlightening. It can also be a trap, however, as such a shift naturally leads one to consider a division between the prior self and the sum of those changes which we thereafter call the soul.

Lingering overlong on this division is not constructive; the division does not exist. Pour a dram of water into a cup, then later fill it to the brim and ask: where is the dram?

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 692.

Michael tasted blood. He opened his eyes, frowning - and saw Spark staring back at him through sightless eyes, the ashes of his grin still fixed on his face. The sight jolted him fully awake. He pushed himself fully upright with the bruised, distorted face still fixed in his vision. His cheek was wet - no, his whole side was. Spark had bled out onto the floor; Michael had collapsed into it.

It took another second before he connected the sight of the blood with the taste in his mouth. Sudden, convulsive nausea overtook him; he vomited the meager contents of his stomach, then heaved again. He was still kneeling in the blood, bracing himself on hands planted in the middle of the crimson puddle.

His knees trembled as he tried to stand, so Michael pushed himself away from Sparks body in a sort of half-crouch. He collapsed in the middle of the floor when his sight skewed to the side for a moment. His head spun with the vertigo of the spectors viewpoint. He didnt bother realigning his vision. Michael kicked his legs to push himself along the floor until he felt the cool solidity of the wall at his back. There he sat for a long moment, panting.

A dull pressure grabbed at his temples. The blindfold, he realized. He pulled it off and immediately regretted it; his vision blurred and doubled, his eyes adding their discordant input to his free sight. He closed them and brought his vision slowly back towards a more natural location.

Michael wanted to close off his sight entirely, but Benis soul was not so merciful; there was Spark amid the blood, a crimson smear of mad calligraphy tracing Michaels path across the floor. He could not stop looking, so he looked without seeing.

Spark was dead.

He was Spark.

The memory of the light flowing into Michael came back with surreal force, hitching his breathing and speeding his heart. Pain shot through his abdomen as his stomach tried once more to empty itself. He spat bile onto the floor and sank back against the wall, shivering.

His thoughts strayed. He might have been sitting there a minute or an hour, but at once he heard a noise at the small rooms door. Michael jerked his sight upward and saw Claude walk into the room.

The slender anatomens stopped abruptly as his eyes found the darkening red of Sparks blood on the floor. A stab of despair tore through him; Michael found that he could feel it just as clearly as he could read it on Claudes face. Anguish, denial, loss - rage. Anger lit in Claudes eyes as he found Michael and began to stalk towards him.

Damn monster, Claude spat, reaching his hand out.

Michaels eyes widened, he knew all too well what would happen if the anatomens were to touch him. He tried to scramble away by instinct, heels sliding blood-slick over the tile. Claude drew near and bent down. His hand filled Michaels vision.

Stop, Michael croaked.

Claude stopped. His eyes bulged, his hand trembled, but he did not draw closer to Michael.

Michael, too, froze in place. Sparks soul had bound his intent into the words, rippling outward to tear into Claudes mind. The effect was immediate and brutal; he had not merely wanted Claude to halt his motion, although that was a large portion of his desire. This was a man who had hurt him, threatened him, taken enjoyment from Michaels suffering. He had been party to the death of Stefan and Beni. He had, apparently, been the one responsible for the horrid strangers hand now resting on the end of Michaels arm.

Hatred was a proper term for what Michael felt, albeit lacking the nuance to describe the depth of his loathing for the man. Hatred was what carried in his voice when he spoke, the conviction that the world would be boundlessly improved by Claudes absence from it.

He saw that hatred impact Claude, carried along with his command. He had wanted Claude to stop moving; he had wanted Claude to stop being. The anatomens now stood motionless save for spasmodic clenching of the muscles in his face, eyes twitching and bloodshot as they stared past Michael at whatever formless horror had become of Claudes mind.

The ruined garden that Spark had made of Michaels own mind had been reprehensible. It was violation of the highest order, a trespass against the sanctity of the mind and soul. It offended every sensibility of his being.

Michael looked at Claude and saw what manner of landscape he had made.

Revulsion and nausea lurched through him to wring bile from his stomach once more; he scrambled away from the frozen anatomens and towards the door in a mindless panic. Blood-slicked hands slid from the doorknob without finding purchase. A fingernail tore. He clutched at it again and managed to wrench the door wide.

The passage through the administration halls twisting corridors barely registered to his mind, nor did the bright shock of evening sunlight as he exited. Michael found himself walking toward the harbor for the second time that day.

There were no people on his path, and the occasional sight of distant figures between the slapshod buildings of the town filled him with a spike of dread. He could not be near people. The fear pulsing with every heartbeat was less for his own well-being than for any who might cross his path. He had not intended the horror he had made. That Claude deserved death did not matter; Michael had not given him death.

