The Soul Continuum

by Simon West-Bulford

  From this hidden vantage point I can see everything. According to my mother’s memory, this is supposed to be a sacred place, a place dedicated to the reverence of forgotten gods. It is one of the ancient temples on the outskirts of the city, abandoned now, which is why Vieta chose it to perform his dark acts. Tall pillars of sandstone chipped by age and storm, overlaid with flaking gold and ebony, support a dilapidated roof far above. Golden sconces provide barely enough light to illuminate the spacious chamber and its sacrificial altar. But Keitus Vieta has profaned all of this. He brought my mother here, swollen beyond capacity, to birth the unnatural offspring he has bred through her. She now lies dead in a pool of amniotic fluids, blood, and torn membranes. Twelve of us there were, born upon the altar, all our senses realized, trying to drag ourselves to safety beyond his reach.

  If I can stay hidden, I will be the first-ever survivor.

  Vieta watched my brothers struggle for a time as they spread out across the temple floor. He studied them as they crawled, and now, stooped as an old man, vicious eyes bulging out of pale and withered skin, Keitus Vieta creeps around the temple in his ragged sackcloth, surveying my dead kin. In his hand he holds his cane, the blue jewel nested at its tip, pulsing with anticipation of the recycled energies it will soon absorb. Now he stands over the only other surviving newborn as it slides through blood, dirty sand scratching its fragile skin. He speaks to it slowly and gently, but with sinister intent.

  “My child, where will you go? What will you do? You must not live.”

  The jewel in his cane beats out its indigo light like a comatose heartbeat, and Vieta steps slowly over the babe, his sandaled feet at either side of its body. Still its wet fingers claw the dirt to drag it on, gurgling and writhing toward the temple exit, desperate, and I can do nothing.

  “You are not what I intended,” says Vieta. He looks upward wistfully. “You are wrong. All of you are wrong, so I must improve my methods. There must be a new vessel. This Chaldean whore I purchased was not capable of birthing offspring that will evolve and perpetuate. I must have fresh children to fulfill my purposes. You are merely a residue. A mistake.”

  He holds his wrinkled free hand over the newborn, his fingers brittle talons, and the body stops moving. Vieta hisses with satisfaction as the cane pulses with new light, but then he surveys the devastation in the temple, sighing deeply with what he thinks is grief. He lifts his cane, examines the light in the jewel with brief puzzlement, and I fear that he realizes one of us has evaded him, but he turns and walks slowly out through the arched temple door.

  I am alone now, but it is a peaceful thing. I am no longer afraid. Without the imminent threat of Vieta, I will survive. Though the human part of my physiology will instinctively crave the sustenance of food and water, warmth and companionship, the foreign matter intermingled with my DNA needs no such thing, and it will sustain me. Already I feel the painful changes within me. Cells bursting and multiplying to fulfill instinctual needs. Bones snapping and growing. Organs bloating and morphing, and my brain expanding to access information that is waiting to be processed. I am destined to become something unique, an oracle of terrible knowledge.

  I will sleep for a time. I will wait until the pain stops, and then . . . What will I do then? Perhaps it is the human part of me that reasons against him, but I understand that Vieta must be stopped, even though I lack the power to face him. Until I am able, until I am mature, survival is the best I can hope for.

  TWO

  Until death falls within my field of sensitivity I remain asleep, aware of things only as nebulous impressions. The human part of my biology, now mature, dominates my body but is little more than a senseless brute. It survives only because it draws from me in its subconscious to lurk unnoticed and to equip its survival. I have no more control over my actions than a dreamer has over his dreams. It is the curse of Vieta’s design. Like a flower unfurling its petals in warm sunlight, it is only on days like this, when someone dies, that I become fully aware and in control. The first time it was my mother and siblings. This time it is a craftsman at work on the statue of Marduk.

