Soul Stealer

by Martin Booth

  Sebastian neither spoke nor looked up as Pip and Tim entered. He continued to pore over a book with a split spine, the leather flaking into little piles of dust on the polished table. Every now and then he jotted a note on an oblong of parchment using a gold-shafted pen which he periodically dipped in a porcelain inkwell.

  Tim sidled over to the bookcases. Upon one shelf, he noticed a number of very modern books. Taking one down, he opened it. It was entitled Quarks, Quasars and the State of Light. The author was a professor in an American university. Every page, it seemed, was as full of mathematical equations as it was text.

  “Do you understand all this?” Tim asked.

  Sebastian’s only response was to raise his hand and, without looking up, say, “Indulge me a little longer, Tim, if you will.”

  Pip crossed the chamber. Sebastian’s school jacket was suspended from a hook, incongruous next to his centuries-old homespun cloak. On his bed, the lambs’ fleeces under which he slept were in disarray. His pillow sprouted the sharp quill ends of the goose feathers with which it was stuffed.

  “I am ready,” Sebastian announced at last. “Please join me.”

  Pip and Tim perched themselves on stools at the table.

  “The situation is thus,” Sebastian commenced. “Yoland is seeking to disseminate evil through a network of stolen souls. He intends to achieve his aim by the use of a spell from Gerbert d’Aurillac’s book, with the assistance of Scrotton and his — the word you use today is clones.”

  “Why is he doing this?” Pip inquired.

  “Consider Malodor,” Sebastian answered. “He wished to build an automaton that would do his every bidding. Eventually, he would have built more and become a powerful man…”

  “… had we not blown his boat out of the water!” Tim interjected.

  “With Yoland,” Sebastian continued, “the situation is somewhat similar but, instead of creating automata, he wants to turn humans into unquestioning serfs who will obey his command without equivocation.”

  “What is it with them?” Pip remarked. “This power thing…? I just don’t get it.”

  “Was it not ever thus?” Sebastian observed. “In my father’s day, monarchs and noblemen jostled for power. Today, do not presidents and politicians follow likewise? It may be for personal pride or glory, sometimes for personal wealth, but beyond this lies the desire for power for its own sake. However, in Yoland’s case, it is more than this. He seeks not just personal power but to further the cause of evil, as might a priest seek to increase the cause of good.”

  The buttery light from the candles over their heads cast itself upon their faces.

  “And you’ve got to thwart his plan,” Tim said.

  “He cannot be permitted to succeed,” Sebastian stated tersely.

  “But what if he does?” Pip ventured.

  Sebastian closed the book before him and, looking from Pip to Tim, said, “It bears not thinking about, my friends. What is more,” he continued, “I fear I may be unable to arrest his progress. The spells he plans to use are complex, exceedingly efficacious and hazardous. To counteract them may be all but impossible.”

  “But you can’t give up,” Pip said. “You’ve got to give it a go.”

  “I intend to,” Sebastian said sharply, “but I shall need assistance, and there are only two people upon whom I believe I can place my trust implicitly.”

  “Goes without saying,” Pip pledged.

  “We joined you in the other one,” said Tim. “We’ll be there again for you this time. Agreed, sis?”

  “Yes,” Pip confirmed yet, as she spoke, a quiver of apprehension ran down her spine. That one three-letter word, she considered, had committed her to she dared not imagine what.

  “I ask you not to join me unprepared. This time,” Sebastian declared, “you will have powers.”

  “Powers?” Tim echoed.

  “Powers,” Sebastian confirmed gravely. “This time you will be armed as punitors.”

  “Armed?” Tim queried eagerly. “Swords, shields, crossbows…?”

  “Not exactly,” Sebastian said. “A weapon of another sort.”

  Eleven

  To Be a Punitor

  “What is a punitor?” Pip inquired.

  “The word comes from Latin,” Sebastian told her, “and means one who punishes or avenges a wrong.”