A pang of agony caught him as he turned to look back toward the building. Michael had left the anatomens alive in his torment. He could return and put an end to the man-

Sparks fading smile flashed in his vision, and Michael shuddered. Claude had obsessed over him as well. The thought of his soul sliding in to rest beside Sparks nearly made Michael buckle at the knees again. He turned away. It was weakness, he knew. He could not bear to look at what he had done to Claude, could not bring himself to risk further taint by the souls of evil men.

Michael turned and walked toward the harbor. Perhaps he was an evil man too. Jeorg had said there was always a choice, and in leaving Claude to suffer he had made it. A choice driven by weakness and aversion, fatigue, trauma - but a choice nonetheless.

He kept moving toward the shore, using the vantage provided by Benis soul to avoid the few people he saw. The gate he and Stefan had used to gain entry earlier was barred, with a doubled guard; he veered away as soon as he saw them standing there. Instead he walked along the perimeter of the harbor until he reached a stretch of rocky beach and waded into the water.

Michael began to swim. He had not had the opportunity in years, not since his fathers brief flirtation with the outdoors in his youth. His stroke was inefficient and sloppy, but he had little trouble moving through the water as Stefans soul began to pulse warm vigor into his muscles. The bracing temperature of the water was unpleasant; he considered it a sacrifice well-made to wash away some of the blood caking his face and clothing.

It took some time for him to muddle his way through the surf back to the harbor, keeping his spectors sight hovering above the waves to watch for guards. It was awkward - the first few times he tried to purposefully shift his view it fouled his swimming and left him coughing up cold brine. It turned out that he neednt have worried much, there were few men in a position to see the ocean from inside the harbor complex and none of them were looking outward with any frequency.

He found his way to a ladder bolted to one of the piers and hauled himself upward, his arms and legs feeling as fresh as if he had just rested. Michael muttered his apologies and thanks to Stefan, turned to look back at the harbor - then untied the dinghy and began to row away from the island.

Spark, Jeorg grunted. The old man got up and walked over to the tree. There is no more Spark. No more Jeorg. He laid one hand on the trunk, his fingers tracing slowly down the ridges of its bark. No tree, no garden. Just lines that you draw for yourself.

The darkness within the tree shifted, and Michael shuddered. I know, he said. And I thought erasing those lines was what I needed to do, but - maybe some parts of me should stay hidden. Some boundaries need to exist.

Jeorg gave him an expressionless look. Could be, he said. Whatever you choose, some paths will close. He pressed his hand more firmly against the trunk and paused, tilting his head to the side. You sure?

Michael looked at the darkness for as long as he dared, then closed his eyes. No, he said. But I dont see any better choice.

A creaking noise emanated from the tree as new wood began to stretch over the opening. Michael watched it knit together into a scar along the trunk, a smooth expanse of deadwood that obscured the interior from view. There was still darkness within, but the oppressive force of its presence was subdued.

Michael let out a long breath and stood, dusting off his trousers. It felt as if the air had freshened and the temperature mellowed, the ambiance of the garden returning to something more pleasant. He turned to smile at Jeorg.

Thank you, Michael said. The smile faded a bit from his face. Will it be enough?

Jeorg grunted, straightening up. His hand stayed oddly motionless against the tree, as if it had been wedded to the bark. What do you think?

Michael looked at the tree for a long moment and said nothing.

He woke before morning had truly come, the ghostly light of the sun tinting the horizon. Salt crystals glittered from his clothing and dusted from his skin as he pulled the oars into the water and oriented the boat to the west once more.

Through the morning, Michael rowed. The sun was not overly hot, but the lack of water and constant exertion soon had him feeling lightheaded. His heart was beating faster than it should, he was certain. It struck Michael that he might very well die in the crossing, having underestimated the range and time involved.

There was nothing to do about it but row. Stefans soul was enough to spare him the feeling of exhaustion, at least. Michael had heard stories of runners and couriers endowed with a durens soul that had crossed countries without stopping for sleep or rest - but half of those stories ended with the durens in question dying at the end.

Then again, half were said to have lived. He tried to focus on other things as the heat of the day built. Moving his sight proved to be an entertaining diversion for some time; he found that he could shift it about three times the length of the boat in any direction he pleased. In a moment of whimsy he plunged his vision underwater and watched a few little fish swim along in the boats shadow.

Morning stretched into afternoon. The sunlight dimmed from overhead as clouds swept across the sky a bit after mid-day; Michael looked up with giddy anticipation while the rainstorm gathered. There was chop in the water, but he did not care; the thought of fresh water was paramount.

