The Soul Catcher

From: Issue 5

Log entry 1035

No. of souls: 3

Tonight one got away. I cast my net wide, but fog rolling from the east blocked my view and I hauled back empty. Fewer souls apparent. Possibly due to recent heavy rainfall? Also, the captured souls are untypically fragile. Of the remaining three, one severely damaged by net. Tomorrow I will switch to the finer weave.

Waiting his arrival as I write. He will not be pleased.

— # —

Log entry 1036

No. of souls: 5

Fog lifted, and the air still. Perfect visibility. For a while I forgot my task and lost myself in the sky: the stars shone like tiny souls, suspended far out of reach. These thoughts made my chest glow warm, even as the freezing air bit my skin.

But thoughts are Bad, he tells me. So I’ve noted them here to be done with them.

All souls caught with ease on this clear night. But only five appeared, and of these, two have lost their luster. This is becoming a trend. Some kind of disease? He’s angry, but what can I do?

— # —

Log entry 1037

No. of souls: 2

Snared two wrapped together. An easy catch. They were tumbling through the surf close to shore. Healthy specimens both, but when I tried to pull them apart, they quivered and clung tighter to each other. I checked my Book of Words and added the label ‘inseparable’ on their tank. Has this happened before? Must refer to past logs.

Ha, he said. A challenge, is it? Doesn’t matter to me, but since you’re so jittery about it. Then he snatched them from the tank. They split easily in his great hands, like a mussel shell. Feel better? He said.

I didn’t. I keep thinking about the way they writhed in his grasp.

The skiff has rot. One plank at the port, spongy under my fingers, and a sour odor. I gave her another coat of pitch and pulled her into the shack to keep her dry, as close to the fire as I dared. I need to keep an eye on her. I may need to replace the plank, but my cedar supply is low.

Also more net repair required but running out of good silk. Also need new waders. Caught them on a rock and there’s now a leak, uncomfortably close to groin.

Thoughts:

Less souls to catch, but more repairs needed. Another trend?

— # —

Log entry 1038

No. of souls: 1

Tonight one soul only, but the like of which I haven’t seen in many years – in fact bigger than recent records by over a meter! It nearly got away from me - the air was fierce, so was the sea - we were far from shore and pitching deep. I was about to turn back when I saw its muscular form plunging with the waves, bright as the moon.

What a chase! I dropped sail and we flew, the skiff was leaping like a salmon, like she used to, and I felt well again, and better than I have in many weeks (months?) Soul escaped my widest net three times, then pulled me for several clicks before I could haul it onto deck.

Soul is very active. As I write, it crashes against the tank. Trying to escape, perhaps? Do souls have wants? Purpose? I feel like this one does.

— ‘Majestic’.

That’s how I should describe it. I looked it up in my Book of Words because I decided it needed a special name. Majestic: “beautiful, powerful, and impressive; causing great admiration. See also: ‘regal’.”

He’s just taken it away.

He was pleased, and when he grabbed it from the tank I felt my stomach twist. I thought he might damage it. But then it pulsed bright, and he shuddered and loosened his grip.

Perhaps recent issues are an ‘anomaly’. Perhaps this healthy specimen is a sign of more to come. I said to him doesn’t this one look majestic? Perhaps also regal, like a king. He laughed for a long time. He said am I learning poetry?

Is that wrong, I asked.

Poetry is for People, he said.

What is People? I must check my Book of Words.

— # —

Log entry 1039

No. of souls: 2

Visibility poor tonight. Ice shards stung my face and the sea bucked beneath us. My mouth is still bitter from the salt. I was wrong about the anomaly. For hours I searched but I found only four and the last two were shredded and dull, they dissolved with a sigh as I watched.

Applied pitch again as I saw more rot, this time by her helm. It’s taken over a whole three planks. Applied linseed to her hull. I suspect she may be listing to starboard.

I checked my past logs, looking for mention of soul disease and how to cure it, but several of the books are missing. This is strange. Why would I remove them? I don’t remember doing so. Perhaps that’s why I felt the need to ask him questions: where do the souls come from? Where do you take them?

I must not ask these things. He said. His eyes flashed and his voice turned deep as the boom of thunder.

He says I must catch more. He looks tired and thin, though he pretends otherwise, forgetting I have keen eyes. There are so few to catch now, I said. Do you know why? He turned his head and stared out of the window, out to sea, muscles moving in his jaw.

I think I should have asked for new waders instead.

— # —

Log entry 1040

No. of souls: 2.5

They’re strange, the little souls. Their shape is less defined than the full-size ones, but they’re brighter. Like a fragment of lightning, with energy to match.

This one led me up and down the deck many times. It would wait for me to catch up to it, poised and quivering, then it would leap out of my grasp at the very last moment. It was so nimble it could have escaped, easily, but it wanted to stay close to the two larger souls I’d already secured in my net.

As I remember this my throat feels tight. Warm sea water leaks from my eyes. Perhaps I’ve caught their disease?

I have many more thoughts now. I try to stop them. I’ll write them here, but I don’t think it helps much anymore:

Why must he take the souls away? Why is this getting harder? How long must I continue?

— # —

Log entry 1041

No. of souls: 249+

No. of lost souls: - unknown

Tonight air and sea waged war. Up was down, flying was falling. I cast blind, but it didn’t matter. There were so many. Their lights stuttering in the walls of water. I hauled and cast again, and the nets were always full and squirming.

Once I lost the shore, and I thought: How long must I continue? Perhaps it ends tonight.

And then, I fell overboard.

I’d seen scores of souls in the waves, but under the surface there were thousands more, maybe hundreds of thousands, torn shreds of them blinking and tumbling, their shrieks vibrating through the water.

As I swam for the surface, they clung to me.

