Souling Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
“A soul! a soul! a soul-cake! Please good Missis, a
soul-cake! Have mercy on all Christian souls for a soule-cake.”
-- Traditional Souling Day chant, collected and printed circa
1891.
Somewhere, off in the distance, were
the sounds of children singing and playing. Isaac woke with a headache. The
window was open and the pungent stench of skunk or something worse was coming in
with the breeze. The sun was already setting. He had slept through the day. He had
needed the rest, but now he had slept too long and his muscles and body ached
and he felt more groggy than refreshed. He was worn down, exhausted. He had
worked and struggled and worked more. It was Saturday, a day to rest, and yet,
there was no rest to be found.
Isaac sat up and reached for the
window. Closing it didn’t seem to help. The faint stench of sulfur was still
there, lingering in the air. He had smelled enough of that to last a lifetime
and was afraid he might vomit. He didn’t vomit. He fought himself and won the
battle. Turned out he was very good at fighting himself. Normally he was
fighting his urges and the ramifications of stupid decisions, but he could
fight himself on just about anything if he put his mind to it.
Next to the bed was a desk. On it, a
plate covered in bread crumbs along with a small chunk of what must have been a
piece of bread or cake. He wasn’t particularly hungry, and he couldn’t remember
eating before he slept, so he wasn’t sure why it was there. It was a little bit
disturbing – he couldn’t remember having memory problems before. Of course, if
he was having memory problems, it might not be the sort of thing he’d remember.
Outside he could hear people chanting
something. He couldn’t quite make it out. It sounded like they were begging or
crying or asking for something. He wondered if it was Halloween. He wasn’t
sure. He couldn’t remember the last time he looked at a calendar. Whatever it
was, it seemed far too noisy and annoying.
As soon as he thought about making sure
his house lights were off, he heard a knocking at his door. He wasn’t going to
answer it. He was in no mood for visitors.
The knocking continued, but eventually
subsided and the cheering and chanting of youthful voices slowly faded into the
distance.
Instinctively, he reached out for the
plate. He glanced at his arm and noticed a tattoo he didn’t remember having: “as
above, so below.” Strange. He couldn’t believe he would forget a tattoo. He
couldn’t imagine when he got it or why he chose those words.
He took the plate and walked out of his
bedroom and headed for the kitchen. He had to get his head clear. He needed to
wake up. Coffee and caffeine were on the menu. He had slept too long and had
plenty of work to do before the night was done.
He took the last piece of the cake and
ate it. The cake was wonderful – cinnamon and apple, his favorite. It was
sweet, with a hint of nutmeg, ginger and allspice.
His mind was suddenly overwhelmed with
flashes of thoughts and dreams and fragmented memories. He almost tripped to
the ground, but caught himself. The plate was not so lucky and shattered on the
ground.
This was not his house. Not anymore.
This was not his life. This was not his wonderful world. He had been trapped.
He had been judged and had burned accordingly.
The phrase Pão-por-Deus came
to mind, but he didn’t know what that meant.
The cake. He knew it had something to
do with the cake. Someone had done this. Someone brought him back. Someone had baked the cake and set him free,
his soul atoned for.
But where
were they? Shouldn’t they be here to greet him and shepherd him to his new purpose?
The house was empty. Perhaps it was an act of good will. Perhaps it was an
exchange, knowingly or accidentally. Isaac didn’t know but wasn’t going to
squander this second chance. He left and headed out into the night, the broken
plate and cake crumbs left behind on the floor for someone else to worry about.
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