Soul Catchers

by Tony Moyle

  “What do you mean?”

  “When John Hewson brought the fat guy down here some twelve years ago at the pinnacle of the solstice, he removed John and healed the fat guy. Once he’d removed both souls from the body he was able to pass from Laslow into it. It wasn’t good for Laslow, or the rest of us.”

  “No, I saw that. I found Laslow’s corpse nailed to the funnel.”

  “Once he’d killed Laslow, he went after the rest of us.”

  “Byron is the Devil,” said David under his breath.

  “So you know him, then, the fat man?”

  “I’m aware of his work.”

  “His back catalogue is nothing to what he’s capable of now, let me tell you. His body is renewed and he walks the Earth undetected, looking for you.”

  “So now that Satan has acquired a younger body he is less conspicuous,” said David. “Hold on, what do you mean looking for ‘you’?”

  “We all knew that you were the last of the twelve: we just didn’t know we were already in the endgame. There’s only one way you could be here. Only the twelve can enter here as you have done.”

  The number twelve was ever-present in David’s mind. That number had been assigned to him in a past life by a still unidentified man during a rather unpleasant exorcism. It was the level number in Hell where he’d been incarcerated for part of his afterlife. It was the number he was being assigned again. If he was the twelfth it also meant that there had been eleven others.

  “I’m a little tired of riddles. What is this place really?” asked David.

  “Well, this is Limbo of course.”

  “But it’s not the one you described to John Hewson, is it?”

  “No. It hasn’t worked like that for a while and certainly doesn’t now. Things have changed over the last millennium.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It was all so simple in the beginning. The soul has always had three nodes. One negative, one neutral and one positive. In the olden days the spread of religion meant that almost all souls ended up at one end or the other of the polarity scale. The process was easy. Negative ones went to Hell and positive ones to Heaven. Then things changed. People stopped believing. They started to think for themselves.”

  “That’s not a bad thing, is it? You can’t force people to believe in gods, even if it’s hard for me to argue against it at the moment.”

  “You have to remember there is a constant war for control over belief. There has always been genuine concern that a third way would open up. A neutral way.”

  “A neutral way? How would that work?” asked David, looking more confused than he was used to doing.

  “What if a paradise for non-believers developed and all the Universe’s energies were pulled towards it? A place where souls didn’t need gods, only themselves. Neither Hell nor Heaven would survive.”

  “Is that even feasible?”

  “Oh yes. There have always been homes for positive and negative souls, why not one in between? Why do you think they built Limbo in the first place?”

  “Are you saying that God built this place to enable him to polarise neutral souls to positive, even though those souls wanted to go elsewhere.”

  “Don’t just blame God. Satan was also keen to stop any neutral souls.”

  “They just can’t help meddling with human willpower, can they?”

  “Parents generally think that way, I’m afraid,” replied the Clerk.

  “What has all this got to do with me?”

  “This place was always built as a court to deal with that neutral threat. If you have a court, you need staff. We assigned lawyers to prosecute and defend from both Heaven and Hell. But all courts need twelve objective men and women.”

  “Jurors. Where did you get them from?”

  “Well, they had to be balanced, so we recruited the first twelve neutral souls that came here to us. Who better to decide on the fate of their kind than the neutrals themselves? They would listen to the evidence and make a decision, on the balance of probability, as to the best final destination. Objective, unemotional but with the capability of reaching all three parts of their soul at the same time.”

  “And I was one of them. Why don’t I remember?” asked David.

  “Because your soul has been through so many bodies it has written over the memories like recording over an old videotape.”

  “I might be wrong. My mind isn’t as connected as it used to be, but I don’t recall any jurors at John’s trial.”

  “Well, by then they weren’t needed. Things changed about a thousand years ago. Since the dawn of time Heaven and Hell have been at war. To win, each side has always searched for some advantage over the other. Whether barring souls from entering Heaven was part of that, who knows?”

  “What happened to the twelve?”

  “There was nothing for them to do. They were recycled. You’re the only one left.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we are approaching the endgame. You do realise that your presence here on Earth threatens the very existence of the Universe?”

  “How gullible do you think I am?” said David.

  - CHAPTER FIVE -

  PASS OVER

  The demons had never been so busy. On top of the never-ending assault by human souls on their unique part of space, they had some organisational problem-solving to manage. Just like any complex business, Hell had its protocols, policies and structures. The problem was that some of them didn’t work very well, particularly when something unexpected occurred. When you’re ‘too big to fail’ you sometimes had to rethink how you did things. Evolution stops for no one.

  Every demon had an opinion as to how things should be done, especially the ones closest to the bottom of the organogram and furthest removed from the most difficult decisions. The right course of action always seemed so easy when you were at the bottom of the pile. The most common complaints from the worker demons related to the perceived overcomplexity of how results were delivered. Surely it was easy. The patients came in, they were diagnosed, treated and finally discharged, quite literally on that last point. What was difficult about that?

