4

CHAPTER 4

 We headed onto Val Corner, a brilliant piece of architecture and probably the only place in Seren worth looking at. The Corner was an ‘L’ shaped building comprising of an overhanging ledge held up by spiralled columns, the ledge created a tunnel like pathway the length of the building which lasted for a good sixty meters in both direction, the tunnel had rib affect on the ceiling, giving added height. I stood and looked at the old building; the stain glass windows had pictures of past saints in their pointed arches. The Corner was tall as well as wide, with those pointed roofs I had seen on Don’s house, only on a much larger scale, the ledges of the roofs had sculptures of little babies with wings flying from open mouths of ghouls. This image confuses people at first sight, but after careful inspection, they see that the sculptures have other meanings other than a ghoul eating a baby. Others think they mean life being born from death, escaping death, or a soul entering the light after their body was killed. The sight of them still made me feel rather queasy.

 This famous building was the home of Prospect. I approached the double oak doors under the ledge; they were decorated with intricate carvings of the winged babies and ghouls seen on the rooftop. I slammed the brass knocker against the old wood three times and waited for a response.

 A boy opened the door, no older than my Mouse. He had a dark complexion, black hair in tight curls with a skull cap. He opened the door and smiled.

 “Mr. Cal, nice to see you, sir.” I always liked the boy, though I never did learn his name. He was what we call a Murmur, a lower level Preacher.

 “Thank you,” I stepped in, the marble floor felt slippery under my footing. The ceiling was high and ribbed just as the tunnel outside. The hall was extremely impressive, even to me and I’ve visited this building several times before. The great stone walls were lined with statues, of saints whose souls dwell in the Netherworld and have done for some time. Their teachings of this world tell us it is a peaceful resting place, where whole souls go when their bodies can no longer function. People say the Netherworld is the sky, when the sun sets, souls shine bright in the guise of stars, which is why stars are painted on the ceiling of the magnificent building. I was a cynic; I thought the Netherworld and souls were stories passed down through time to teach morals and values to people. There was no proof, no concrete evidence of such things.

 “Ah, Cal, Lowri,” Prospect’s booming voice echoed throughout the giant ribcage of the hall. He came striding up the centre aisle, benches sat in rows at his side.

 “Prospect.” I held out a hand.

 George Samuels, also goes by the alias of Prospect took it in a firm grasp and shook it. Prospect was neither tall nor short, neither fat nor skinny, he lived well but didn’t over do anything. He wore black robes with a white silk scarf hung neatly over his shoulders. His teeth seemed whiter against his dark skin. His cheekbones were high and if I looked hard enough, I would find freckles under his dark skin in the sun light; a beaded beard grew from his dimpled chin, flecked with the odd grey hair. His bald head was covered by his white, ritualistic skull cap. He bowed low as he greeted Lowri. “What can I do for you, my friends?”

 “We could do with a chair for one, and a drink to accompany it.” I smiled; I always liked Prospect despite his constant preaching about my soul. I enjoyed his relaxed manner; it eased the tension in mine.

 Prospect smiled back, “come with me.”

 We were led into a cosy room just to the right of the main hall, not that far from the main entrance. The extravagance of the Corner was not lost on me, I walked, open mouthed still despite my many visits.

 The room I was led into was small with a high ceiling. Dark wooden beams stretched from wall to wall, a blazing fire burned in its hearth with two paintings hung on the walls, one of a man helping people climb a mountain; he was kneeling and tugging their hands in an attempt to help them reach the pinnacle. The other was a picture of stars, all aligned to make the shape of a woman, this of course referred to the Netherworld.

 “Have a seat.” Prospect indicated to one of the four wing backed chairs.

 I sat, my shoulders sank in relaxation and an instant urge to close my eyes overcame me.

 Lowri took a seat next to me.

 “Mind if I?” Prospect lit a cigar, the smoke billowed from the red tip as he sucked on the fat end.

 “Mind if I?” I asked pulling out my own pipe.

 Prospect nodded as if to say, ‘go ahead’. “A glass of scotch for me, port for the gentleman,” indicating to me, “and bourbon for the lady.” Prospect ordered from his Murmur. “So, why is it you have come to see me?”

