Soul Born -chapter 1

Athuan made his way down the open air corridor looking with interest out between the sandstone columns at the activity in the main courtyard. He loved the feeling of freedom that running errands for his mother gave him. Although it was barely mid morning the sun was already setting to work with a vengeance; the growing heat being absorbed by the rough and gritty sandstone slabs was uncomfortable to his bare feet. An occasional errant breeze passed through the sandstone columns to play with his hair and cool his skin in defiance of the burning sun.

On his right, at ground level and set against the main wall of the temple was a cut channel as wide as his arm. It held a gentle flow of water that sparkled as it reflected the sunlight creating a beautiful flickering dapple effect on the columns and walls of the corridor while offering a soothing respite from the growing heat. Against his chest he held a glazed urn cradled protectively in his right arm. The urn, which was about the size of his head, held specially prepared soft water for his mother. It sloshed pleasantly as he walked.

In the courtyard two teams of workmen were pulling on heavy ropes. The ropes were run through a set of hoops that was fixed to a thick beam five men high that was buried deep into the courtyard wall. The stone obelisk that they were attempting to lift onto the back of a wagon was about the twice the height of a man and just as thick as a single strong man.

At the moment it hung between the two groups of men just above the wagons bed. A red robed priest shouted directions, trying to keep the two teams pulling in unison. A Servant clad only in a loincloth dashed forward at the priest’s command. He set a long length of timber to the base of the Obelisk using it to control the movement of the swinging stone. The two groups stepped forward first one group and then the other. The Obelisk swung ponderously checked only by the servant with the long timber.

As he passed a column he saw the Obelisk sitting firmly on the wagon bed. A loud crack sounded. The Solid wagon wheel split in two under the weight of the Obelisk. The priest shouted in panic trying to get the situation under control. Athuan watched in dread fascination as the two groups of men fought valiantly to hold the falling weight of the stone Obelisk.

The servant with the long timber didn’t have time to realise what was happening. The Obelisk dragged the two groups scrabbling with their feet for purchase with it as it toppled in an arc over the side of the disintegrating wagon. The servant turned making a half jump, half scrabble, his hands clawing at the sandy ground in an effort to dodge the falling stone.

Athuan fell to his knees as pain exploded, raking him from left to right across the small of his back racing up into his chest and downwards into his groin. Agony such as he had never felt before pierced him. His breath caught in his chest. He tried to scream. Athuans vision blurred. He gasped for air. His chest burned from the lack of it. A voice sounded in his head. “Help me. Oh Goddess the pain.”  It wasn't his own voice. Bile rose in Athuans mouth in response.

“Help me.” the voice screamed. Athuans chest heaved as he sucked in air. His lower back felt as if it had been crushed. Pain came in sickening waves. He struggled to comprehend what was happening to him. “Release me” the voice begged. “Please, release me.”

With a lurch Athuan's senses swam and he saw the scene in the courtyard. Saw the Obelisk buried point first in the back of the luckless servant. He saw also the servant bound by what looked like a silvery white cord to the ground. “Release me, please” the servant begged. Without knowing how he did it Athuan severed the silvery white cord that bound the servant to the ground.

The scene spun again. Dizzy, Athuan reached out with his left hand to steady himself. The Column was rough and gritty to the touch. “Thank you.” The voice of the servant was almost a sigh. Sight returned slowly along with his senses. The Pain receded slowly. He was surprised when he realised that some how he had managed to keep hold of the water urn in his right arm.

One small mercy, he thought.

As his senses returned he could faintly hear swearing and shouting. His back throbbing, he stood up. He walked slowly, shakily, taking a few steps at a time. Athuan could see the commotion in the courtyard. Servants in muted grey scuttled about, while the red robed priest shouted instructions. On the ground a figure lay unmoving, blood pooling thickly on the ground at his hips. The man high Obelisk lay where it had overturned, the point embedded into the serving man's back, its base still partially supported by the broken wagon. Athuan knew he would never move again. Servants came running into the courtyard carrying braided ropes and heavy timbers.

Athuan waited a brief moment muttering a silent prayer for the dead man before moving on.

When he arrived at the room he shared with his mother, she was putting the finishing touches to her hair, adding a fine ivory comb to the already artistically piled up tresses. Dressed in her usual white robe and skirt she looked more than just beautiful. To Athuan she looked like the Goddess reborn. She turned from her gilded mirror as he entered.

"How long does it take to get water?" she asked crossly. "I've been waiting ages"
She crossed the room to take the urn from him. Athuan raised the urn to hand it to her. He saw the irritated narrowing of her eyes, the tightness around her mouth disappear in an instant to be replaced by wide-eyed concern. She dropped to her knees in front of him, taking the water filled urn and setting it on the floor to one side.

“What’s happened?” she asked her voice filled with concern. Athaun wasn’t sure what to say to her. Truth or lie. He decided to tell the truth. “I'm not sure,” said Athuan. Tulle waited for him to continue, her face showing clearly the concern she was feeling. “There was an accident in the main courtyard.”

He paused looking into her eyes, knowing that she would want to take his pain, knowing she could not. “They were loading the new obelisk that Leonas and Cliso carved. It fell while they were loading it.” Tears blurred her face. His breath came in painfully ragged gasps; his chest felt as if it was on fire.

“I felt everything, his pain, his fear….” Athuan paused. He touched his forehead as if trying to clear his thoughts before continuing. “I felt his despair. All of it. I shared it all with him.”

