Soul Catchers

by Tony Moyle

  “I have a marriage certificate,” said Victor, placing it on the table.

  “Which one of them got married?” asked Byron, thinking about the two women that he’d tasked Victor to find.

  “Both of them.”

  “So you have two marriage certificates?”

  “No, just the one.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Why don’t you have a look at it?” said Victor.

  Byron studied the green, landscaped paper. His digits trailed across each name and along each row several times before they came to rest, presumably tired of all the finger gymnastics.

  “Can they do that?” said Byron.

  “Of course. This is the twenty-first century.”

  Most people only got to experience one century, two if they were lucky. Satan had lived through all of them. The ones that numerically went forward as well as the ones that, for some reason, counted up to zero. He’d lived through the Iron Age and marvelled at the loincloth-wearing idiots getting overly excited about the formation of what they claimed to be a knife, even though it lacked the basic principle of being pointy.

  In the Renaissance he’d watched in bewilderment as Leonardo da Vinci claimed to have invented a flying machine, even though it was evidently clear that the only material they might make it from were bits of twig. Even the more impressive Industrial Revolution had challenged his mindset. The idea that you could design a tremendous sewer system under the streets of London without considering that ninety-five percent of people still defecated into buckets.

  Satan was old-school. He liked things the way that they were initially intended. Sure, he wasn’t a fan of how God had done everything, but there were certain principles that they agreed on. There was always some middle ground.

  “But they’re both women,” said Byron.

  “And your point is?” replied Victor.

  “Women marry men.”

  “Frequently.”

  “Not other women.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s just the way it is. Does Baltazaar know about this?”

  “We’re not that close. I’m guessing he’s not a fan. What’s your problem with it?”

  “It’s just wrong.”

  “Do you believe in love?”

  Satan’s expression showed he didn’t. Either that or he’d just inhaled some particularly strong French cheese up his nostrils.

  “Ok. Scrub that. If two people like each other, shouldn’t they be together?”

  “Why should people like other people? It would be better in my eyes if people hated each other. I’m a big fan of division, as you know.”

  “I know,” said Victor. “As far as I’m concerned if two people like each other a lot and decide they want to be together, then who are they bothering?”

  “Me.”

  “Live and let live, I say.”

  “I preferred the Bond movie version.”

  “There’s not a lot you can do about it, is all I meant.”

  “I am quite important, you know. I do have certain powers.”

  “You’re just going to have to live with it and grow up. The reason I showed you this document was not to have some deep, and I think almost impossible, argument about the merits or rights of same-sex marriage, but more to draw your attention to the location of said event.” He pointed to a portion at the top of the document which read, ‘All Saints, Bryher, Scilly Isles’.

  “Are they still there?” asked Byron.

  “Yes. I did some further digging once I had this document. They own a farm on the island. Your daughter is with them.”

  “My daughter?”

  “Byron’s.”

  “Good. That’s where we must…” Byron stopped abruptly and put a finger to the side of his head. “I’m getting a call.”

  “In your head?”

  “Exactly. Signal’s rubbish down here. I’ll have to go out into the street to see if I can get a better reception.”

  *****

  Violet was working in the asparagus fields. After animals, vegetables were her second favourite thing. Minerals were a distance third. It was a lot easier defending the humble vegetable compared to animal rights campaigning. They tended not to move around so much, and only really came under pressure from a strong breeze or a particularly predisposed type of insect. Plus, people didn’t really have the same passion for persecuting them.

  Violet was still a strong believer that animals should be treated in the same way that people were. Sadly her experiences of ten years ago had proven that people didn’t really treat other people that well at all. Animal welfare had seemed secondary after that revelation, and now she had a new cause to fight. Not a species to protect or even a subgroup. Protection was required for one single organism. It had been her mission for more than eleven years and almost all of it had taken place here. Up to now it had been pretty easy.

  Polytunnels stretched the length of the field, each one spaced far enough apart to allow a human to walk in between. White asparagus grew here, one of Violet’s best earners. In a season that had provided so little cheer, this crop’s success was vital. The problem with white asparagus is timing. If you don’t get to them quick enough they rather insolently turn into green ones. The polytunnels hid the buried vegetables from the sunlight whilst giving them the warmth to grow. When their heads started to crawl through the topsoil they’d be ready for the knife. Soon the polytunnels would be removed and a field of ivory tusks would need harvesting.

  “I’ve found you a worker,” said Scrumpy, sneaking up on Violet as he was frequently prone to do.

  She lifted herself from her work to hug him. Dry soil dropped like sycamore seeds from her blue dungarees. It took a while for her weathered face to warm up into a smile, distracted perhaps by the myriad of wrinkles that battled for their own personal space on her skin. Long, grey, unwashed locks, that had been hurriedly plaited, whipped around her like the tail of a horse.

  “He’s not a local,” she said, staring over the boy’s shoulder at the newcomer.

  “I know. He’s on holiday,” Scrumpy lied.

  “Have you checked he’s not a pirate?!”

