Chương 9: Oikeiôsis, Anepikrita

Per the last round of reporting, the policy workgroup has recommended that the experiments with sub-subunit doctrine be widened to include the entirety of our continental forces. The model of one ensouled as the core of a mundane "fire-team" has been an unqualified success. While elite units composed entirely of ensouled have been undeniably effective, soul attrition reduces them to limited functionality within the first half-year of operation.

The effect of trauma-induced emotional bonds on soul affinity has been well-documented and is reproduced easily in a controlled setting; the new data are the first to experimentally validate a theory that has until now only had anecdotal support - that the effects extend to active use of the soul and not just its postmortem disposition.

The reorganization will be disruptive in many units, but an emergency deployment of Institute personnel has been authorized to perform wide-scale emotional state management for infantry units while simultaneously inducing the required emotional bonds for unit cohesion and soul retention; a tentative deployment plan is outlined in the tables below. - Institute Circular #3350, 32 Seed 693.

"I don't understand," Michael grunted, heaving at the travois they had made for the hog's carcass.

"My soul requires death in order to act? What kind of a condition is that?" Jeorg laughed at him from ahead.

"Is it strange?" he asked.

"You said you were near death, when it came to you. That you thought of death. Embraced it." One branch of the travois snagged on a root, drawing Michael up short. He turned to glare at it.

"I suppose, when you put it like that," he said, planting his feet and hauling against it. It came free only to lodge against another root seconds later. Michael growled in annoyance and dropped his load, stalking off a few paces to fume. For a while the two men stood idle while Michael's thoughts roiled and surged. Jeorg was right - the revelation that his soul was connected to death shouldn't have been particularly surprising. That knowledge did little to settle his stomach or his mood, however.

Eventually, Jeorg sighed and looked up at him.

"You're worried," he said.

"Still think that souls can be evil. That yours might be."

"How can it not be?" Michael asked.

"It's death, Jeorg." Jeorg grunted.

"Were we evil, then, to kill the hog? Are butchers evil? Soldiers? Even healers kill, at times." He took out his pipe but did not light it, holding it ready in his hand.

"Death is a property of life. Of transience. Is life evil because it fails to continue?" The question struck Michael with unexpected force, and he turned to look at Jeorg.

"It might be," he said.

"It seems needlessly cruel, that we all arrive at that void one way or another."

"True," Jeorg admitted.

"But fire burns. Water drowns. Storms break and ravage, cold freezes. This is just their nature, and not cruelty. They would not be what they are, otherwise. Life may need to end, to be life at all." He gestured to the forest in front of them.

"Things die to become soil. The soil brings new life. Would be a sad, empty forest if only the first trees lived. Nothing left for new growth. Just rock, dust. Old, lonely trees." Michael's mouth twisted.

"I'll allow that it's a complex issue," he said.

"I only wish that I could ignore it like everyone else. I don't want my life to be filled with death."

"Too early to say," Jeorg replied.

"Don't worry until you know more, find what your choices are. Explore your soul, learn from it. Some souls take years to understand. Some take lifetimes, and none give you more than one of those." He smiled and clapped Michael on the shoulder, then walked back to the track they had been following through the forest.

"Enough challenge for today," he said, stretching his back, then kneeling down to place his fingertips gently on the ground.

"We've earned a little rest. I'll clear a track to see us back." Michael caught a pulse of Jeorg's soul, stronger than he had ever felt it before. Multilayered images of the forest danced and shimmered over each other, blurring into a single cohesive whole - with an open trail that led in the direction of Jeorg's home.

It was the largest, most overt thing Michael had ever seen Jeorg do with his soul, and for a moment he simply stared at the cleared trail - then he turned to glare at the other man, his eyes narrowing in accusation.

"You've been watching me drag this damn pig over every root and bush in the forest for nearly an hour now," he said.

"You could have done this from the start." Jeorg's eyes twinkled.