  Sebastian gathered up the books on the table and returned them to the shelves. This done, he placed two highly polished silver-lidded chalices in front of Pip and Tim. They were intricately engraved with runes. He removed the lids, which chimed like minuscule cymbals against the rims.

  “I am sure you are familiar with the phrase ‘the punishment should fit the crime,’” Sebastian went on. “This you must not forget,” he added. “Punitors do not merely punish. They do so justly. They also defend right against wrong.”

  At this, Sebastian left the table and walked across the chamber to a row of shelves half hidden in shadow. Lifting down a tall-necked flask sealed with a ground-glass stopper, he came back to the table. Directly under the candles, Pip and Tim could see it contained a deep turquoise-colored liquid.

  Carefully, Sebastian poured a small draft into each of the chalices.

  “I assume becoming a punitor,” Pip ventured reluctantly, “involves drinking that?”

  “Indeed, no,” Sebastian replied. “You must only dampen your lips. If you were to swallow any of the draft…”

  “You mean it’s poisonous?” Tim asked nervously.

  “Not precisely…” Sebastian answered evasively.

  “Apart from that,” Tim inquired, “what else…?”

  “You must be of good heart,” Sebastian declared, “but I consider both of you to be so.”

  “What if you’re not?” Tim pondered anxiously.

  A list of his more outrageous transgressions rolled over in his mind, like an autocue in a television studio — the time he poured gin into great-aunt Joan’s aquarium tank, sozzling her angelfish; and then at his and Pip’s seventh birthday party, he had tied Rebecca Todd’s plaits together around the bar on the back of her chair; the occasion on which he telephoned the local pub to say that a car parked outside, numbered R2D2, was flashing its lights and making a beeping noise and the barman had announced the fact to the customers. For the first two, his father had stopped his pocket money for two months and taken away the TV, DVD and video remotes. The telephone call was never traced back to him.

  Sebastian laughed quietly and, guessing what was going through Tim’s head, said, “You need not worry. Childish misdemeanors will not affect your integrity.”

  Taking a small bronze rod, Sebastian touched each chalice, which again rang like a tiny bell.

  “Are you ready,” he inquired, “to bind yourself solemnly and sincerely to the cause of good?”

  “Yes,” Pip and Tim confirmed in unison.

  Sebastian began softly intoning in Latin. Neither Pip nor Tim could pick up more than the occasional mention of their names and a few words the meanings of which they could only hazard a guess — justicia, diabolus, malign…

  After several minutes, Sebastian fell silent and slid the chalices over the table.

  “Remember.” Sebastian repeated his warning. “Just wet your lips. Do not then lick them.” He placed a square of dark-green silk next to each chalice. “Wipe your mouths dry with these.”

  Gingerly, they picked up the chalices. As the potion touched their lips, their skin seemed to effervesce as if they had sucked upon a sherbet fizz.

  “Weird!” Tim said when he had wiped his mouth dry.

  Sebastian picked up the chalices, flinging the contents at the wall. As the liquid hit the stones the chamber was lit by a brilliant light, a shower of orange sparks cascading to the flagstoned floor.

  “Wicked!” Tim exclaimed.

  “Don’t we have to swear an oath or something?” Pip asked.

  “Your acceptance of the risk of touching the liquid assures your fidelity,” Sebastian ans
wered.

  “So now we’re punitors?” Tim asked.

  Sebastian nodded, picked up the silk napkins and, placing them in a crude earthenware pot, set light to them. They quickly ignited, the cloth spitting and hissing.

  “How do we know what powers we have?” Pip inquired. “Is there some way we can test them?”

  “That is not necessary,” Sebastian answered. “They will become apparent according to what your need is at the time. If you see great evil, your powers will be great. If you see less significant wickedness, your powers will be less, yet still adequate to address it. There is, however, one point you must bear in mind,” he ended. “You may avenge evil but you are not protected from it. However, I have prepared tokens which will afford you some protection.”

  Sebastian handed Pip and Tim each a thin disc of highly polished wood about two centimeters in diameter.

