Soulless by Wen Wen Yang

Soulless

“Sir,” The grey clad monk calls out. The man he is addressing remains staring at the revolving pictures. The monk calmly approaches him. “The other side faces her windows, so she can have an ever-changing landscape to look out onto.”

“Does that make her happy?” The man asks, finally straightening and pulling his collar closer to his neck, though they are indoors.

“We cannot be sure about her happiness, but it keeps her from wanting to look beyond the pictures. Once we gave her a room with a view of the street, but she would only sit by the window and mutter to herself. After she sat there for several hours on end, we decided to move her elsewhere. Please, follow me.” The monk extends a dark hand toward the direction of the front of the home within a room.

“Is she locked in here all day?” The man asks as he strokes his short beard. It, like his hair, is spotted with grey and white.

“We would consider that inhumane,” the monk replies as he fumbles through his pockets for his keys. “Please make sure you leave with all the sharp objects you have.” He places the keys into a deeper inner pocket.

“Will she hurt herself?”

“Some souls may want to hurt themselves,” the monk answers as he reaches the door. He knocks twice. Hearing no protest, he enters.

The room is spacious, nearly the size of the public prayer rooms for the worshippers. In one corner is a mattress, with sheets and a comforter for the spring chills. The rest of the room is covered with paper, pens, paints and paintbrushes. A lone child sits with her back to the door. Her dark tresses reach beyond her waist and brush the floor. She is dressed simply, in a long tunic and trousers meant for someone taller.

Upon hearing the door open, she turns to the men. She waves her paintbrush in greeting. The man, unaccustomed to her appearance, is at first taken back by her paleness. As he approaches, her eyes capture him. Below a smooth, wide forehead, framed by dark eyebrows that could have been strokes of paint from her brush, lie her deep-set eyes. They are bright, like blue marbles that the maker had decided last minute would be gold, resulting in a strange green, gold, icy blue combination. Over her cheeks, there is a light spray of freckles. Her upper lip sinks in toward her mouth a bit too sharply, while her fuller lower lip protrudes like a cliff over her chin. While her forehead is wide, her chin is small and narrow, nearly pointed.

“Hello child.” The man says finally. She nods and turns back to her work.

“Does she recognize you when you walk in?” The man asks the monk.

“Perhaps you were not told earlier,” the monk says with a sigh, having told this explanation several hundreds of times. “She is merely an empty vessel, no soul, no personality. There are souls who visit often, and thus they know me. But otherwise, the body before you does little, other than what is needed to sustain itself.”

As he finishes, the girl stands and backs away from her painting. The men can see that staring back at them is themselves. The monk is in his regular garb, but that is to be expected. The child has lived here all her life. The man’s image, however, is what shows her talent. She has drawn his clothing perfectly, down to the pattern on his stockings.

The man gasps. “She can see into the future?”

“Yes, it seems souls are unbounded by time.”

“Do these souls move in and out of her easily?”

“She has never shown any pain while dealing with souls, other than those who are self destructive.”

“How do you know she is not merely a gifted, mute artist?”

“Ah, I see you have not been told much.” The monk mutters as the girl takes a random slip of paper and begins to write, or draw, or both. “When she first arrived at our doorstep, she stared and did not cry unprovoked. Around the age when children begin to talk, the spirits made their presence known. One day, she managed to escape from the nursery and crawled into the confessional during a confession. Before the priest could tell the confessor that he had to bring the child back, the child spoke in the voice of a matriarch. She said, ‘How dare you confess adultery and expect absolution! Go back to Margaret and ask for her forgiveness, not the priest’s!’ The confessor shrieked in horror at the sound of his dead mother’s voice and ran from the confessional.”

“How do you know it was the voice of his dead mother?”

“We conducted her funeral here the month before, under the same priest for he had overseen the spiritual progress of the family for decades.”

“How could you trust the word of one priest?” The man continues.

“After she learned to walk, one of the nuns decided to take her out to the marketplace. In a group of six nuns, the child spoke again. She walked confidently up to a man and said in the voice of a ten year old girl, ‘Daddy, hold Mommy when she cries. Tell her that I don’t hurt anymore.’ The man broke down in tears and gave the child a kiss on the forehead. After that, the child tottered back to the nuns and continued the walk.”

“Why are there scars over her wrists?”

The monk sighs heavily at this. “Some souls are not simply there to scorn or give some encouragement to the living. Some were deeply troubled in life, and drift about. Given the chance, they would end the vessel’s life in an attempt to end the soul’s life.”

“Do souls die?”

“That I cannot answer,”

“You poor man,” says a voice, clear as rain. The men turn toward the girl, staring at them with the paintbrush in her hand. “You thought to trick the poor monk, Your Grace.”

The man narrows his eyes at the girl. “Name the country then.”

“Anyone can do that. There was a night when the pet dog of your wife, the Duchess, nearly ripped your mistress’s glove to shreds.” The girl’s head nods sharply while she pursed her lips. “That shows you that dogs have a stronger sense of loyalty than you!”

“Sir,” started the monk, “Is this true? Are you not a mere merchant but the Duke?”

The man does not answer, glaring silently at the girl.

“You came here to ask for a soul,” the girl says again in the voice of a full grown woman. “You want a male soul, for the child that stirs in your wife’s womb.” Her pale hand releases the paintbrush. It falls noisily onto a piece of paper. “I cannot direct souls, neither can this vessel.”

“Then what can you do?” The duke roars.

“Nothing,” The girl’s lips struggle to form a smile, as if she is completing the expression for the first time. “That is what you fear, no? The loss of control, the inability to secure your line? Imagine a child who is like this one,” at this point, the voice changes into a male’s voice, resounding like thunder. “Imagine that he would not rule, but instead be an empty shell for the dead to control. Your land ruled by the dead!” A male laugh erupts from the girl’s body.

“A damn trick,” the duke shouts. “There are actors behind those screens, in the closets, on the roof. You,” he points an accusing finger at the monk. “You had spies come onto my land, learn some obscure story to frighten me into a donation for this place. You pretended not to recognize me. I’ll have this place burned to the ground for trying to deceive me.”

The duke storms out of the room. The monk looks at the door, hesitating.

“Do not fear his words.” The woman’s voice advises. “As soon as his son is born healthy, he will forget about us.”

“Of course,” the monk says, though lacking the confidence of his words. With a bow, he backs out of the room. The girl’s face becomes blank. She kneels to pick up her paintbrush and prepares to paint again.

The End