"Life is indeed cruel." Michael looked at the path again. It stretched off into the distance, curving to follow a shallow rise until low branches hid it from view. He had no notion of how far it stretched - all the way back to the house, for all that he knew. In the back of his mind he had known that Jeorg was an uncommonly gifted example of an augmens. Most were good for little more than mild assistance to crops, with the occasional foray into decorative hedges.

The elite that could expedite cross-breeding or save an orchard decimated by frost were the rarest of an already-rare specialization. But as Michael looked at the trail, his irritation at Jeorg's teasing faded into a perturbed sort of awe. The more he considered it, the more he was certain that no more than a handful of men in the world could have shaped a path with such ease. He stepped forward, pulling the travois along the flattened ground, and for a while he just walked.

Birdsong and the drone of insects played counterpoint to the low melody of the wind through the trees, but Michael did not hear it. His disquiet grew with every step, until at last he turned his head to look at Jeorg. The old man looked back, and said nothing. His eyes had exchanged their merry light for a grimly expectant look. Waiting for a question, Michael realized, and not yet certain which one it would be. Michael had several that came to mind; Jeorg was still largely a mystery to him.

When their conversation had focused on topics outside of his gardens, it had been entirely about Michael - his past, and his problems. But still, Michael hesitated. There was an unexpected feeling of exposure in Jeorg's eyes, even of vulnerability. People did not keep secrets without a reason; it was more than simple lack of need that had led the old man to hide the scale of his power from Michael.

Its open use was an act of trust, and using the opportunity simply to satisfy his curiosity might ensure that such a thing never happened again. So Michael smiled at Jeorg, turned, and continued toward home. A few days passed after their hunt, during which Michael learned more than he cared to about the process of butchery and curing. Jeorg proved to be a font of information both culinary and biological, detailing the precise uses of each organ and muscle to its former and current owners.

But despite the bounty of meat curing in the smokehouse, Jeorg looked up over his supper and informed Michael that tomorrow he would be traveling to the nearby village to visit the butcher.

"Surely we have enough sausage," Michael laughed.

"Or do you mean to sell some of it?" Jeorg's face remained serious.

"Our purpose won't be the meat," he said. He gave a significant nod to the rifle, which now hung mounted on the wall.

"Oh," Michael said. He took a sip of wine, wetting his suddenly-dry mouth and giving him a few seconds to process the implications of Jeorg's offer. The long days of preparation and cookery had served as a welcome distraction from the insight into his soul, but distraction was not his purpose here. His soul required death, and Jeorg meant to provide it. Finally, he looked back across the table at his host.

"What will I be doing?" he asked.

"Only watching," Jeorg said.

"Observing. Listening to what your soul tells you." Michael looked to the side, uneasy.

"I'm not sure it's saying anything at all. When I killed the hog, there was only this - pain, like straining a muscle. I didn't have any control over it. I'm not sure how to listen to my soul." Jeorg leaned back and took a draw on his pipe.

"Mentioned before that souls are personal," he said.

"Individual. So it'll be different for you than me." He pursed his lips, then shook his head.

"Some things might be similar. A starting point." It was several more seconds before he continued, filled only with the crackling of the fire and the low sounds of the evening forest outside. Michael waited, and slowly drank his wine. Finally, Jeorg's eyes narrowed.

"Have you seen my soul?" he asked. Michael nodded.

"Flashes," he said.

"Once or twice. It looks like - mirrors, or shards of glass. A lot of little images, each different." Surprise flickered into Jeorg's eyes, gone so quickly that Michael half-wondered if it had been a trick of the light.

"Interesting," he said.

"Not wrong. Takes years of practice to see souls clearly."

"Another thing to study," Michael said ruefully. Jeorg chuckled.

"You misunderstand," he said.

"You've had years of practice. Learned to watch for souls. A soul. Most people don't have motivation to start so young." A little thread of ice coiled up in Michael's stomach as he understood. He chased it away with a gulp of wine.