  The answer, of course, was always volume. There were just too many ‘patients’ being admitted. Yet they never increased the resources or allocated more staff to cope with it? The answer to the increasing volume was always efficiency savings. Do more with less, period. That was all very easy to say if you were management. But you try laundering souls when two prongs of your pitchfork have fallen off and they refuse to make you a new one.

  There were of course many bosses. Every time efficiency savings reared its ugly head it coincided with a new and even more complex restructure. How many subcommittees, trusts, executive boards and team pods were needed? Apparently, it was one hundred and fourteen. Although that was the last time Brimstone had counted them and a lot can happen in a morning. He couldn’t remember how many of these groups he was part of so, he just went to all of them and waited to see if he was kicked out.

  On top of the everyday trauma that came from running Hell, they were dealing with several exceptions with no offer of overtime, assistance, or a morale-boosting thank-you note. Brimstone was contemplating the formation of the first outer planetary union movement when he heard his name mentioned in the meeting for the first time.

  “Do we have to do these things over the telepathy phone?” replied Brimstone as he rocked backwards and forwards in his chair, his vision trapped behind his eyelids. “I do find it hard to concentrate when I’m not in the room with everyone else.”

  “It’s difficult for everyone to be in the same time zone, let alone the same place,” replied Asmodeus aggressively. “Your update please, Brimstone.”

  “Well, we’re still searching for John’s remaining parts. There isn’t much news really, other than…” A loud bang stopped Brimstone’s answer for which he was most thankful, as it was boring even him.

  “Sorry, that was me. Someone slammed the doo
r to my office.”

  “Mr. Bitumen, you need to make sure that you put your ‘on call’ sign up. How many times do I have to tell you? It’s clearly stated in the policy document,” said Asmodeus.

  “Sorry,” came a whispered remorseful response.

  “Mr. Brimstone, continue.”

  “We’ve scanned most of the levels from twelve down and there are no signs of him so far. My team is currently working the lower levels as we speak.”

  “It’s not good enough. Can I remind you who is listening in on this call. You must work harder. We can’t allow John to make a fool of… Is someone snoring? Who is it?”

  It was always the same with telepathy conferences. No one really paid much attention because no one really knew why they were there in the first place. The organiser always invited everyone, to protect themselves from any lack of communication down the line. It was another example of an efficiency saving that looked good on paper but never really delivered. Just because all demons had the capacity to tune in to the telepathy network, it didn’t guarantee their undivided concentration. As no one admitted to having passed out, the conversation continued.

  “Demons, if we can all just stay upright and conscious for a few more minutes we might get through our agenda,” demanded Asmodeus.

  A series of muffled groans didn’t offer much hope.

  “The final piece of news I have is the most concerning,” said Asmodeus. “As you all know, we received two ‘shadow’ souls in this domain as a result of them having Emorfed in their systems. It was anticipated that this would be the end of it. We were wrong. Over recent time a series of these shadows have arrived here and occupied the Soul Catcher. This can mean only one thing. Emorfed has not been eradicated.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Protocols, people! When you talk you have to say your name first so we know who it is,” said Asmodeus.

  “Sorry it’s Mr. Fungus. How can that be?” he repeated.

  “That’s better. We are still investigating but it would seem clear that either there was a batch left over or someone has a new supply.”

  “Brimstone,” said Brimstone following the rules to the letter. “We have found a way of removing them from the Soul Catcher, but if we don’t stop them we’re going to run out of places to store them. There are only a limited number of vases that we can produce and if they escape they could just pollute the whole place.”

  “I’m aware of that, Brimstone, which is why we have commissioned Mr. Silica to create a new stock of vases for us.”

  “There’s only so much of me to go around, sir,” replied Silica. “I’m already down a belt size.”

  “And we all appreciate your sacrifice. We just can’t wait around idly for these shadows to arrive. We must stop them at source.”

  “Leave that to me,” came a distant voice that very few of them recognised.

  “He didn’t use the protocol,” replied Mr. Fungus indignantly.

  *****

  Sandy hated beach holidays with a passion. Where was the fun in sitting down on a pile of sand being slowly fricasseed by solar rays before marinating yourself in dodgy sangria and exuberant dancing? It was a holiday for the unstimulated. If you’re going to waste money on a holiday you might as well spend two weeks working in a builder’s yard and save all the jetlag. A holiday for Sandy had to involve exploration of either location or the mind. As he congregated with some of the other creatures on the shores of the ocean biome, he was able to do both.

  A pass over event on level zero was much rarer than on the ten other occupied levels of Hell. Whereas the process above was exaggerated by the constant ‘room service’ offered by the demons that patrolled their own personal sections, here life was a lot more patient. In truth, not even Primordial knew what the consequences were of allowing a spent soul from a reincarnate to escape back into the Universe. Maybe they’d come back again? As long as they stayed here no damage was done.