All nets torn; the skiff, she—

She’s damaged beyond repair. Dashed against the rocks. There’s a gaping hole to her port bow, four planks shattered. Her mast is lost.

She brought me back. I clung to her, and we found the shore.

I tried to drag her into the shack. Into the dry and warm.

I tried.

But my arms had no strength left. I got the tarp over her, secured it with rocks. But still I hear the storm pummel my window.

The tanks are full, but I feel hollow. He was laughing when he left, clapped me on the back. This is good. I must remember: this is a good thing. This makes him very happy.

This makes him strong.

The ground is rearing yet, under my feet.

— # —

Log entry 1042

No. of souls: 2

I worked on her until nightfall, but there’s not enough wood. Not enough pitch. Nails are rusty and have poor hold. She lists at starboard, still, and takes in water. Her bow is skewed. Always the gulls circled above us. They seemed excited, shrieking to each other. They are a bad sign, I think.

But I shouldn’t think.

So he tells me.

A few souls, flitting by the rocks. Probably stunned from the storm. Caught them in my hands but I was too numb to hold them and most jumped free. I crawled back to the skiff and lay inside her for a while, curled up against the cold. Listened to the gulls.

He’s here now.

His presence fills the shack. His skin glows in the firelight like polished leather. He thrums with energy. He can’t seem to keep still. Now he’s pacing, swinging his fists. His horns graze the roof. My cooking pots rattle with each stride.

I hope he doesn’t break anything.

He’s stopped pacing now.

He’s watching me.

I shall keep writing. My heart booms in my ears. He tells me to stop writing. He wants to take me somewh

A bounty!

He led me outside and it was piled high as the roof of my shack. My reward, he said. For catching so many. New nets, bright colors the like I’ve never seen! New waders, at last, and so many many things, some of which I don’t recognize, but it’s good gear, he tells me. And best of all—Wood!

Quality black locust hardwood—no signs of rot.

Where did you get this? I asked him.

That was a mistake. He grabbed my shoulders. Repair your boat, he roared. His voice jolted my bones. Shook the ground. The gulls dispersed, screaming.

The wood has jagged edges.

— # —

Log entry 1043

No. of souls: 8, of these 6 healthy.

Steady breeze from the north. The skiff sits true in the water now. Her mast tall and proud. She’s beautiful.

Majestic, even.

New nets have a wider cast, and snared even the fastest souls.

Still sifting through the bounty.

Some things useful for the shack. A new mirror—a long time since I’ve seen one of those. It gives me a shock. I’m all over deep lines, like weather-beaten bark.

These are things from the People, I think. Though I can’t be sure. There’s a trunk with a label (curly letters: D. L.) and inside, clothing and pearls. The pearls aren’t nestled in shells but cleaned and strung together.

I’m making an inventory. Some of the things I don’t know the names for, although I can guess their purpose. All except the strung pearls. Do they attract souls? I hang them from my neck. Look at myself in the mirror. I’m bright now, too. Bright like them.

I showed him the pearls, asked him why are they strung like this? Do they attract souls? He laughed at me for a long time. Look it up in your Book, why don’t you, he said.

If I can check my Book of Words, I can have more thoughts. This is what he means, I’ve decided.

So I will look up ‘strung pearls’. And I will think.

I will look up ‘souls’ too, maybe I’ll find more ways to catch them. This will keep him happy after all.

What does he do with the souls, when he takes them away?

— # —

Log entry 1044

I know what souls are.

I looked them up in my Book.

Then I followed him. I had to find out the rest of it. Find out what he did to them.

It’s awful… Evil. I can’t bring myself to describe it. And all this time (how long has it been?), I’ve been helping him. I’ve been such a fool!

How many souls have I doomed?

I returned to my shack wild with rage. I smashed the bounty.

I’ve smashed everything I could. Except the skiff. It’s not her fault, after all.

I cut the nets. Shattered the mirror, snapped the pearls. They roll around the floor, free.

But now I’m calm. I know what to do. It’s clear to me.

He’s forgotten my eyes are keen. I see everything. I see how he’s tired and shrunken when the catch is lean. That he relies on the souls to keep him strong.

Relies on me to catch them.

So I will leave. We will leave, the skiff and I, and he will fade to nothing. It’s all he deserves.

I’ll tear out this page from my logbook, so he doesn’t find out. I think he must check my logs. I think that’s why some logbooks are missing.

If he can hide my words, so can I.

— # —

To anyone that finds this:

If he is still alive, DO NOT HELP HIM.

— # —

Log entry 1

I don’t remember how long I’ve been sailing. Perhaps I lost myself, staring at the same horizon, the same waves, the same sky… But at last my luck has turned, because I found this place—shelter! Though I think something bad happened here. Everything is smashed. But the skiff is listing badly, so I’ll stay for now.

I found this empty logbook, and I’m writing my thoughts down here. They’ve been crashing about in my head for so long, relentless as the waves. Writing them down makes them feel real. Makes me feel real.

I think I’ll write in it again tomorrow.

Also, I have someone to talk to! Though he’s not talking much himself yet. He’s just skin and bone. I saw his limbs jutting sharp as the rocks by the shore, and I almost missed him. Would have, were it not for my keen eyes.

He’s shivering by the fire now, seems very ill. I hope he doesn’t have a disease.

I wrapped him in my cloak and tried to coax him to drink some water but he shook his head. What do you need? I asked him.

He pointed to the waves where the bright things tumble in the moonlight.

© 2021 Leila Martin

From: Issue 5

About the Author

Leila Martin lives in North England with her partner, daughter and two rotund guinea pigs. A copywriter by day, Leila spends her nights writing short stories and sometimes veering into fits of poetry. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Horla, Firewords, Literally Stories and Daily Science Fiction.