  “Absolutely. He can’t swim well enough to be one of those.”

  Violet noticed that the long-haired Latino boy was still dripping from head to foot, yet her son, pressed up against her body, was no wetter than the soil beneath her feet.

  “Hello,” said David.

  “Welcome to Bryher,” said Violet. “What sort of holiday are you on?”

  “I’m trying to find myself,” he said, not inaccurately.

  “I think you found the sea by the looks of you. Where are you from?”

  “A region in Chile but I’m studying in London.”

  “And you thought you’d explore. Most people go to more exotic places than this. When do you need to go back?”

  “Not for a month or so.”

  “I need an extra pair of hands to help with asparagus picking. It’s only about two weeks’ work, I’m afraid. Any experience?”

  “Not with vegetables. My dad is a llama herder, though, so I’m used to hard work and long hours outside.”

  “Llamas. Don’t they spit at you?”

  “More so than asparagus.”

  Violet laughed. She was a stiff judge of character but this young man seemed both genuine and harmless. Scrumpy could look after him: it would be good for him to have another male around the farm.

  “David, you’re hired. It’s minimum wage, I’m afraid. Are you under twenty-one or over?”

  “Under,” he said, thankful she’d given him a range to answer from.

  “That’ll be the lower money, then. I’ll throw in board and lodgings and you can start tomorrow.”

  *****

  Unlike the rest of the population of the world, Nash loved Mondays. For most people that day meant the start of another desperate struggle to make it to the following weekend. Mondays came with the anticipation of misery. It
didn’t matter how much you begged, it was always going to be the day furthest away from Saturday. Unless it was a bank holiday. Nash hated those. He was forced not to work, which meant he couldn’t see his favourite client.

  Social care on the Scilly Isles meant lots of hours in boats and your very own company golf cart. Golf carts, tractors and quad bikes were the most sought-after vehicles on the islands. You could really make a person jealous if you turned up to a dinner party in a muck-spreader or dumper truck.

  “Oh, is that the new Belarus 3022 tractor?!”

  “Yes, yes it is.”

  “24 or 36 gear version?”

  “36, obviously.”

  “Is that the one with a turbocharging and after-cooling diesel engine?”

  “Of course. I’ve just driven it through nine fields and over a ditch you could use as a mass grave.”

  “Oh you’re so lucky.”

  Not all of Nash’s patients could be reached by golf cart. On a Monday he was forced to use his feet, the only downside to what was otherwise the highlight of his week. It was the only visit of the day, as the other eighty-one residents of Bryher were all of sound body and mind. So they claimed, at least.

  From the pier he walked up the high street, which was named simply because it was on a hill and not because it had anything of note on it. Over the hill and down the other side he made his regular walk to Hell Bay. Great Pool, an inland lake protected from the sea, lay between him and three small cottages, collectively the most westerly lodgings in England.

  Up the sandy drive, Nash walked past the upturned hulls of small boats laid out on the ground as if deposited there by past storms. Around the perimeter other cluttered and out of place items stood next to a worn-out blue letter box. He approached the weathered white door and tapped on it once. Moments later, a middle-aged woman opened it.

  “Good morning, Dr. Stevens.”

  “Hello, Fiona, how are you today?”

  “Lacking the time for small talk,” she said impolitely.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Come in. She’s in the lounge. It’s a bit damp outside for her today.”

  Nash wiped his shoes on the mat and placed his jacket on the coat rack just inside the door.

  “Tea?” asked Fiona.

  “Lovely.”

  Nash went directly into the brightly lit room just off the corridor to his left. Sitting in intense light, uncomfortable for any normal person, was a blonde woman in her early thirties. Her skin was greyer than the ash in the fireplace and she shivered in her seat, rocking back and forth, constantly mumbling to herself.

  “Hello, my love,” said Nash in a whisper, sitting in the chair next to hers and reaching over to clasp her hands in his.

  “I don’t know why you bother,” said Fiona, returning with a mug of tea. “You know it’s hopeless.”

  “It’s because I care,” replied Nash.

  “Yes, but why?”

  “No, you misunderstand. I care. I’m a carer, that’s what I do.”

  “But you know she’s not going to get better. There’s little anyone can do for her. In the circumstances, Social Services have agreed that she’s very safe with us.”

  “Care is not the same as cure, Fiona. My job is to care for her in any way I can. If that means company or reassurance, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “It’s a waste of time. She’ll never respond in the way you want her to. It’s not in her anymore. Any interest she had in you has been killed off.”

  “I’m not doing this for me. You might have lost interest in her, but I never will.”

  Fiona stormed out. Faith was as much an adopted child to her as Scrumpy was. Yet unlike the young boy it was very hard to gain any pleasure from the responsibility. The same could not be said for Nash. This was his calling. The pay might be significantly worse than being a rockstar, but the satisfaction was immeasurably greater. He’d only wished he’d found his calling under different circumstances than guilt.

  “The shadows are moving,” Faith explained in a drained tone of voice.

