Broken Souls (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 2) (35 page)

“He will only consume one spirit, become one with that spirit. It is no more evil than a lion that feeds on a gazelle.” Suter waved his arm slowly around the luminarium. “That is what each of these souls hopes for, to be chosen and become one with the Aphotis.”

“You want to feed one of these lights to him?”

“I would bring him here and give him the choice.” He paused for a minute and locked eyes with Mara. “Hypothetically.”

On the opposite end of the hall that led to the luminarium, back past the archway leading to the vestibule, was a number of standard office doors, one of which Suter took Mara through. Inside, across the room, stood a row of tall narrow cabinet doors about the width of a typical gym locker built into the wall. Each had a silver half-oval pull mounted at waist level as a handle. Suter pointed Mara toward one in the center, but she hesitated in the middle of the room, next to a bench, also reminiscent of a locker room.

“I don’t really have time to hang out and go to a funeral,” she said.

Suter walked to a cabinet door, opened it and pulled out a black robe much like the one he had worn when Mara had arrived about forty minutes ago. Holding out the robe to her, he said, “You said you wanted to understand darkling wraiths and the process of death. So suit up.”

“You want me to wear one of these robes? I’m not a luminary. Why would I wear a robe?”

“The robes are not priestly vestments for luminaries. They provide anonymity and emotional distance so the bereaved don’t have to mourn in front of strangers. People do not want to feel like they are being gawked at while they work through their pain.”

“I really need to go deal with some stuff.” Mara stepped back from the robe held in front of her.

“A darkling wraith.”

“Something like that.”

“And what, based on what you’ve learned here today, do you propose to do with this darkling wraith?”

“I’m not really sure, but sitting through a long funeral isn’t going to help.”

“The ceremony lasts only fifteen minutes, if that long. I took the time to answer your questions. The least you can do is allow me to finish the lesson I started. If you are truly interested in understanding life and death, you will attend the ceremony.”

Mara reached out and snatched the robe more abruptly than she intended. “So are you doing this ceremony back in the auditorium we were in?”

“The ceremony will be in the luminarium, yes, but I won’t be conducting it. One of my colleagues will be doing that. We’ll sit in the back and observe. Afterward, we’ll discuss what we’ve seen, and then you can be on your way, hopefully with a better understanding than when you arrived.”

“Why is it so important that you finish making your point?” Mara slipped the loose sleeves over her arms and shoulders.

“To be honest with you, I’m not sure. I suppose part of me still thinks you are up to something, and I’m curious to see what. I must admit this darkling-wraith gimmick of yours is original, and I’m intrigued by how convincing you are when you talk about it. At least if I give a complete and well-reasoned explanation, I won’t look like a complete fool when you come to the punch line or pull back the curtain or whatever it is you are going to do.” He opened a cabinet door and put on his robe. “Keep the cowl over your head, and don’t speak to anyone in the funeral party.”

* * *

The mourners marched into the circular luminarium carrying the departed, an elderly man, in some sort of a sling device reminiscent of a hammock with a board sewn into its white canvas to provide support for the body. The pallbearers, for lack of a better word, walked slowly along each side of the oval altar and lifted the man onto it. They lowered and released the cloth handles of the hammock, taking their seats in the semicircular pews directly in front of the altar. Elsewhere in the luminarium, about seventy people sat scattered about the room, all wearing black clothing—regular slacks and shirts, as opposed to the robes—that appeared to have be woven with threading that caught the lights of the luminieres sparkling along the perimeter of the room.

Though she took some comfort in the psychological camouflage of the robe, Mara felt silly and weighed down by it, as if it were restraining her from returning. She grew antsy sitting in the back center pew looking down into the softly lit well of the luminarium. While she had a better understanding of how life and death worked in this realm, none of that information provided a solution to Prado. That was the only reason she had relented and stayed for the ceremony. That and the chance that, maybe, somehow, Suter might suggest something that would help her, following the funeral. Assuming Mara could convince him to take her seriously.