"Oh," he said.

"I never really thought of it like that. It's not common, being able to see souls?"

"Not at your age," Jeorg grunted.

"Doesn't take talent, just dedication, practice." He gave a lopsided smile, shaking his head.

"So yes - it's rare. Useful."

"I'll have to thank my father," Michael said, the words coming with a bit too much forced cheer. He looked to the fire for a moment.

"Can you see souls? My soul?"

"I can see," Jeorg said.

"Not yours, though. Still not - solid, not fixed." He waggled his fingers, his lips curving into a frown Michael had learned to associate with carefully-considered speech.

"Souls let you see a glimpse of reality," he said.

"But - they also see through you. The living model of the world your mind creates." He tapped a finger against the side of his head.

"You build your own reality, every moment. Your soul looks to that model to understand - the world, but also itself. Its form is what you give it."

"And I don't understand it well enough yet?" Michael asked. Jeorg nodded and puffed on his pipe.

"It acts only through you, what your mind sees it to be. Easier for something less abstract. Form and Light just need a target. The rest need guidance on how to act, not just where. They need to know how they're meant to exist. In understanding your soul your mind reconciles it with the world you know. It forms a path that the soul can follow, to make itself felt." Michael frowned.

"That seems too simple," he protested.

"You're saying I just have to find out what my soul does and then, what - imagine it working? It can't be that easy." Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

"Is it?" Jeorg asked. He gave a knowing smile and leaned back.

"Thoughts are slippery things. Less solid than you believe. When you think of an apple, what do you see?"

"It's an apple," Michael said.

"A fruit. Reddish, sometimes yellow. White flesh, tastes sweet." Jeorg rocked forward in his chair, his smile spreading into a full, toothy grin. Michael had the distinct sense that his answer had been expected.

"Not wrong, but not enough," Jeorg said.

"You see the parts that are important to you, but not the parts important to the apple." He held his hand up, cupping it as if holding an invisible fruit.

"Feel its weight. The water in the flesh. Channels for it to flow, leading back to the stem. The part that was once a flower, and the promise of what might be a new tree held in each seed." His voice took on a deep rhythm, slow and smooth, like it was the only sound in the world.

"The taste of it," Jeorg said.

"The smell, the texture. The feeling of the flesh cleaving against your teeth. The snap of the skin. The life still pulsing in it, waiting for its chance to grow. Every part joined to a whole." Michael felt as though he could almost see the apple in Jeorg's hand, weighing it down. Even the smell of it seemed to tickle his nose - but then the old man snatched his hand back. The spell broke.

Beyond the window a bird trilled its evening song - Michael was surprised to see the deep purple twilight outside, the stars winking from their perch. Had they been sitting that long? He looked back to Jeorg, still smiling at him past his upraised hand.

"I think I take your point," he said.

"But how could a person keep all of that in their head at once? It seems impossible even with an apple, and you're telling me I have to understand death that deeply?"

"Not impossible," Jeorg said.

"Difficult, yes. There are tricks to focus the mind - repetition, practice. Pictures, sometimes, or songs. Little rhymes. Things that add structure to your thoughts, help guide them to the right shape."

"I don't think I'll feel like singing at the butcher's," Michael said.

"Intimate knowledge of death just doesn't seem that pleasant." Jeorg shrugged.

"Right now you don't know it at all. Be open to surprise, to change. Easy to miss a truth you don't want to see. Even easier to miss one you think you already know."

"Fine, Jeorg," Michael sighed.

"Everything I know is wrong. Up is down, cold is hot. Death is lovely. I'm sure I won't spend all night sitting up having horrid thoughts about dying pigs."

"Truths are odd things," Jeorg chuckled.

"They seem to be good or evil, great or horrible in our minds. But you rule your mind. You learned that on the first day you arrived - that the mind can change itself, to help itself."