 “Is our agreement still in order?” By this I meant, ‘are we understood that no information be leaked from this room?’

 “Oh, I see.” He waited for a moment until his Murmur finished pouring the drinks, served them and left.

“Go on.”

 I took out the cylinder and felt the weight in my hand, the energy from it made me want to keep it, to play with it, to roll it over my fingers. Ignoring my instincts I threw it over to the Preacher who caught it with ease.

 Our smoke began to fill the air, the fumes entwined with each other, both from my pipe and Prospect’s cigar. The cigar’s smell was smooth, acidic and musty; it and the pipe brought back memories of my father, sitting out on the rooftop of our home. Him, chewing on the end of his cigar and blowing smoke rings, me, puffing the tobacco in my pipe. We weren’t allowed to smoke inside, Mother wouldn’t allow it, the staining on the walls, the smell in the fabrics, she couldn’t handle us puffing away and sharing philosophies. So we would sit and stare and the stars, talking about everything, the future, the past, the way of the world both Royal and Street. After his time in the army, my father became a Dealer, import-export. My father and Prospect were in business together. I missed those nights shrouded in smoke. I missed my father.

 I snapped back to reality with the sound of Prospect’s deep voice.

 “Interesting,” he said as he inspected the symbol.

 “What does it mean?” Lowri asked before taking a drink from her bourbon whiskey, no reaction, no flinch, with the first swig I would’ve been gasping for water.

 “The symbol? I don’t know. The symbol of a circle has long been linked with the meaning of a soul. However, this one has lines crossing through it, so that makes me uncertain. Where, may I ask, did you find it?”

 “I found it on a Resource.”

 “Marv? I heard you were looking for him.” Prospect looked up from the cylinder when he said this, his dark eyes looked amused.

 “I found him.”

 “Thought you would. As I’ve said, the circle usually means ‘soul’, the soul is a very delicate entity. It needs nurture, feeding. Some say that if you do not look after your soul it can tear. When I look at this symbol I see not a circle with crossing lines, I see a divided circle into quarters, or, a broken soul.”

 “Broken? Can that really happen?” Lowri asked. I knew she believed in this sort of thing.

 “There have been many teachings about this happening from passed saints and preachers. You should read once in a while, it may do both your souls some good.”

 “Thanks for the advice,” I said raising an eyebrow; I had heard that speech before, “keep going.”

 “The teachings go that a torn soul cannot enter the Netherworld, ‘And so, a soul that is torn can never rest amongst the stars’.” He recited as if reading it from a book, “as stated by Grace,” pointing to the painting on the wall of the woman outlined by stars.

 “How does a soul break?” Lowri appeared to be disgusted by the thought of it.

 “Through doing something that the soul can’t handle.”

 “Like, murder?” Lowri seemed to be buying into this more and more, I sat back and let Prospect and Lowri find their answers.

 “There are those who enjoy murder and do not regret it, the same goes for torture, drugs, human trafficking and so on. The soul must not enjoy what it endures in order for it to tear.”

 “Hang on; a soul can enjoy these things?”

 “A soul is what the person is; a soul makes someone who they are.”

 “Can you fix it?”

 “There is nothing in writing about doing such a thing. Asking forgiveness is often seen as making emends, however there is no proof.”

 “There’s no proof for any of this.” I couldn’t help myself, I had muttered it under my breath but the two heard and looked at me, annoyance at my narrow mindedness.

 After I had mumbled an apology, there was a pause between the two, Prospect continued to puff away at his pipe and play with the cylinder.

 “And a torn soul can never enter the Netherworld?” Lowri pressed.

 Prospect shook his head, the beads on his beard knocked together as he did so. “They say that a man cracked it, made it to the other side. Maybe his name might spark some answers about this.” He lifted the cylinder up along with his suggestion.

I discarded the idea that someone could enter the world of souls and come back to the living, it seemed preposterous.

 “Where can we find more about this man?”

 “I don’t know you’d need access to information long forgotten. I don’t know of such a place.”