  “These are cross-sections of the bough of a rowan tree,” Sebastian explained. “They were cut after the tree was dead. One may not fell a living rowan, for to do so is to encourage evil to befall you.”

  “So what do we do with it?” Pip inquired.

  “You merely revolve it in your hand,” Sebastian instructed. “So long as you do this, you will reverse any nearby evil. Keep the coin of rowan, with you at all times.”

  Pip and Tim placed the wooden discs in their pockets.

  “So,” Tim asked, “how does this punitor power work? Do we have to do something to sort of switch it on?”

  “No,” Sebastian said. “It will commence just as any emotion might. Consider how you felt when you saw the girl being bullied for her staph infection. You were angry at her antagonist, sympathetic to her. You did not have to switch on these emotions, as you put it. They were automatically aroused in you, for you are good and what you saw was wrong. So will it be. Your powers will come to the fore for they are now extensions of your feelings.”

  “The Force is with us!” Tim said, punching the air. “We have the power…”

  “Oh! Tim,” Pip said with a weary voice. “Do get a life!”

  The following week was vacation. On the Friday before, the entire school was called to assembly before school began, to be addressed by Dr. Singall.

  He began his speech by commending the pupils on a solid start to the new school year.

  “The soccer season has kicked off particularly well, if you’ll excuse my pun,” he said with a self-indulgent smile at his own wit, “with not a game lost so far. Our junior boys’ cross-country team has won the first round of the inter-county competition. And, lest you think only the boys are faring well, I’m delighted to report that the senior girls’ hockey team has scored a resounding victory over Capland Girls’ High School.”

  He continued with a number of announcements concerning the school play, the annual concert, the refurbishment of the Food Technology suite and a forthcoming German exchange in the first week after vacation.

  “As those of you going on the German exchange will know,” he announced, “you will be accompanied by Mr. Staples and Miss Bates.”

  This information gave rise to a general murmur and a brief wolf whistle, which were quickly suppressed by a scowl from the headmaster. It was widely known the two teachers were dating each other.

  “In their place,” Dr. Singall concluded, “we shall have two substitute teachers. Mr. Staples’s German classes will be taken by Miss Brandeis and Miss Bates’s classes will be taught by Mr. Loudacre.”

  With that, the school was dismissed to their classes.

  Although it was Friday, Yoland let it be known that the Atom Club would meet that lunchtime to make up for the Monday which would be missed over vacation and for the first Monday after vacation which was to be designated an in-service training day. Accordingly, as soon as they had finished their sandwiches, Pip, Tim, and Sebastian made their way to the chemistry laboratory. As they went in, Scrotton was hanging a large color diagram in front of the whiteboard. Once it was up, he lingered at the end of the demonstration bench and surveyed the room.

  “Arrogant little runt,” Tim whispered. “Thinks he’s the man’s man.”

  “Man’s monkey, more like,” Pip replied under her breath.

  “Be sure,” Sebastian said softly, his back to Scrotton, “not to underestimate him. He has the ear of his master and, worse, his master has his ear. Even now, he will be monitoring our conversation as best he can.”

  “Think he can hear us?” Pip asked quietly, her words camouflaged by the general babble in the room.

  “It is possible,” Sebastian answered, “but we utter nothing of an incriminating nature and, besides, Scrotton is not sufficiently intelligent to assess what we say, only to pass it on verbatim.”

  The preparation room door opened. Yoland stepped out, carrying a laser pointer.

  “Today,” he began, “we look at nuclear power.” He switched the pointer on, moving the dot of red light over the diagram. “This is a plan of a nuclear power station. It looks complicated but is, in fact, quite simple in principle. A controlled nuclear reaction creates great heat that raises the temperature of water in a sealed system. This turns to steam, which drives massive turbines operating huge electrical generators. There are different types of nuclear power stations, but they all operate along basically the same lines. The fuel used in the reactor…” he moved the pinprick of light over the diagram once more “… is most often uranium-235.”