  I have grown steadily over the years, hiding in plain sight as a shuffling beggar in the dusty warren-like lanes, cowled in the same unwashed sackcloth garment to hide my deformed shape. The stench keeps curious people away; it is a necessary self-corruption so that I can remain invisible to the masses. But every week, driven by the instincts of my human side, I risk exposure in the courtyard of the temple to seek food, and this week is no exception.

  It is a beautiful place. Tamarisk trees decorate each corner, smooth pillars gleam deep orange in the dawn light filtering through the slatted open roof, and fine tapestries flap gently against the walls. It is undoubtedly maintained by one of the richest families close to the royal court of King Nebuchadnezzar and is no place for one such as I. My presence here would be seen as defilement. Though unclean visitors are allowed inside, even welcomed to partake in some of the sumptuously prepared offerings to Marduk, my exaggerated deformities would not encourage such charity. Nevertheless, I am drawn here, keeping to the secrecy of the shadowed walls where I can and then leaving as soon as the desires of my human side are sated.

  Today I would have gone unnoticed as always were it not for the event of the craftsman’s death. Because of the early hour, there were not many others present at the time: two scribes in hushed disagreement over which tablets should be recited at the next festival, a temple servant lighting the incense burners, another beggar rocking in quiet prayer on a stool, and the kindly young woman who comes each day to place fresh fruit in the bowls from which I partake after she leaves. Her name is Ninsuni, and she is as handsome as I am repulsive. It is not the usual syrup-sweet features of the other perfumed beauties frequenting this place that draws me to her; it is the way she holds herself: timid and cautious, dressed in modest clothes that match the sandstone brickwork of the palace, keeping her gaze on the ground as she walks. Perhaps it is because she wishes, as I do, to be shielded from the public eye. Each week I come here to see her, but I never dare to make myself known.

  The craftsman had been balanced precariously on his scaffold, painting fresh layers of gold onto Marduk’s hair. He fell only twenty feet but broke his neck and died instantly. As one of the scribes ran out of the temple to get help, the others rushed to his aid. I, however, had been awakened, and with awakening comes new and violent growth. The foreign elements in my cells mutate and my mind floods into full awareness like rushing waves, but I am helpless as the transformations take control; the pain is like fragments of hot shale stripping my veins. It is the heavy thud of my falling to the floor followed by the ratchet cracking sound of newly growing bones in my arms that distract everyone from the craftsman’s body.

  Ninsuni is the first to look at me, and our eyes meet. At first she has the look of horror I have always feared she would display if she noticed me, but as I try unsuccessfully to shuffle back and stay hidden, I see sadness in her eyes, and she leaves the dead man to rush toward me, slowing to cover her nose and mouth as my stench reaches her. Her reaction shames me into overcoming the pain, and with a labored shuffle I retreat to the cool wall and shadow, which I hope will bring relief to the burning under my skin, but my leading arm gives way. Ninsuni gasps as the skin covering my hands grows pale; it is thinning, stretching as the bones underneath adapt to extend my reach for shelter like plant roots seeking soil. I struggle backward, and the tips of my fingers split into V shapes, each stretching farther to sprout yet more fingers. The muscles in my limbs spasm, causing the sackcloth covering my head to pull away completely as it gets caught beneath me. I fumble to cover my distorted features but too late: a scream echoes through the courtyard. The beggar runs, stumbling over his feet in desperation, covering his eyes as if the sight of me will somehow infect him, but the scribe—a scrawny, aged man who looks like he must have lost a lot of weight in recent months—slumps down hard into a seated position on the floor, observing me tearfully
with disgust and fear.

  “A demon,” he wheezes as he glances at the dead craftsman. “Marduk has sent a demon to punish us for the death of Albimanek.”

  Ninsuni is not perturbed. She reaches me, then crouches over me, gently pulling the sackcloth back over my head with a sympathetic smile. Presumably summoned by the scribe who had fled earlier, two men dressed in clean white linen with gold braided seams enter the courtyard, ignoring the screaming beggar as he barges past them. They step aside to allow the incense servant to hurry away too, then pause just inside the entrance to stare at me aghast and confused.