"That's hardly the same," Michael protested.

"It's easy enough to convince myself to be content while stuck in an orchard. Happiness is a nebulous sort of thing, death is rather more concrete. You can't think yourself free from it, or there would be fewer dead men."

"But you're more than just a man," Jeorg said, lowering his hand to the table.

"You have a soul, which looks to your mind to understand certain truths. Free your mind." He spread his fingers to reveal a small, perfectly-ripe apple, which he placed on the table.

"Your soul will follow." Michael stared at the apple, then reached out to touch it. He was jarred from his rapt observation by the sound of Jeorg's door closing - the old man had escaped with his usual silent alacrity while Michael was engrossed. He took a bite. It was delicious, just as Jeorg had described it. They went to the butcher the next day, early in the morning before the sun's heat could soak through the forest canopy.

The path back to the road seemed much wider now that he was traveling it on foot, and the little details jumped out at him - how the roots all shied back from the main trail, how every branch and leaf kept to the side. It was clear when they left Jeorg's forest - the silent agreement between forest and path vanished, and the road became a rough scar through the wood. It was a surprisingly short walk to the village; a small sign at the roadside welcomed them to Varneck.

The main street ran parallel to a bluff that overlooked the bay, and as they came within sight of the sparkling water Michael caught its brackish scent on the wind. He hadn't thought of Calmharbor in weeks, but the smell dragged him back through its narrow streets and steep walls - only for a moment. Jeorg paused to look at him.

"All right?" Jeorg grunted. Michael shook his head.

"Fine," he said.

"Just odd. Haven't been outside the woods for a while." Jeorg snorted.

"Young," he said.

"Been here less than a year."

"We can't all be as venerable," Michael retorted, following him down the street. It was wide and well-kept - a pretty town, and though the houses were small they were brick and clean plaster.

"So you don't come here often?"

"No need," Jeorg said.

"I grow most things, hunt what I can't grow. Seldom need other things - cloth, bullets." He scratched his head.

"A butcher." Michael nodded.

"So we don't have to worry about…?"

"People looking?" Jeorg shook his head and gestured to a nearby shop window.

"Who will they see?" Frowning, Michael looked at the window - and paused. He had always had a mirror in his bedroom, for dressing. It had ceased to be important when he moved to Jeorg's land, and he hadn't really missed the sight of his reflection. There was little trace of Michael Baumgart in the man who stared back. Shaggy hair with a short scruff of a beard, tanned skin with lean muscle underneath. It was as good a disguise as any he could have conceived.

"Huh," he said.

"Kind of alarming, I would have avoided me." Jeorg laughed and kept on walking.

"Nothing stays the same," he said.

"Always changing. Better, usually, but not always. Best to see the change and move with intent." He smiled faintly, looking off into the distance.

"Improve relentlessly, or risk the world changing you instead."

"I feel like that wasn't a compliment," Michael observed, raising an eyebrow. Jeorg grinned and beckoned him forward. The butcher's shop was just off of the high street, an immaculately-clean building faced with brick and a heavy wooden door. It looked deserted, but when Jeorg knocked lightly on the door it opened to reveal a portly, ruddy-faced man in a stained apron.

"Jeorg," he said, smiling from under a thick black mustache and reaching out to shake his hand.

"Good to see you." His gaze shifted to Michael, and the smile took on a wry touch.

"Another stray?"

"Same as ever," Jeorg said.

"Any new faces in town?" The butcher's smile faded.

"Why don't you come inside," he said, stepping back to clear the doorway. Michael and Jeorg followed him in.

"There were some men who came asking about any strangers that had passed by. Nobody had seen anything, of course, and they went on their way. End of Tempest, that was."

"Hngh," Jeorg grunted.

"Nothing since?" The butcher shook his head.

"Same as ever," he said. There was a pause, then he turned and extended his hand to Michael.

"Leon Metzger. Don't always get to meet Jeorg's kids, but I usually end up feeding them." Michael returned the handshake.

