The Soul will be discovered in two parts: one at the head, one at the heart. It is as yet unknown to me which parts are responsible for what. Perhaps one is thought and the other, feeling; perhaps one is good, and the other, the Devil’s advocate. Perhaps they are of the same function, though consisting of two molecules, a positive and a negative, making up ‘ectonite’ or the Soul atom (Linden and Linden et al, 3078). Perhaps we shall never know. Only the Dead know everything. Doubtless there are reasons why they cannot reveal any of it to us—
“Dad? What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to write my visions, Flara. This man is here to help me transcribe.”
“What’s transcribe?”
“He’s writing my words down for me.”
“Oh… But why can’t you write it?”
“You know how it is with Far-Seeing. I can’t concentrate on the details and colours of the future while concentrating on what is happening in the present. It would end up sounding disjointed.”
“Sorry. I’ll be quiet…”
Fletch wrapped a wiry arm around his daughter’s sapling waist and pulled her as close as the roughly-carved, wooden arm of his chair would allow.
“You know that’s not what I meant. You can ask me any question that walks into your head. Why don’t you go and tell the dronespook to get the kitchen hearth lit and prepare us some tea? I dare say he’s bored.”
He watched her long after her bright hair whipped past the door-frame into the cottage’s back room, then let his attention settle on me.
“I hope it’s no trouble—”
“None at all,” I said with an approachable face. “Please continue.”
The first Soul nodule comes to fruition in the ribcage, underneath the centre of the breast but neither as low as the hiatus of the stomach. It grows within the physical embryo in the womb, undetected and dormant, until the near presence of the encroaching secondary nodule (Berge, 2089).
The secondary nodule is made by ‘the angels,’ or bene particles. These particles are affected by human attention. When watched, their behaviour slows down and causes such previously unexplained phenomena as Sod’s Law and technological malfunctions, made worse by excitable emotions, e.g. frustration. (As will be found by David Johnson and Robinson Joel, 3050).
I couldn’t help a laugh escaping.
“What’s funny?”
“Oh, nothing. I was thinking how much that applies to my life. The amount of times this contraption has decided to do something strange…”
I tapped my fingers on the machine resting on my lap, almost praying that it couldn’t hear me talking about it to a complete stranger. Heat flowed underneath its keys and levers as I entered Fletch’s words in shorthand-code, the gears within unravelling what I typed and rearranging it into an interview which I hoped would be saved somewhere within its mysterious bowels, comprehensible and intact. Flara rejoined us in the front room, and the warmth under my hands increased as she passed by.
“Does she, ah… go to school?” I ventured.
“I thought we agreed that this chapbook would focus only on me and my work?” Fletch raised a silver eyebrow.
“My apologies—”
“No, of course she doesn’t.” Fletch crossed one bony ankle over his knee and picked at imaginary threads on his linen trousers. “Her health is too fragile.”
“He’d be lonely without me,” Flara said. “That’s what he means. I don’t really want to go to school, anyway.” She wrinkled her nose.
I let my eyes drift around the semi-circular room, trying not to appear ill at ease, taking in the carcasses of rabbits and hares dangling from the rafters by their hind legs close to the fire, the rough furniture, and the many bottles of herbs, pickles, and jams glistening dully in the firelight. I was steeling myself for the dronespook’s entrance. I hadn’t seen one before.
“He won’t let himself be seen by someone outside of the family,” Fletch said, reading my mind. “Are you agreeable to Flara staying in the room?”
“Absolutely. May I ask that she doesn’t speak while I’m keying in your words? The extra sound tends to confuse the machine.”
“Understood. Do you understand that, child?”
“Yes.” Flara settled herself on Fletch’s knee and laid her head on his shoulder. Not for the first time, I noticed how tired she looked, a kind of perpetual greyness lurking under her eyes and tingeing her skin, like smog on a hot day.
“Do carry on, sir.”
To read the rest of Fletch’s story, “My Thoughts on Eternity,” sign up to the email list using the box at the bottom of the page. You will also get a free ebook copy of the fantasy novella “Damian’s Dream” and other interesting bits and pieces once a month.
Nightwalks 