He tried to pull away from his mother’s arms. She refused to let go, pulling him back into her embrace. Athuan found himself wanting to be held.

“There’s more though, is there not?” she asked quietly. Athuan nodded into her shoulder.

“Tell me.” She said. He could feel her body trembling against him. For a moment he almost decided not to tell her. The moment passed and with it the opportunity to spare her the pain he knew she would feel.

“There was a moment, just a fraction in time when the pain was at its most intense; I joined with him, with his spirit…. His soul… I don’t know any other way to describe it. He spoke to me, told me his name… Saris he called himself and he begged for release.” Athuan did pull back this time. He looked into his mother’s eyes. “He begged me to release him. And I think I did. Somehow I think I released his soul from his body.”

He saw the horror in her eyes, the realisation and the fear.

What was he? What had he done? How had he done it?

“I am different!” It wasn’t a question.

There was a long pause. “You are Soul Born.” She said.
“Soul Born? What is that?” Athuan had never heard the expression before.


Tulle took a deep breath. “You see to be born and for life to fill a child’s body a piece of spirit must be ripped from the Goddess. This spirit is damaged. We are taught that only by joining with the Goddess can the spirit heal itself. The more talent you have the closer you are to the goddess. The closer you are to healing your torn soul.

When a child is born with all their talent intact then they are said to be complete. They are not damaged. They are Soul Born. You can see things, do things that only the most powerful of the priest mages can even dream of and even then they can only do so with intense training and focus."

She paused. " Or at least you will be able to. Four seasons ago if I had not hidden your mind, if I had not taught you how to hide your gift, to mask your mind, you would have sent a signal to every priest mage that stood in your presence. They would have killed you out of hand.”
“Why?” asked Athuan in surprise.

Tulle took both of Athuans hands in her own. “You are Soul Born. You will be able to do more than release the souls of men who are dying. You can if you so choose, take the soul of a man and destroy it utterly. There is no limit to what you can achieve. The fate of men will lie in your hands.”

“I don’t understand. If a Soul Born is killed out of hand, how do you know about them?”

She smiled bitterly. “I was not born into the temple life. My people come from a land far to the south on the coast. We are taught about the Soul Born.” she paused as if gathering her thoughts. “I know of four Soul Born who have lived. All four turned the world they lived in upside down. Sometimes for good reason. Sometimes for no other reason than that they could."

"They hurt people?" Athuan asked. Her eyes were so full of compassion. "Yes" she said. "There have been others but these four are held to have been the most powerful. Certainly they caused the most trouble."

"As I will? Is that what I will end up doing? Hurting people? Killing them?" he asked.

"That is not your fate. Athuan you must understand. Few are born with the gift. And now none are left alive to grow into their full strength. If a priest were to come across a child showing signs of being Soul Born, he would take no chances. Death would be swift and sure. That can still be your fate if you are discovered.”

"If death is all Soul born can achieve, then no wonder." said Athuan. Before Tulle could respond the temple gong sounded, it’s dull bass tone reverberating through the corridors. Tulle looked up at the sound her face a mix of conflicting emotions. Fear, horror, sorrow, Athuan saw each emotion appear and disappear in turn, but more than that, he felt them. She was an open scroll. “You have to go.” He said.

She looked at him indecision written plainly on her face. “You need to go” he said it more firmly. “We can talk about this when you get back.” She nodded. “As soon as I get back.” Athuan nodded in agreement.
“Don’t leave here until I get back. I will let your tutor know that you are unwell this day. Promise me.” She said. “I promise.” said Athuan. “Now hurry up, you’re late.”

With economical precision Tulle used the water Athuan had brought her to dampen her powders, applying them cleverly to her face to augment her already potent charms. The gong sounded again. Athuan wished she would hurry up and leave.

“Go.” Said Athuan. “I will clear this up.” With a grateful nod his mother added one final stroke of powder. She stood and faced him. “Well, do I pass?” she asked attempting to be playful. Athuan sensed the confusion and fear that she artfully tried to hide from him. He forced a smile trying to make it look as natural as possible. “Always.” He said. Tulle laid a hand on his left cheek holding it gently while she planted a kiss on his right cheek. “I will be back soon.” He sensed her reluctance to leave. “Go.” He ordered with a wave of his hand. And with that she left the room leaving Athuan with his thoughts.

The room he shared with his mother was not big. Always it had seemed a safe place. It was a sanctuary from the humdrum existence that was life in the temple. The walls were all white in colour. There was the large cot, which he shared with his mother; it lay in the recess to the right of the door. His mother had decorated the opening into the recess with white lace curtains that she had made herself. In the main part of the room a table lay pressed against the wall. Pots of paint and powders lay upon the table in a variety of sizes and shapes. The powders and paints were mainly red and white mixtures with one blending that looked to be pink.

Standing on the table was his mother’s pride and joy. The mirror stood about half his mother’s height. It had a decorated wooden frame that had been skilfully gilded with gold. It had been his grandmothers once. He looked at himself in the mirror. He had often looked at himself in the mirror, fascinated to see his reflection peeking back at him. Always before he had seen a young boy with long black hair framing a narrow face, bronze coloured skin and a long straight nose, brown eyes and lips that were always parted in a smile. Now looking back at him was a stranger. 

Who am I? What am I? What am I going to do? The stranger in the mirror had no answers for him.