"Michael-" Jeorg's brow creased, and Michael's speech caught in his throat. Leon gave him another wry smile.

"Don't worry," he said.

"I know how it is." He released Michael's hand and looked back to Jeorg.

"What brings you two to town? Is this one another Fix?"

"No," Jeorg said, grim-faced.

"He needs to see death." Leon's smile faltered.

"Ah," he said.

"I see." He turned to look towards the back of the shop, his eyes skipping hurriedly past where Michael stood.

"I have a lamb out back. Was going to do it tomorrow, but as you're here-" He shook his head.

"Sure. Follow me."

"Thank you, Leon," Jeorg said. He followed the butcher to the back of the shop, then out into a small fenced area where a lamb was tied, lazily chewing some stray grass. It looked up as the men entered, its eyes tracking Leon while he arranged a crossbar and bucket. Leon nodded at Jeorg.

"I'm ready. Can one of you hold it?"

"He will," Jeorg said, looking to Michael. Leon untied the lamb's lead. It paced agitatedly, and bleated in panic when the butcher grabbed it. The hollow ache gnawed at Michael's ribs as Leon carried the struggling lamb to the bucket. At Leon's direction, Michael knelt and wrapped his arms around the lamb, holding it steady. It was warm. The smell of it filled his nose, mixed with an acid note of fear.

Its muscles twisted against his grip, and the ache in his chest moved in time with it - left, right, futilely struggling to break free. But the butcher did not hesitate as Michael had with the hog. The knife flashed thin and silver in the corner of his eye. The bleats stopped abruptly, the lamb's muscles stiffening in shock and pain. The sound of liquid spattering on the bottom of the bucket filled the silence. The metallic scent of the blood flooded into him, and for a moment he was elsewhere - younger.

Listening to blood drip from soaked bedsheets onto the wood floor, filling the gouges in the boards with sullen red. A heartbeat later the pain spiked in his chest, hauling him back to the yard and the lamb. Hollowness writhed and clawed within him, as if desperate to be free. The lamb twitched weakly in Michael's arms, its strength seeming to wane even as the ache grew, built - and then slipped away, just as the lamb did. Michael let out a low, shuddering breath.

He felt as though he was trying to grasp something malleable and slippery, evasive as a fish in a pond. The resonance within him had departed with no trace. Just him, sweating and pale, holding a dead lamb. Leon took it from him and hung it from the crossbar by a leg as the blood dribbled out. The butcher exhaled, mopped the sweat from his brow, then looked to Jeorg.

"Well?" Leon asked. Jeorg looked at Michael's ashen face, then shook his head.

"Not sure," he said, taking a small coinpurse from his pocket and handing it to Leon.

"We may be back. Same day next week?" Leon turned as if to glance at Michael, but his eyes once again avoided a direct glance.

"Next week," he said.

"You let me know if you need anything else."

"I will, thank you," Jeorg said. He led an unresisting Michael through the shop and out into the street, and for a while the two walked wordlessly back toward the forest. It was only when they were back in Jeorg's woods that he turned to Michael, under the looming solemnity of the trees by the path. He did not speak - only stopped, and turned, and waited. Michael remained silent as well. Finally, he looked up to meet Jeorg's eyes.

"I don't want to do that again," he said.

"Not next week, not ever."

"All right," Jeorg said. He turned to walk away. Michael stepped forward.

"Wait," he said.

"Just like that?"

"If you feel that way now, and feel that way in a week - yes." Jeorg shrugged.

"But my advice? Gain distance. Time. Decide when you've had a chance to balance today against everything else."

"I don't know that I'll change my mind on this," Michael said.

"Perhaps," Jeorg said, a hard edge drifting into his voice.

"Just consider why you're here." Michael's eyes narrowed.

"You keep asking that," he said.

"I never have an answer that's good enough for you."