  “I have seen you before. Are you the royal physician?” It is the first time I have heard Ninsuni’s voice. It is quiet, trembling with nervousness, and I am surprised she has dared to make herself known to help me.

  Pain causes me to cry out as the back of my head swells. I feel fluid bubbling under the skin and the snap and crackle of cells popping into existence. The top of my spine jerks my head to make room for this new growth, and I reach up with my extended fingers to touch the new formation just as another spasm ripples along my right side. My sight becomes confused, masked somehow, as if a veil of cloth is superimposed onto my vision. At first I assume it is the pain drawing me close to collapse, but now I realize, as I continue to touch the growth on the back of my head, that new facial features are developing: a drooping toothless mouth, a flattened nose, two lidless eyes staring through the back of my hood.

  A sheen of sweat covers the scribe’s face. “I . . . I cannot allow you to remain here.”

  Ninsuni flinches but stays crouched. The three men do nothing but stare, horrified. Even Ninsuni grimaces, but visibly resisting the urge to pull away again, she gently places her palm on my cheek and strokes it. “Calm,” she says. “Be calm.”

  It may be a coincidence that my body chooses this moment to cease its metamorphosis, but I want to believe it is the soothing tone of her voice that wins it over. All I can do is pant with exhaustion as she continues to whisper words of comfort. There is wetness covering the back of my neck: saliva ebbing from the newly formed mouth positioned above it, and through impulse, I command the lips to shut. The eyes I cannot close, and the sting of fabric rubbing against them makes them water as the clouded vision continues to confuse my view of Ninsuni.

  “Which one of you is the physician?” Ninsuni repeats, a little louder. “Can’t you see this man needs help?”

  The first one, a sinewy man with thinning white hair, takes a tentative step forward. “I am a physician,” he says, “but I have never seen anything like . . .”

  “It is a demon!” The scribe, finally collecting himself, stands. “Stay away from it. Something with such terrible affliction must not remain here. Marduk is—”

  “—is a god.” Ninsuni says, standing to face him. “He would not be threatened by something like this. Don’t the festivals teach us that we must celebrate those of us with different natures?”

  The scribe’s expression sours briefly with revulsion or indignation, and for a moment he looks as if he is about to scold her, but instead he addresses the physician’s younger companion. “Find a diviner. We must determine the nature of the demon that afflicts him before treatment can be assigned. But don’t bring him here; this . . . man must be removed from the temple. I don’t want a scene in here.” He waves both of them away and makes no effort to acknowledge Ninsuni other than with a scornful expression to suggest he has no idea why she is still present.

  Ninsuni glances at me with an apologetic smile before lowering her head in submission to the scribe. She withdraws to the small crowd now gathering and babbling at the entrance but stops a few paces away from them and turns to speak to the scribe: “Forgive me, but I think this man is one of the Blessed Ones. Will you please treat him with kindness?” She glances at the body beside the statue, now unattended. “Should I find someone to see to Albimanek?”

  “What?” The scribe seems suddenly disturbed by Ninsuni’s questions. He follows her line of sight. “Oh! Yes . . . No, leave that to us.” His irritated expression returns. “Go about your business. None of this should be of concern to you.”

  She nods contritely, then turns again, and the two guards allow her to leave before moving in to reestablish control of the curious onlookers pushing into the entrance.

  Only the scribe is left to watch me now. There is fear and hostility obvious in his eyes as he keeps his distance, but there is also thoughtfulness there, as if Ninsuni’s words have given him pause. He glances back at Albimanek’s body, then back to me, narrowing his eyes.

  “A Blessed One.” He breathes in slowly and deeply as if assessing my potential, then slowly nods. “Jabari! Come here.”

  One of the two guards at the entrance turns. He is a full head and shoulders taller than his companion, and judging by his girth, he is the most well fed. Jabari wears the traditional uniform of the palace guards, though his pike is slightly bent at the lower end, and his tunic looks worn and faded so that the orange dye is now yellow. His dark-ringed eyes gaze half-closed either from fatigue or a lack of interest, first at me, then at the scribe. He grunts his acknowledgement.