 “I do.” I had added wood to their fire. “The palace has a library.”

 “How do you know that? And how are we going to get into the Royal library?” Lowri asked.

 I rolled my eyes, “we’re not, Lowri.” The last thing I needed was another lead to chase up on; they’re starting to stack up against me. I could feel the stress building in my shoulders already, the tiredness back in my eyes. My mind was still set on it being a criminal seal, a means of communication for others, nothing more, just a brand for some gang who wanted to make a name for themselves. Marv must have had dealings with the owner of this cylinder, that’s all I wanted to know so I can relay the information back to Don and end the rumours of his weakness.

 “Cal, you wanted to find out about this cylinder. What about the Shadows?”

 “Shadows?” Prospect leant forward, intrigued.

 “At Little Rich’s, we were ambushed by Shadows.” I said.

 “What did they look like?”

 “Like, Shadows.” I gulped my port; it was sweet and rich and warmed my chest, a common interest I had with Don, we both liked port.

 “Yes, thank you, anything else?” Prospect said dryly.

 “They were transparent, with eyes, and I heard them breathing.”

 “And behind them the symbol was scratched onto the wall.” Lowri added.

 “This symbol? It could be them, the broken souls. They could be broken, doomed to walk the earth as spirits forever.”

 “We’re still assuming that all of this is real.” I said and received a raised eyebrow from my religious friend.

 “Cal, how much more persuading do you need? The Shadows should have been enough, and what about the cylinder, I can feel its energy too.” Lowri was getting annoyed with my ignorance.

 “I can also,” Prospect spoke. I looked at Prospect, his dark eyes peering at me through the smoke; they were like endless pits of knowledge.

 I took a gulp of my drink, “it burned when the Shadows were around. How?”

 Prospect sat back and thought for a moment, he held up the symbol to his eyes. Several seconds passed until he leant forward and spoke again. “Cal, a soul is pure energy. It’s what gives us life. Energy can be converted into almost anything, in this case, heat. I think what you have in this,” he held up the small metal tube between his fingers, “is a soul.”

 “A soul?” Lowri couldn’t help herself.

 “It’s contained, but a soul nonetheless.” Prospect tossed it over to me.

 I felt the energy at once, the ease in which rolled through my fingers it was like it wanted to be played with. I remembered how hot it had become, how much it burned through my pocket and into my thigh. The evidence seemed to stack against my cynicism; the Shadows, the energy from the cylinder, the symbol. All of it seemed to point to the Netherworld being real.

 No. I still needed proof.

 “Cal, go to the library in the palace, find something on souls.”

 Indication to leave. We stood; Lowri downed the rest of her bourbon.

 “There’s a man who may be able to help you, his name is Tyrone, he was once a food handler for Julian himself until he was caught stealing. He will know the layout of the palace if you need a guide. He was a friend of your father and me.”

 “Was? How will he respond to your name?” I asked a question I regularly needed to ask when tracing someone, you never know how a person is going to react to a name.

 “...Surprised,” a smile from the exotic art dealer. “And if I was you, I would keep this safe,” he pointed to the cylinder, “don’t carry it around. You never know who might be looking for such a thing.” He put a hand on my shoulder and muttered some prayer in a foreign language. “Good luck.”

 With a goodbye from the Murmur, Lowri and I were out on the street.

Reviews

[Morrigan Nicole]

This just keeps getting better and better! Souls, Netherworld, the crazy religious people.... It is all exactly to my taste!
I had been wondering about those shadows as well. If I were Cal I would believe Prospect, it all seems to come together nicely. What choice does he have than to believe him? Prospects lead is better than Cals, or at least more than what he has. I'd go off the assumption that the golden tube contained a soul, and in this case, probably not a very happy one.
Wonder who it could be?
All of the evidence points to Prospects belief, better that than nothing at all.
Cannot wait to see where this story is going! You still have this readers attention!

[Coyote Poetry]

I'm enjoying the story. I like the characters and the situations. I like the symbols being used in the story. Give the story a feel of myth and mystery. I like the conversation and description of smoking a good cigar and the house. Thank you for the excellent story.
Coyote