Redemption Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
What is the going rate for the human soul? What is the spirit – that intangible life
force within? How do measure the untouchably
unidentifiable? There is no weight for
the human soul, no matter what crude and inaccurate pseudo-science attempted to
discern. Certainly it is not twenty-one grams. More likely that was the weight of air and odor
leaving the body. But even if it were
the soul, how do you put a price on twenty-one grams worth of space within the
body sack? What if all the soul was was
that twenty-one grams of space? Who is
to say what it does or does not do or mean?
No one on this planet knows the answer to that question, no matter what
they may or may not believe.
The timeless ancient and forever question that the
stories ask is for what price would a human sell their soul? That is the fun in fiction, the lesson of the
morality play, the tale of test and loss and corruption and redemption. That is the stuff good fiction is made
of. But no one has yet been able to come
along and ask for, purchase, barter or steal, that which is inside you, that
which makes us all human. There is
possibly some spirit or entity that has such gifts, but certainly no human has
figured that trick out yet.
Still though, the question remains along with the
intrigue behind it. For what price would
you sell your soul? The question asked consciously
or unconsciously during every era of human existence. What price for your soul? What would you sell yourself for? Love.
Revenge. Power. Everyone has their desires, base or noble or
otherwise. And a person has their breaking
points whether they know it or not. A
man without hope is a man who will do most anything rotten in an attempt to try
and get it back.
The fear is always the damnation that follows. But no one knows. There is always the question mark – what if
you could get away with it? Someone is
always willing to try that gamble.
Ages ago the gods sat about and asked a similar
theme. They puzzled over what it would
to take to ruin a man. Many a game has
been played in an attempt to determine this prize. The histories of the world are full of the
epic and many a myth telling the tales of the bored deities and the
unsuspecting human. Little did the
ancient bards realize that was the lesser of the games played?
The question that vexed them more, that caused a rift
and brought about so much chaos was when one of their own turned the tables and
posed the same question, not about the humans of the earth, but of the gods of
the sky.
They looked about and smiled at each other in mocked
protest. Certainly one of their own
could not want for anything. They ruled
the sky, created love and life and controlled the elements of the earth, water
and sky. They knew the secrets of life
and death and the great beyond. They had
no wants and no needs. They were immortals
living in paradise.
No one could answer the riddle of what it would
take. After a long silence immeasurable
by man’s standards of time, the one who asked the question proposed a possible
solution.
“Whatever powers we believe we have, there is one that
we all must respectfully bow to – the beginning and the end and the new
beginning. Everything must pass. Even us.
There is only the one perfection in existence – the one constant that no
one and nothing can escape. The end. Death.
Everything is finite, even we are finite. That which can create and that which can destroy,
that is the one and only true power in the universe. Everything else in between is a mere shadow of
the shimmering moment.”
He said that he would sell his immortal soul for the
chance to be perfection for that one glorious time moment.
It was true that these gods were masters over space and
time, but they were also all subject to the master that was the beginning and
the end. No one yet knew a way to outsmart
these two outcomes.
“Certainly not into eternal damnation,” cried some of
the others.
“Most certainly indeed,” replied the loner.
That day the gods departed with a worried feeling in
whatever passed as their stomachs. One
of their own was independent, irrational, and inconceivable. This was a mighty big worry indeed. So with humbled pride they resolved to the
answer within perfection, within that which could create or destroy, within
that which was the beginning and the end.
This simple act of reflecting upon that which had made
them so uneasy, made them feel instantly better. The warmth that came from supposedly
addressing and challenging one’s fears, even if no solution is discovered,
overwhelmed them all. They once again
had faith and an assurance in their place in the universe. They knew that whatever had been askew would
be corrected.
The test of the soul was given.
The gods watched as the universe was reshaped.
But the loner turned and watched the power to begin
and end.
With that he watched perfection and learned the secret
of such a moment. With that he sealed
his fate.
A bang or a whimper or a light or darkness. None of it mattered. There was beauty in knowing. The others would never have love or knowledge
or perfection. They would have fear and
the feigned arrogance that they had some control over anything.
There was only one power, and it was not theirs.
When asked once again, ages later, if he would do it
all again and be tempted, the loner responded ‘Most assuredly so’.