  “If it’s in a sealed system, sir,” Sebastian inquired, “how is the reaction controlled?”

  “A good question, Gillette,” Yoland responded. “To understand this, you need to know of what the reaction consists.”

  Yoland leaned his elbows on the demonstration bench. “Come nearer, everybody. Scrotton,” he ordered as an aside, “the second diagram, please.”

  Scrotton obediently hung another diagram over the first. It depicted a uranium atom.

  The club members edged forwards. Both Pip and Tim felt in their pockets for their clickers.

  “The uranium atom,” Yoland explained, “is what we call unstable. Under certain conditions, it attempts to divide in two. This is called fission. When it divides, particles of it are given off. Normally, when the uranium atom splits, the nucleus of it — the core of it —forms a barium nucleus, a krypton nucleus and three spare particles called neutrons.” The laser spot hovered over a drawing of an atom splitting into two, with three small particles moving off to one side.

  “These neutrons,” Yoland continued, shifting the laser beam, “collide with other uranium atoms and cause them to vibrate. This creates heat. To control this, there are placed in the reactor what are known as control rods. These are frequently made of graphite, which absorbs some of the neutrons. Thus, by inserting or removing these rods you can manage the emission of heat. Additionally, the fuel — the uranium — can be immersed in a medium of carbon dioxide — a gas heavier than air — water or heavy water to further slow the particles down. This medium of gas or liquid also transfers the heat to make the steam.”

  “Heavy water?” a club member questioned.

  “That,” Yoland explained, “is water with its two ordinary hydrogen atoms replaced by two deuterium atoms. Deuterium is an isotope of hydrogen.”

  As he spoke, Pip observed the teacher. He looked hard into each pupil’s face, his eyes intent, as if he was deliberately focusing on something, his lips vaguely smiling. Pip and Tim fingered their clickers, ready to defend themselves.

  “Finally,” Yoland announced just before the bell rang for the end of lunch break, “a fortnight today, on the first Friday back after vacation, we shall be going on a club outing. I have booked the school mini-bus and you are all excused from your afternoon classes.” He handed an envelope to each pupil. “Give these to your parents and ask them to sign the permission slip.”

  “Where are we going?” one boy asked.

  “I have arranged,” Yoland said with all the panache of a circus ringmaster, “for us to have a guided tour of the
Jasper Point nuclear power station.”

  This news was greeted with a babble of excitement by all the club members but three…

  When Pip and Tim went down to breakfast on Monday morning, they noticed a large white and blue builders’ van and a pick-up truck parked outside the coach house. Several men were unloading a cement mixer from the truck. Others were removing sacks of mortar, tools, bricks and lengths of drainpipe from the van.

  “New drains,” said Mrs. Ledger, “and that means you two are coming to Exington with me.”

  Pip and Tim looked in dismay at each other. This was not how they had intended starting off vacation.

  “We’ll be all right here, Mum,” urged Pip. “We won’t get in the way, or underfoot, or anything.”

  Their mother was adamant.

  “Your father’s got a storyboard to get through for a shoot next week, and he doesn’t want to have any distractions. The builders will be enough,” she added as, outside, one of the workmen started up the cement mixer, the engine puttering into noisy life.

  “Promise,” Pip pleaded.

  “Twenty minutes, out by the car,” Mrs. Ledger responded, unmoved.

  By the time they reached the town, the High Street was already a bustling morning market, the pavements crowded with shoppers. Mrs. Ledger found it very difficult to find somewhere to park and was finally forced to drive to the top floor of the parking garage, a place she disliked intensely for, as she said several times as they ascended the ramps, driving in circles made her dizzy.

  For the next hour, Pip and Tim traipsed behind their mother, following her from a pharmacy to a stationer’s, a bookshop and, finally, a fabric shop where she spent at least twenty minutes rummaging through vast piles of curtain samples. It was late morning by the time they finally left the town for the supermarket on the outskirts.