  “It’s ok. I’m here for you,” said Nash.

  “Is that Nash?” she said.

  “Yes,” he replied, knowing that this was no more than factual identification rather than any deeper sentiment.

  “He’s moving my shadow.”

  “No one’s moving you, Faith. You’re here on Bryher, safe as always.”

  “Not all of me,” she replied, turning to face him. “He is moving my shadow.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Nash. “Who is moving it?”

  *****

  The work wasn’t taxing, but there was a lot of it. David found that if he set himself certain targets it made the time fly by. Each hour he tried to increase the quantity of asparagus he’d picked in the previous hour. It started with fifty asparagus tips and four hours later he’d cut over one hundred. Each little ivory morsel had to be severed in the correct place before being tied in a bunch with the others. This target setting had impressed Violet who certainly couldn’t keep up with David’s level of productivity.

  After three hours they took a break. David wasn’t that bothered but Violet insisted. Scrumpy knew exactly when they were due to stop and always waited on the lower slopes of Samson Hill, sitting on one of the huge boulders that hid amongst the gorse bushes. Often he’d have an apple, or other item foraged from the morning’s expedition, to offer his new friend.

  “Do you ever go to school?” asked David as he made the short journey from the crops to the lower reaches of the hill.

  “Sometimes I do. Unfortunately I have a habit of missing the boat,” he said with a glint in his eye.

  “It can’t be that difficult to miss?” said David.

  “Oh you’d be amazed at the challenges faced by a young boy first thing in the morning. Bad weather, mudslides, quicksand, pirate sightings, can all get in the way. When are you going to be finished?” asked Scrumpy, eager for them to continue their quest.

  “A few more hours, I think. Lots more to pick.”

  “It looks really boring,” he replied.

  “It’s no adventure but there’s something refreshingly simple about it.”

  “Duuullllll,” moaned Scrumpy.

  “Not if you make a game of it. Plus there’s something familiar about these fields.”

  “Familiar? Have you worked with asparagus before?”

  “No. They remind me of a dream I get occasionally.”

  “I dreamt about a shipwreck and a giant fish once.”

  “You do have a very interesting imagination, don’t you?”

  “Mam says it’s normal for my age.”

  “But you’re not much younger than me,” replied David.

  “You’re way older than me.”

  “I’m really not.”

  “How old are you then?”

  “Eleven,” replied David.

  “Wow, you’re huge!”

  “It’s a growth defect.”

  “Wish I had that, I could get a bigger boat.”

  “I’m not sure you need one the way you sail.”

  “What was your dream about, then?” asked Scrumpy.

  “I have a dream where I’m walking in a field of white grass. I don’t think it is grass, actually. There’s a big red sun in the sky that beats down on me through a barrier, like a soapy bubble that runs all around the sky. There’s no one there apart from me.”

  “Sounds like you do have an imagination.”

  “Only in my dreams. It’s like a puzzle that my brain is offering me in my sleep.”

  “My sister likes puzzles. She’s a bit like you, actually.”

  “You spoke of her before, but I haven’t seen her yet,” said David suddenly remembering earlier information.

  “She doesn’t really like people. Only really talks to me,” he replied. “In many ways she’s absolutely brilliant.”

  “Why only in many ways?” asked David.

  “She’s not a big fan
of pirates.”

  *****

  Nash left the house following his normal hour-long visit. His mind was awash with what he’d heard. Faith often spoke of the shadows weighing down on her, but the information rarely had the clarity it had on this occasion. Today she’d described specific details of what was happening to her. Even though it made little sense to him, the vivid, exact nature of her descriptions was of concern.

  Over the last decade he’d studied what he believed were the only two victims of Emorfed exposure. Thanks to the Serpo Clinic there were plenty more victims of the drug, they’d just paid for the privilege. Irrespective of the clinic he could still reasonably count himself as one of the world’s leading experts. That didn’t say much.

  No one on Earth really knew the science behind Emorfed. It was clear that a victim’s capacity to feel was subdued. Whether this meant the emotions no longer existed, or the neural processing was in some way blocked, no one truly knew. This was a branch of science so new it would be better described as a twig. Not a very big twig either.

  He walked slowly around the edge of Great Pool as he recalled what Faith had said. The shadow was moving and apparently it was being helped by a shrew. Not just a shrew, but more specifically a male one. His first instinct was to question where this rodent was taking it. Then the correct question stuck two fingers up at the first and did a raspberry noise. The second question, having had a longer time to form in his brain, was much more important. Why was Faith’s shadow involved with a shrew in the first place?

  The track to the ferry, if you could call the boat that brought you to and from Bryher a ferry, was a well-trodden one. Hastily built concrete tracks with cracks at ten-metre intervals carved through the middle of the island, passing quaint cottages, farm buildings, an orchard, and finally alongside the asparagus fields. The harvest, which involved several people picking whatever was left from a brutally hot summer, had been in full swing. The day was drawing closer to evening and the pickers made their way up from the fields towards the village hall.