"I'm asking you what you want!" Jeorg shot back, the volume of his voice rising.

"Every time I ask, you talk about other people. What they did, what they want. Souls require a will to act - find your own!" He took a step toward Michael and stood glaring at him. There was an odd sense of solidity to the old man, as if he were somehow more real than the world around him - and then it faded, and he seemed to subside into himself once more. He shook his head.

"You don't have to tell me right now," he said.

"But whatever you choose, some paths will close. Be sure that you do what you want. Not me. Not your father. Not Sofia. You." He turned again to leave.

"One week. Think." A few steps later, he raised his head.

"And there's no point in being irritable," he said, to nothing in particular.

"You know I'm right." Then he walked back to the house, leaving Michael outside to think. In the early part of the evening, three days later, Michael sought Jeorg out. The house was empty, but his door was shut and Michael could smell pipe smoke from within. He walked up and knocked on the door.

"Come in," Jeorg said. Michael did. The house's other room was not that different from Michael's own in size - small, and made smaller still by a chest of drawers that he lacked. Small trinkets were scattered across the top - wood carvings, curious little boxes and a small figurine of a woman in Mendiko dress. There was also a window, which Jeorg had opened to let the heady, humid air take away some of the smoke. The old man sat looking up at the trees and sky through the opening - and waited.

"What happens if I never learn to use my soul?" Michael asked. Jeorg shrugged.

"You stay here," he said, still looking out the window.

"Or you leave. You find your way through life like everyone else, and hope none of the folks looking find their way to you."

"Will they?" Michael asked. There was a pause.

"Spark won't stop looking," Jeorg said, shaking his head.

"He's a driven man. Right or not, he thinks you hold answers he's hunted for years. He'll hunt for years to come." Michael tilted his head.

"You sound like you know him."

"I didn't," Jeorg grunted.

"But he will keep looking. And if he finds you - that's it. He'll have you."

"Even if I had my soul?" Michael asked. Jeorg turned away from the window to look at Michael.

"You'd probably still lose," he said.

"Spark is insidious. He inspires others, makes them feel good - makes them feel right. Dangerous. It would take a soul of uncommon strength to contest him or evade him." The old man's eyes narrowed.

"I can't see your soul," he said.

"But I can see other things. Your soul has a weight to it that most lack. It bends the paths around it, makes itself felt. It's - not something I've seen, before this." His gaze focused on Michael's face, then slid aside.

"I won't say you can best Spark. Can't see enough to say. You might have power enough to run, though. Find a life that never crosses his path."

"That seems like giving up," Michael said. Jeorg chuckled.

"It's not so bad," he said, raising an eyebrow and looking around.

"It's freedom. A fool's freedom, perhaps, but you already know all about that." Michael looked around the room, following Jeorg's gaze. The mementos scattered throughout the room stood out in sharp clarity from their humble surroundings - pieces of another life, now contained here. Pieces of a wider world fated never to leave this clearing. Until it was time to face the void again.

"I can't," Michael said, his voice a quiet rasp.

"I can't just hide and wait, either for Spark or for death. It all needs to mean something, or what's the point?" He clenched a fist.

"I have to think there's something out there that will make the time in between now and then worth living, and - I need to be free to follow that path if I find it." A slow smile spread across Jeorg's face.

"Now that," he said, "is a good answer." He took a draw on his pipe, then chuckled.

"Very good answer. But walking your own path takes strength. Strength you can't borrow." Michael nodded, slowly, feeling sweat on his palms.

"The butcher," he said.

"I'll go back." Jeorg's face grew solemn once more.

"If that's what you want," he said. His voice echoed oddly in the small room, and the last words struck with more weight than they should. The old question, one last time.

"It isn't what I want," Michael said.

"But I won't get anywhere if I spend the rest of my life with my head down, waiting." He met Jeorg's eyes, and saw the shifting reflections there condense into one face - his own.

"I want to know my soul."