Shadow of a Soul

(Warning: May be graphic.)

From my window, I catch the glimpse of a shadow, on his knees, crawling on the shore from his paddleboat. He inaudibly retches on the sand, gets on his feet, and stands in one place, not moving, the gentle wind moving his cloak in the air.

No, he is not a shadow, but merely a darkly cloaked

man. We have not had a living soul enter this town, not in a while. A while? A

long time, it seems. Long enough to be a fable; a myth of a story our

grandparents told us, from their grandparent’s time—a time long ago, a time not

even to be mentioned or remembered—an accident, a coincidence.

Even as I have already sprouted from the sapling of

youth, and even as I have already grown into adulthood and gained complete

maturity; I laugh, a laugh of unbelief and on the expense of one’s stupidity,

of one’s foolishness. I laugh as a schoolboy would laugh, a guffaw, a

snicker—at a clumsy child’s mistake. I am no foolish schoolboy, prone to errors

one day, and laughing at another’s the next day. I am a wise man. But I know

this stranger will not leave this town, on this lonely island, without

suffering the harsh penalty from Death. Death is the faithful ruler of this

island. Everything that escapes his notice will be chased, as a wind chases a

leaf, and surely annihilated; his organs exploding from the inside, blood

trickling from the white of his eyes, trailing into insanity, and then

eventually slowly drifting asleep, living in his sleep, never leaving his

sleep.

I do not know how this lonely man happened to

stumble on this island. Yet I do know this, I know that he will not leave this

island with his life. He will eventually seek the warmth of hospitality and

find this sad town, where he will forget all his memories. He will forget

everything, everything except the name he was given at birth, and the language

his tongue speaks. Fog will fill his mind, living in the mind like an echo, an

emptiness for an eternity.

This stranger, he will have to live with us in the

town. I will greet him like a long-lost son—would he know otherwise? For here,

I am a father of many daughters and sons. I am the caretaker; a merciful, kind,

and clever man. That is all I have ever been known as.

The man still is not moving from his place. I stand

up from my rocking chair, furnished out of oakwood; a simple piece of furniture

yet built to last for a great many years. I walk out the old door, grabbing my

lantern with me, for a light in the dark of the evening. In my younger days, I

was built like a strong, young tree—my speed and strength were with me. However,

in my old age, I am like a rotting fallen tree. I have nothing but the wisdom

and intelligence in my mind to keep me company. So, I did not break into a run,

not even a slow jog. My knees would defile me and would cause intense pain.

Just as old age bears good fruit, it also breaks down the fruit bearer. I walk

towards the man for a long while, until I am around twenty feet away from him.

I lick my lips with my tongue, waiting to speak.

“Stranger, come with me. I will provide food and

water for you; I will give you a place for you to rest,” I say.

Still, the stranger does not move from the original

position he stood in. The dark masks his face, preventing it from being seen by

human eyes.

“Do not worry, let nothing burden your soul at this

moment, not in the dark of the night. Let the sunlight of tomorrow carry that

burden,” I reassure the cloaked stranger.

Still, the stranger does not move, he does not

change his original place. He does not even make any indication that he knows I

am here, talking to him.

Finally, the man clears his throat. “What do you

do?” A strange voice asks, coming from the cloaked man.

I sigh, a deep sigh that trembles in my chest. “I do

many things. I have many jobs, many that I have worked in throughout my youth

and younger age. Now, I am an innkeeper. The first thing that all strangers who

meet me realize, for I give them a room to rest in, food to eat, and water to

drink. Most, if not all of them, are weary from their long journey that they

have taken to get here.”

The man laughs, a bone-chilling laugh. “Why are they

weary? They have no reason for weariness, not in soul, nor in body. They are

alive.”

Such behavior is not normal or usual, not even among

the newcomers. He should be confused, wandering around the place, looking for a

home that isn’t there. I ask his name.

“Stranger, what is your name?”

“My name is written on my forehead,” the strange

voice says. “Come and see, my name is written on me.”

Hesitating, I slowly walk to the man. I hope he does

not wish to harm me. Why should he? His memories are gone. His grudges, his

hate, his passions, his love; they are all gone from his mind. So why does fear

surround this man? Why do I fear him?

The stranger suddenly lowers his face, his hood

covering his head. I am now within ten feet of him, and continually going

closer.

I am here, close enough to touch him, to hug him, to

tell him that everything will be alright.

The cloaked man jolts up his head, and I get the

first good glimpse of his face. This man tells the truth. On his forehead is

his name, carved in deep. Shock fills my body, and I fall to the ground,

petrified with fear. His name is “SAVIOR.” His smile is there, carved with the

knife as well, to ensure that it is there forever. Spittle is on his chin, as

he drools water and blood. This man is insane, he is one of the asleep, the

fools that have tried to escape the island. His pupils are gone, and his eyes

are nothing but white, yet there is no blood in his eyes.

This man has never tried to escape. I saw him get

out of his boat—he did not try to get back in. What is this phenomenon?

What are you?

“Who are you?” I ask.

“I am Savior,” the cloaked man says. “I am here to

deliver these soulless people out of this island.”

“You are insane,” I stammer out. “Death will surely

punish you!”

“Then I am Life. Death cannot defeat Life, it can

only eliminate its inhabitants one by one, from time to time. Death will never

truly eliminate all of Life. Life is eternal. Life goes on forever.”

Savior looks to me, on the ground. He reaches out

his pale hand. I am still afraid, nevertheless, I take his hand into mines. His

hand is surprisingly warm, full of hot blood. My wisdom tells me he is

compassionate, but cold and cruel when he needs to be. He is Life after all—he

must bear the pain that every single person has ever felt. I stand up, with the

help of Savior’s sturdy hand. I smile. Everything will be alright.

Savior throws his hands up and chants, speaking

words in a foreign tongue beyond human comprehension. My body suddenly feels

unoccupied, like an empty vessel waiting to be filled. I am so sad, so empty

inside. My body is so empty. And I’m crying, crying the red waters of the

heart, but it feels like my soul and not tears, is leaking out through my

burning eyes.

He’s killing us all. Even then, through that, he

gives us relief.

Death was gracious to us all, even if he was a

clever trickster.

All I feel is pain. Pain is all I feel.

…

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