  “Inform the chief priest,” the scribe says, “that we may have a new face among the Blessed Ones.”

  Jabari’s shoulders slump a little as his cheerless expression falls back to me. “You want me to take this below?”

  “You think he should remain here?”

  The scribe’s sarcasm is not lost on the burly guard, and he manages a wide, mirthless grin that shows off his large teeth; the two front ones are chipped.

  THREE

  Jabari huffs his impatience as he escorts me from the courtyard. It is hard for me to walk now. Though the intensity of my pain has lessened, a cold ache ebbs through my bones with each limping step, and the light of the morning sun streaming through the open roof of the passageway reveals my shame for all to see. Still there are only a few visitors to the temple, but those who have come slow their pace to observe me with openmouthed disgust, only to look away quickly when Jabari glowers at them. I would have interpreted this as an act of protective kindness were it not for the occasional jab in my back from the blunt end of his pike to keep me at pace.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask, but he says nothing in reply.

  He nudges me through a vine-festooned arch into a dark and dank spiral stairwell that takes me down into what could only be considered a dungeon; the echoing of moans and weeping warns me when we are halfway down, and the dipping temperature suggests that little or no sunlight penetrates this place. Powerful incense mingles with the smell of damp earth, but I detect no other insanitary odors. At least some effort has been made to avoid the squalor that could so easily be present in such an environment.

  When we reach the bottom of the stairwell, the first thing revealed by the two burning sconces is a beaten door left open toward us at the far end. A layer of grimy sand is heaped against its lower inside edge, suggesting it has been left that way for some time. Either the inhabitants have long abandoned their attempts to escape so that the guards have no reason to shut the door, or the prisoners have been incapacitated in some way. The smell of incense is so strong now that I sense the latter may be true.

  “These are the Chambers of Veneration,” Jabari tells me in a flat tone. “A jest, of course, but the palace household takes it seriously.” He jabs me in the back again. “Make yourself at home.”

  The guard turns his back on me to climb the stairs, and I am left alone to face the darkness beyond the door.

  “Don’t think of leaving,” my jailer calls from above, “or the chief priest will bring the curse of Marduk down upon you.”

  I peer through the gloomy opening, then look back at the bright circle of freedom above my head. I could leave. I care nothing for the threats of ancient gods, not when I know of the real dangers that wait beyond this simple paradigm of space-time, or even who waits for me somewhere in those city streets. It is better that
I spend the rest of my days confined down here than to be found by Keitus Vieta.

  Cautiously, I make my way through the doorway, and my eyes adjust to the low, flickering light of candles inside alcoves cut into a series of stone-walled chambers. The low ceiling and smoggy air add to the atmosphere of claustrophobia, and with each step, body-shaped hints of movement tell me that my entrance is being watched: a hand snatched from a nearby wall, dilated eyes blinking once before disappearing into a man-sized nook, a child-sized figure shuffling backward into a dark corner on hands and knees. There is a clearing deeper inside where a raised oval of clay bricks marks off a pool of water at its center. It is slightly brighter there, and judging by the scratched tables and stools scattered around its circumference (probably castoffs from the forgotten world above their heads), it is clearly some kind of communal focal point, but nobody is yet willing to show his face. Skins of wine hang from hooks, bowls of fruit overflow on the tables, and various salted meats lie on dull copper trays next to them. Blankets, rugs, and mattresses in various states of wear are strewn here and there.

  I edge closer to the pool so that I can make myself visible to my new associates, and through instinct at what or whom I may find here, I pull the cloth away from my head to reveal my deformities. The first response is quick. A misshapen figure skulks out of an alcove to my right. Though he is still enveloped by shadow and not fully visible yet, I can see wild hair and tangled rootlike shapes outlining his skinny frame. His cautious movements suggest he wants to get a better look at me before revealing himself completely.