My Soul Immortal (6 page)

“Okay, okay! I won’t. I promise.”

“If you do, I will kill you. I promise
you
that.”

As an intense thrill builds within my chest, tickling the base of my neck with an icy prickle. I release the man, and he crumples to the pavement. I back away and turn to leave. My pace quickens when I think about doing something I might regret. Then I curse myself for letting things go so far.

After work, I recline against the stark-white counter of Portland Public Library, determined to adhere to my plan—bury my focus in the possibility of me being soulless to force my thoughts away from Leah, for my sanity’s sake. This morning’s little slip-up was stupid and couldn’t be repeated. I’m no one to her, and I need to remember that.

A lady with cropped salt-and-pepper hair hustles behind the counter, steering a cart stacked with books. I lean farther over the counter and crane my neck, trying to catch her eye before my resolve wavers.

“Excuse me. Can you help me? I’m writing a paper about cultural beliefs regarding soulless humans,” I lie then flash her a smile.

She raises one eyebrow. “Soulless humans? What on earth are they teaching you kids these days?” She takes a seat behind the closest computer and begins to type.

I snort. I’m older than most of the books in this place, for crying out loud. And I’ve probably read most of them at least once. With so much time on my hands, books are a safe pastime and a useful escape from the real world.

The librarian shakes her head. “Nothing. Sorry, dear. Have you tried Google?” She points to a long S-shaped table lined with computer screens looming at the opposite side of the room.

“Thank you,” I say flatly. I eye the machines warily and trudge toward the table. I’m prejudiced; I’ll admit it. I can’t help it. Computers and I have never gotten along. I’m not a complete technophobe. I have a good relationship with my cell phone and iPod. Granted, it took a neighbor’s nine-year-old grandson to teach me the simplest tasks. But in time, I’ve mastered them. On the other hand, these infernal machines seem to have a grudge against me. However, today, they’ve become a necessary evil.

As I approach, the row of darkened screens leers at me, seeming to sense my deficiencies. I suppose I could ask Ed for help with my Internet quest. But he would laugh his ass off, and I would undoubtedly become the butt of his jokes for days, if not weeks, to come. Besides, how would I explain my need for the search? Student research project won’t cut it. No, best to keep the two worlds separate.

A teenager at the farthest end of the table abruptly stands. Grumbling something about being late and his mom killing him, he shoves a couple of beat-up textbooks into an equally beat-up knapsack and rushes off. To my unexpected good fortune, the boy leaves the Internet search engine up and running. I drop into his chair, contemplating how to begin.

After a few attempts, I manage to clear “War of 1812” from the search bar. Then I hunt and peck my way through a long, detailed description. I include every particular I can think of, hoping that being thorough will prevent the need for a repeat performance. I drum my fingers on the light oak tabletop while the machine thinks, giving no hints about its progress. After a wait that feels endless, a frowny face pops up, apologizing for the inconvenience because I crashed Google. I sigh.
Fan-freaking-tastic
.

“How’s everything—what did you do, dear?” the librarian says from behind me.

“I touched it.”

She chuckles under her breath then pauses for a long moment. “Scoot over. Let me see. Did you type a whole paragraph? With punctuation… and in proper English?”

I shrug.

“Well, that’s the problem. Google likes searches short and to the point.” She speaks slowly, pausing after each word. With a few quick keystrokes, she gets an entire page of results in seconds. “There we go. Think you’ll be all right from here?”

I nod, trying hard not to grimace.

She smiles and walks away, her long paisley-printed skirt billowing behind her.

I slip back into my seat and scroll through the list. There isn’t much, just a few gaming sites, a couple of movies, and an indie rock band I’ve never heard of. A site called Strange Religion catches my eye, and I click on it.

I wait impatiently for the site to load. Finally, when the screen is finished, I’m greeted by paintings of blood rituals and black magic—all creepy, even to me—and a list of quotes. One stands out:

Indeed the Rwandoya people believe the offspring of Shanko-Tuku (the god of death) exhibit a lack of empathy and remorse as well as shallow emotions and egocentricity. It is also true that the Rwandoya deem these descendants soulless and shun them within the tribe.