From behind the altar, a robed figure appeared to float out of the darkness, from some doorway hidden between banks of shelves holding twinkling souls. He paused behind the altar and nodded toward the front pews. The cluster of people seated in front nodded in response. It seemed to Mara the ritual had begun. The luminary slowly walked to the end of the altar where the deceased man’s head lay and stood facing toward his feet. A second robed figure appeared from the darkness and stood at the dead man’s feet. The two cowls nodded toward each other, and the second one raised a bone-colored flute to the front of his cowl. A low, mournful trill filled the room, bouncing off the domed ceiling to create an oddly soothing echo.

Bending forward, the luminary grasped the sides of the dead man’s head, appearing to stare into his eyes. After a moment, while still looking downward and maintaining his grip, the robed man stepped sideways, causing the altar to rotate counterclockwise. It was a turntable of sorts, swinging the dead man’s head away from the seated mourners and his feet toward them. The flautist, who remained stationary off to the side, sped up his rhythm but not his volume, building to a soft crescendo.

Once the altar had turned ninety degrees, the luminary faced the mourners, but his features were obscured in the shadows of the elongated hood. Slowly he turned his head upward and raised his arms, his palms facing each other, until they reached shoulder height, and then he held them there, as if he expected to catch a very large ball.

The flute played on, faster and faster, echoes bouncing and crashing into the air around them, blending into a soft, sleepy drone like nothing Mara had heard before.

Back down in the well, over the chest of the dead man, something fluttered. Or so it looked to Mara. It was hard to tell with the luminary’s black robe as a backdrop, but she was sure she had detected motion. Something wafted into the air high above the altar, a billowing cloud of black mist spreading between the outstretched arms of the luminary, rolling up into the air above his head and spreading toward the tiered rows of mourners. On the altar, the corpse collapsed into a pile of ash.

Mara’s eyes widened as she held up her hands before her. “Oh, no! That’s it. That’s the darkling wraith!”

Suter reached over, grabbed the loose cuff of her robe and pulled it toward him to get her to look at him. He hissed in an urgent whisper, “Mara, an outburst like this is highly inappropriate. If you cannot control yourself, I’m going to have to escort you out of here.”

Mara pulled down her cowl from her head. “I don’t think anyone noticed,” she said, nodding toward the well of the luminarium.

Everyone stood frozen in place below an unmoving cloud of black mist that sparkled in the reflected light of the luminieres.

Suter stood with a start and pulled down his own hood. “What is this?”

“Sorry. I panicked when I saw the darkling wraith coming toward us.”

“Are you telling me that you did this? What did you do to everyone?” He stared down at Mara who still sat on the curved bench. He turned to look at the well of the room. “Wait! It’s not just the people. The spirit cloud is frozen as well. Everything has stopped. What did you do?”

“It’s the element of Time. Time is stopped temporarily, only here in this immediate area.”

“And you did this? How did you do this?”

“It’s a long story. Look, don’t you think we should get these people out of here before this black cloud infects them?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The black mist, the darkling wraith.” Mara pointed to the suspended cloud rolling in the air.

“That is no darkling wraith. That is the spirit of the man on the altar, and, before you interrupted, the luminary was about to inter him in the luminiere. No one is threatened here. Now release these people. Immediately.”

“I have seen dozens of people infected by a black mist just like this!” Mara said jabbing her finger into the air. “And their souls have been ejected from their bodies, and their bodies have started to decompose like some kind of freaking zombies, but they continue to walk around, all talking with the same creepy voice.”

“Mara, whatever you saw was not a darkling wraith. It couldn’t have been. According to oral history, the spirit cloud of a darkling wraith is invisible to the eyes of men. You could not have seen it.”

“I saw half a dozen videos of it—” she said and stopped. “You’re right. It was invisible. We could only see it on a video, but it was definitely one of those, only invisible.” She pointed again.

Suter rubbed his face and looked out over the paused funeral. Without looking at Mara, he asked, “Can you undo this?”