  The lack of external punishment did have a downside. It meant there wasn’t a huge amount to do. Boredom was a formidable enemy. Most of the animals responded by sleeping or pretending to hunt. Occasionally Zoe, the resident lion, would catch up with Arthur the buffalo and get overexcited. Once Primordial found them being propelled around the savannah by the force of Arthur’s soul escaping his butt with Zoe’s jaws still attached. The whole ‘acting like an animal’ was thoroughly discouraged. There were no statues on level one, so any instinct that Ian had to shit on one were gladly removed.

  A pass over filled the time. The animals, insects and birds had descended on the beach like a pilgrimage. Everyone had set up their own version of camp and were protecting it, like a German holidaymaker protects a towel, to get the best possible vantage point when the curtain finally fell. Some of them had been there so long they acted like unofficial programme sellers for the event.

  “I remember when we first got here,” said Jeff the lizard to the aardvark sitting in the area next to him.

  “Well, you weren’t here first. I’ve been here ages,” replied Cyril, lying back in the sand with his four legs in the air.

  “Ok, it’s not a competition. Do you remember the last pass over we went to? It was for the leopard, wasn’t it? That pass over was so loud I left a little bit deaf.”

  “Yeah, that was a good gig. The light show was pretty amazing.”

  “Shame about the sound, though. The acoustics in the jungle just aren’t as good as they are out here. How many times have you seen it?” asked the lizard.

  “This is my eleventh now.”

  “I’ve seen way more than that,” boasted the lizard. “It was way better in the old days. The crowds weren’t so big. It was more intimate.”

  “I really don’t like the superficial fans that come now, just because it’s popular,” said the aardvark.

  None of this attention seemed to have the slightest impact on the star of the show. Puffed out and knackered, Paul lay a short way out to sea contemplating how big the audience might get before the end came. Certainly there weren’t many missing. A few ‘old-timers’ who weren’t far from the end themselves, and had seen it happen way more than eleven times, had taken a rain check. As first-timers it was all new to Sandy and Ian, and they weren’t quite sure what the etiquette was.

  “You can’t stand there,” bellowed Jeff to the newly landed pigeon. “You’re blocking the view. Find your own spot.”

  “Keep your scales on, I’m not stopping,” replied Sandy.

  “That’s what they all say. Before I know it you’ll be making a nest and spending the whole event jumping up and down in front of me.”

  “Look, I’m really not staying. When do you think it’ll start?” asked Sandy.

  “Should be soon: Paul hasn’t moved for a couple of days now. When Valerie went she didn’t move for about three days but she wasn’t in water at the time so it was harder to notice. Anyway don’t change the subject, bugger off!”

  “What right do you have to sit here?” said Sandy, purposely looking to make trouble.

  “What right do I have?!” replied Jeff, his scales changing colour in line with his mood. “I’ve been following these events for years and you come along on the first occasion and think you own the place. First come first served, and I was definitely here first.”

  “The good thing about being a pigeon is you don’t need to sit on the beach to get a good view,” said Sandy, rising from the ground with a hop and a flap.

  “Show-off,” said Jeff.

  Sandy wasn’t particularly interested in rubbernecking with these glorified ambulance chasers. It was information he needed, not entertainment. Although Sandy had perfected flight, no amount of practice was ever going to help him float. Instead he landed gently on the dolphin’s back. Its vessol was frayed and damaged as if the plastic body itself was decomposing in anticipation of the demise of the soul within.

  “Think it’s funny, do you?” huffed Paul. “Just come to mock the dying, have you?”
/>   “No, not at all. I’m not here to watch you die. I wanted to talk to you,” replied Sandy.

  “Well, I’m a bit busy to talk. Apparently I’m passing on, or at least that’s what the crowd is expecting. Why don’t you just fly back to the beach and join the hordes?”

  “It’s a bit crowded, to be honest, and I really was more interested in finding out how you were feeling.”

  “How would you be feeling if everyone was watching you? It’s like someone bursting in on you when you’re trying to have a dump but a thousand times worse. So much for resting in peace.”

  Sandy felt a flicker of an emotion that he didn’t recognise. It was such a long time since this particular emotion had made any sort of appearance, having been kidnapped by its more dominant siblings, selfishness and insensitivity, many years ago. Now guilt, last seen when he was about nine years old, was rushing headlong for his mouth without so much as a restraining belt.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sandy, bewildered that the word came out at all. “I just wanted to ask your opinion.”

  “You want what? My opinion!”

  “Yes,” replied Sandy.

  “You do know how a pass over works, don’t you?”

  “Not really but I’m not here for that. I need information.”

  “You’re quite strange for a pigeon.”

  “Thank you,” replied Sandy to the compliment. “How old are you, Paul, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “It’s hard to say. No one gives you a calendar when you get here. I know I was one of the first to arrive. I think there were a couple of dozen before me.”

  “And how many of those early arrivals have you seen ‘pass on’, as it were?”

  “A few now. Li Xeng the rat was one of the first to go. That was quite an event. It never gets better than the first time.”

  “I have a theory about this whole passing-on process. I wanted to know what you thought about it. After all, dolphins are extremely intelligent creatures.”

  “Well, I’m a dolphin now but I used to be a bricklayer.”