Rev. Abelard Neumann, missionary to the Rwandoya from 1873-1898

Not a single attribute fits. Sure, I lie, and I’m selfish, but doesn’t everyone display those qualities from time to time? For a moment, I almost wish I was shallow. Indifference would make living forever a hell of a lot easier.

The rest of the site is an alphabetized roster of religions from the common to the obscure. A brief description follows each. First, I click on the Mayans. Aside from the expected human sacrifice to please the gods, I learn that the Mayans believed a person’s soul could be severed from its body. I search the rest of the entry for anything that seems the least bit beneficial but find nothing.

After three hours of clicking links, I’m disheartened to discover that only the Rwandoya and Pioche-Sioni of Ecuador hold promise. The peace-loving Pioche-Sioni believed a soul detached from one’s body as punishment for taking a life. The offender would exist between life and death, never knowing either.
Sounds familiar
.

A tap on my shoulder shoots me into the air. “Holy shii—oot,” I say, turning to find the librarian standing behind me, her mouth open in surprise.

“Sorry if I scared you. I just wanted to let you know the library will be closing in ten minutes.”

“Oh.” I sigh. “Is there any way I can get this”—I wave both hands in front of the screen—“on paper?”

“I could help you e-mail yourself the link.”

I give her a dry stare.

“Okay, paper it is.” She leans over my shoulder and takes control of the mouse. “Which web pages do you need?”

“Pioche-Sioni and Rwandoya.”

Back at the counter, I occupy myself with reading a flyer of Portland’s upcoming events while the librarian staples the printed copies in order so I “don’t get them confused.” The gesture is kind-hearted, but I’ve clearly given her enough reason to deem me a moron. I thank her and toss the printouts in my knapsack before heading out the door and onto the busy street.

After a dinner consisting of burnt frozen pizza—I ought to be able to cook after all these years, but I can’t—I sit at my small dining table and thumb through the pages. I skim a series of photos showing examples of tribal art—distorted faces sculpted into pottery and carved into wood and stone. Each portrayal of the afflicted soul was obviously a vision of the netherworld.

If I’m already in hell, can I reach heaven? I’m not optimistic. As a young child, I went to church every Sunday and listened to my father’s sermons. What little I do remember doesn’t paint a bright future for me. I would be viewed as one of the damned. Maybe I’ve dodged the fire and brimstone, but does this mean there’s no paradise for me?

I read the same passages again and again, hoping to find something to ease my anxiety. My eyelids grow heavy, sounds fade away, and I surrender to sleep.

My heart gives three thuds then sputters once more before falling silent. In a deep corner of my consciousness, I know I must be dreaming. But this awareness doesn’t quash the excitement I feel when I hear my mother call my name.

I open my eyes then blink with confusion. I’m standing in the middle of a small room with gold inlaid walls and high domed ceilings. Shafts of light pour in through arched stained-glass windows, filling the room with rainbows. I look down at myself. I’m dressed in a coal-black morning coat, matching trousers, and a crisply pressed lavender vest. A white rose is pinned to the lapel.

“Yes,” I answer hesitantly. The door flies open.

“My handsome boy!” my mum says, stepping into the room. I look into her blue eyes, which are the color of a cloudless sky. We share this feature, along with the sable hair. I wrap my arms around her. She buries her round face in the crook of my neck. “My son,” she whispers.

“You’ve waited far too long for your paradise, son. It does me good to have you here with us.” My father’s deep voice booms from the door. At the tender age of seven, I lost my father when Saint Peter called his name. However, in this moment, he looks healthy, happy, and robust. He bears none of the evidence of the violent death that I associate with the last time I saw my father.

“You look well. It’s so good to see you.”

“You, too, my boy. You, too. Eternity looks good on us both, I dare say.” He chuckles as he puts his arms around me and folds me in. Comfortable and warm, I feel like a child again. As he steps away, he says, “It’s time. You don’t want to keep that bride of yours waiting any longer. She’s grown a bit impatient.”

“Bride?” I look down at my clothes again.

“Of course. What better way for you to begin your forever?” My mother straightens my hair then brushes away the moisture sparkling on her eyelashes.

She’s right. No better way.