“You mean, unfreeze them? Yes, I believe so.”

“Then please do so. Let this poor man rest in peace, and then you and I will see what we can do about your concerns. I assure you, there is no danger in allowing this ceremony to proceed.”

Mara reached back over her shoulder and pulled up her cowl. “Okay, take your seat, and I’ll see what I can do.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. After a minute she heard the flute again.

The mist roiled in the air for a few seconds and rolled back toward the well of the luminarium, condensing into a swirling, smoky ball between the outstretched arms of the luminary. Through the haze, two pins of light, from within the cowl of the robed man at the head of the altar, caught Mara’s attention. They grew into glowing orbs, and the mist appeared to stream into them, into the eyes of the luminary.

Mara reached over, grabbed Suter’s sleeve and whispered, “Is that normal? It looks like he’s being possessed.”

“
Shh
. Perfectly normal.” Suter patted her hand.

When the black mist had disappeared, the two glowing lights from beneath the cowl illuminated more brightly, becoming so intense that the robed figure seemed to disappear into a wall of blinding brilliance, like a slow-motion flashbulb going off. Then the light receded, weakened to a single point shining in the upturned palms of the luminary. He held a luminiere before him, twinkling.

The mourners stood and applauded.

Mara leaned over and whispered, “How does that work, getting the spirit into the vessel?”

“It’s called the liturgy of beguilement. The luminary uses his ability to draw the spirit of the departed into himself, offering up his own body, but at the last minute interring it in the luminiere instead.”

“He’s fooling the spirit into thinking it can have his body and then tricking it into being locked into that lightbulb? That sounds terrible.”

“That’s a crass description of the ceremony, leaving out all the symbolism and meaning of what is happening. A recently deceased soul is traumatized and confused. The luminary is simply showing the lost soul the way to peace and a place of rest.”

“Can anybody become a luminary and have this ability to inter people’s souls?”

“Not just anyone. They must have special metaphysical abilities to accomplish the ceremony.”

“What kind of metaphysical abilities?”

“They must be what is referred to as a pretender, with a talent for wrangling vapors and light.”

Suter’s desk and two chairs were the primary focus of his tiny office that could have easily been located in an insurance firm. Except for a couple framed certificates that appeared to be awards or diplomas, the walls were unadorned. After the conclusion of the funeral, he had led Mara back to the dressing room to put away the robes, and then they had come to this room. He sat behind the desk, and Mara took one of the chairs and laid her arm alongside the front of the desk, nervously tapping her fingers on the fake wood grain.

“Explain to me what happened in there,” Suter said.

“Like I said, it’s a long story,” Mara said. “Don’t worry. Nobody was hurt. They won’t even be aware that they lost a few minutes of time.”

“It’s important that you explain to me what occurred in the luminarium, Mara. What
exactly
did you do in there?”

“When I saw the black mist rolling up from the altar, I panicked and stopped Time for a few minutes. I didn’t do it intentionally. It was a momentary freak-out.”

“Yes, but
how
did you do it?”

“I’ve been told that I have a metaphysical ability to alter reality. Time is one facet of that ability.”

“So you can rewrite time, alter history? Go to the future, travel to the past?”

Mara shook her head. “No, nothing so grandiose as that. In terms of Time, all I’ve been able to do is pause it for short periods. I think of it as a localized Time lock. It only affects a small area, and it seems to be limited to whatever I’m focused on at the moment—a person or situation, like during the ceremony.

“Are you the Keeper of the Chronicle?” Suter asked.

Mara blanched.

After thirty seconds of silence, Suter dipped his head, trying to catch her eye. “Mara?”

She blinked and shook her head, as if she’d just snapped awake. “Yes. What do you know about the Chronicle?”

“You have it?” He looked dubious and excited at the same time.

“I do. That’s how I got here, to this place.”

“So you traveled here from another epoch, through Time.”

“No, not through Time, through Consciousness. From an alternate reality, a world like this one but different in many ways.”