When the rain did fall it did so gently, washing away the crusts of salt that had decorated Michaels skin and clothing, soothing the raw skin of his palms. The chill of the wind was welcome. He caught water in his hands and gulped it greedily, wrung water from his shirt into his mouth. At the storms height he spread his hands wide and let the rain fall into his open mouth, shouting wordless joy up at the clouds for his slaked thirst.

He resumed his journey as the rain tapered off, although he had some concern about his trajectory - amid the chop and the wind he was sure his aim had drifted. Michael had been navigating roughly north-west to this point, hoping to find the Mendiko lands at the mouth of the strait. His spectors sight could not pierce the clouds, however.

Michael rowed until nightfall once more. The hunger in his belly had not faded, but it had hardened into something less strident than the pangs he had felt the day before. Bouts of lightheadedness had become more frequent, although he felt much better overall after having had his fill of the rain.

Sleep came, fitful and dreamless. Michael woke before dawn once more and began to row. No rain came to relieve his thirst. The sky was cloudless and clear, the sun beating down punishingly over a glassy-calm sea. It made for easy, miserable travel, and though he had no way to truly gauge his efforts Michael thought he was making quite good time across the interminably vast sea.

That evening, as the sun was sinking low over the waves, Michael heard something odd. He frowned and twisted to look, but could see nothing but the sun. Some minutes later it happened again, and mere seconds after that. He turned again to look and saw clouds obscuring the lower horizon.

Michael grinned and rowed with renewed enthusiasm. He had worried that more rain would not come, and even if this was to be a thunderstorm he would gladly chance it over the prospect of dehydration. He risked glances over his shoulder once more and thought he saw the brief flash of lightning, then the peal of thunder-

But too quickly. He frowned and paused to send his sight up high over the boat, affording him a better view of the horizon. Once again he marveled at the advantages of a spectors soul - though he stared into the setting sun, there was no pain or fear of injury from the act. His vision sharpened on the haze, and on a few odd objects at its base.

Light and smoke blossomed from the side, followed seconds later by a booming report. Further off, at the limit of his vision, a smaller pinpoint of light bloomed with fiery warmth. For a bare second the scale of it swam in Michaels mind, and then it clicked.

Warships, shelling the coast.

The elation at finally having sighted land was tempered by the looming bulk of the ships. He could make out some of the details now that he knew what they were - the smokestacks and plumes from their boilers, the squat protrusion of the gun batteries. Further inspection eluded him, however - the ships had been painted in a wild chaos of contrasting lines and angles that rendered their shapes hard to discern.

He paused to consider his situation. Rowing through the battle was obviously a bad idea, and that there was a battle at all meant that he had come in south of his planned route - somewhere along the Daressan coast. He could not tell from this distance whether the ships were Safid or Ardan, which would have given a further clue as to his position.

Michael turned the boat to the north and began to row at a diagonal to the shore, ensuring that his course took him nowhere near the fracas thundering away in the distance. Regardless of the allegiance of the boats, he was sure they would not look kindly on an unknown sailor intruding into their waters.

The shelling had dropped into a regular rhythm, he noticed. Not a fight, but a bombardment of something on the shore. The waning daylight was too poor to permit much detail at this distance, the coastline still a barely-visible shadow on the far horizon.

Night fell and the guns continued unabated. Their booming regularity seemed to Michael like a great heartbeat tolling over the sea. Then, at once, it stopped. Michael frowned and paused in his rowing, and in the silence he heard another faint noise - an angry sort of humming. He peered to the utmost limits of his sight at the ships, but it was too dark to see much.

A blossom of fire appeared amid one of the ships, then another. In the light from the explosion he saw the dot of an aircraft - a biplane, banking low over the ship. Another followed, then a group. Scattered explosions from the bombings rippled through the fleet, chased by the faintest chatter of small-caliber weapons.

The ships were not defenseless against the assault. Aircraft straying too close to the ships were sent tumbling down in pieces, their wings falling away as scalptors from aboard cut at them. Michael thought of the keen edge of his fathers soul and shuddered; the light metal of the aircraft was no match for that sort of power.

What eventually drove the assault away, however, was a searing beam of light that sprang forth from the citadel of the largest ship. The naval forces had a lucigens of rare talent, Michael realized - the light speared through one aircraft, then a second before the remainder of the squadron disappeared into nebulous Ember-clouds of darkness and fled.

Michael was left transfixed as the fires on the ships dwindled and the guns resumed their assault. The fight had been brief and spectacular, a frenzied clash of weapons and souls that had - well. That had undoubtedly left many dead. He felt a pang of guilt at his excitement.

But despite such death he had not been affected. Was it that he had not reflected on the death as it occurred, or was it the distance involved? He pondered for a moment before concluding that it was not a question he ever wanted to answer. In the deepening night, to the cadence of pounding guns, Michael set the bow of the ship towards the distant coast and continued on.