I follow my parents from the room. Beyond the gilded door, the rest of my family waits for me. Ruth and Henry are accompanied by my youngest brother Fredrick, who didn’t live past his first birthday but is now a man. Greetings of kisses and embraces follow. Pure happiness envelops me.

With the welcomes complete, they usher me down a long, narrow hallway, where the walls and floor are all constructed of polished white stone. The high ceiling is vaulted, and tall arched windows, like the ones belonging in a grand cathedral, line one wall. An open doorway waits at the end of the hall. Vines of multicolored roses are twined around the columns guarding the entry. I step into the vibrant light. The smell of sweetgrass and honeysuckle meander on each breath of wind.

I blink, adjusting to the brightness, and I realize I’m in a garden. Everything transmits its own prismatic light, sending beams dancing off every surface. The awareness hits me. I’m free. Heaven is even more beautiful than anything my imagination could have produced. I look for her, scanning the sea of familiar faces. She’s here somewhere. She must be. Instead of Lydia, I find William, her brother and my best mate. He died just two weeks before his sister. I’ve missed him. I’ve missed them all.

William smirks. “Finally. You took your time. Lydia was never known for her patience, and heaven hasn’t changed that.”

Same William.

“My sister will be happy you’re here.” He grabs my shoulders and spins me around.

The crowd blocks my view. I strain my neck trying to look around them, to catch just one glimpse. The sea parts, and Lydia walks toward me, wearing pale lavender and a crown of white roses. Her eyes spark with expectancy, and as she steps in front of me, a beaming smile stretches across her face.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispers.

“Sorry I’m late, love.” I take her hands in mine.

“It’s time for you to be happy, Jack.” She kisses my cheek. “And time for you to let me go.” Her voice drifts through the chilled air. Wisps of fog overtake us. Lydia vanishes into the mist. Again, I’m alone.

I open my eyes to the faint light of the streetlight casting its golden hues across the walls of my dingy little apartment. I feel sick, and my mind continues to whirl with what-ifs. I had simple desires when I was young. All I wanted was to grow old with the girl I loved. This still doesn’t sound unattainable. Marriage. Children. Happiness.

How naïve I was.

With no desire to sleep, I stumble across the room to the brown-and-golden plaid sofa. After the dream and the memories it provoked, peace won’t find me anyhow. I find the remote shoved between the cushions. I channel surf, finding only infomercials and a couple of B-movies based on immortals, who all live much more interesting lives than I do, either saving the world or destroying it. Every hero gets the girl, and every villain gets to die. I envy them all.

My life sits before me like a two-bit sitcom. Half of last night’s dinner lies in an open pizza box resting on top of the one from two nights ago. Empty beer bottles clutter the coffee table. Not one is Prize Old Ale, I note. And here I sit, slouched on the ugliest sofa I’ve ever laid eyes on, brooding at well past three in the morning. Pathetic. No wonder they don’t base any of these movies on reality.

Lydia’s dreamful words roll through my head. I huff and lean against the cushion. I let my mind relive memories, searching for those sapphire-blue eyes and trying to avoid emerald-green ones. What I should do is find the devil and pump him for information. That would be the smart—and sane—path to take. He implied he would return. But when? Tomorrow or one hundred years from tomorrow? What’s
soon
to an immortal?

My stomach drops. The quiet voice deep within pleads,
Stay here
.

Eyes closed tight, I press my lips into a hard line. A pair of eyes gazes back at me, matching the voice in my head. Leah. I’m barely holding on to sanity. Anger surges, and with a sweep of my arm, the beer bottles clatter across the floor. I know I’m not good enough for her, yet I think of Leah more than ever. Why is she the spitting image of Lydia? Maybe some research into her family tree might help answer my question and, in turn, remove her from my thoughts. But that option requires knowing more about her—a last name, to start. I groan. I’ll be returning to Old Port Java tomorrow.
Sanity be damned
.

The small voice in my head cheers.

“Shut the hell up,” I grumble.

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning, Leah isn’t at the coffeehouse. At first, I think she might be in the back room. That hope quickly crumbles when I overhear Rachel talking with a customer, complaining about being on her own today. I listen, but she provides no explanation of Leah’s absence.