The Saga of Me - Soul Business Read online

The Saga of Me - Soul Business

  by Joel Puga

  Copyright 2015 Joel Puga

  Table of Contents

  Story

  About the Author

  Other Works by the Author

  Story

  It's a starry night. A full moon shines in the sky. Alone, I cross the road next to the hospital of Viana do Castelo and start down the walkway towards the cemetery. Behind me, there's the city mall, Viana Station. Many say it is the jewel of the city. To me, it looks more like a dagger stuck in its heart, for, since its opening, the streets of the historical downtown have been almost empty, with the exception of one or another special time of the year. Not that I care. I go to the mall all the same, when it's convenient.

  A few steps later, I see a group of young people, none of them with more than sixteen years of age, in a bus stop. They scream wildly, both girls and boys, clearly drunk, around two of their companions who fight savagely. This is the youth of today. They sleep in the morning instead of sleeping at night. They drink and bury themselves in hedonism to forget life without goals, aside from making money to buy more oblivion and hedonism. Not all are like that, I know, but many are, perhaps even the majority.

  Well, at least they are better than their parents. They are up to their necks in debt, eat rice with rice and sleep on mattresses on the floor to be able to have a huge house and to buy a new car car every couple of years, in an attempt to show others that they are rich. It is obvious that a family in which both parents earn the miserable minimum wage and have two children can't be as rich as it tries to show, and everyone knows this because almost everyone does the same. However, people prefer to believe in what they see instead of what they know. But I don't give a damn. Each one has the right to waste his life as he well pleases.

  While I pass on the other side of the road, the two boys keep fighting, tearing clothes, breaking teeth and bleeding from their lips. Their companions to try to separate them, but, in reality, stir one against the other. And the worst part is that, most probably, the whole confrontation started for some stupid reason. Maybe one of them looked slyly at the cleavage of the other's girlfriend. That's a curious thing. Why is it that necklines always show more than what we're allowed to see?

  I don't meddle, of course. During my vigils, I've seen worse, a lot worse, and have done nothing. Robberies, kidnappings, rapes, even murders. I only act when I know that the people involved are under the influence of the agents of Heaven or Hell. Otherwise, I let each one do as his heart wills. In the end, everyone will go to the place they deserve. Or won't they?

  I have done this route every night because of a legend that has been going around for more than fifty years. It tells that, one night, two young men stole a bag of candies and decided to hide in the cemetery to split them, but, when they climbed the wall, they dropped some outside. Leaving them behind in their rush, they sat down on a tombstone and began to dividing the remaining:

  “One for me, another for you. One for me, another for you.”

  At this time, a drunken old man passed nearby and heard them:

  “One for me, another for you. One for me, another for you.”

  Thinking he was listening to God and Satan dividing the souls of newly deceased, the man decided to approach and take a look. Then, he heard:

  “What are we going to do with the ones outside?”

  Fearing for his soul, the old man ran into the night.

  This story is told in bars and coffeehouses across the region as a joke, but it caught my attention because it has been renewed with the passing of the years. There are versions that include modern technologies and recent changes to the cemetery and the city. They may just be popular updates. After all, “who tells a tale adds a tail”. But there may be something more, later events that were merged with the original story. As the events are always described as having occurred at this time of the year, I decided to come by the cemetery every night of February. I'm skeptical as to the veracity of the myth, but this is one of those cases where I prefer to be sure.

  I approach the cemetery from the back, from the street where it is said that the drunkard had passed. On the other nights, I didn't notice anything abnormal, so imagine my surprise when I start hearing:

  “One for me, another for you. One for me, another for you.”

  Immediately, I start looking for a way in, since, at this hour, the gates are closed. Luckily, the cemetery's enlargement works forced the temporary demolition of some parts of the walls, and it is through one these gaps that I get in. On the other side, an angel from Heaven, a creature with blond hair and white wings, splits between himself and a fallen angel of Hell, with red wings and red hair and fingers ending in black claws, small pieces of paper with something written.

  “One for me, another for you. One for me, another for you.”

  In the meantime, an angel of Purgatory, easily distinguishable by its white hair and eyes and wings of white feathers that fade to red at the tip, walks through the cemetery, copying to other pieces of paper the names on the latest headstones.

  There are well-defined laws about the division of souls, which ensure that each one goes to the kingdom of the afterlife that it deserves. These angels, however, are dividing them randomly. Why, I don't know. But it doesn't matter. This goes against everything that I stand for. I have to intervene.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  The three angels turn their heads in my direction, eyes widening in surprise and fear. They all know me. This is not the first time I have interfered in the affairs of angels.

  “We... I... He...” says the angel of Heaven.

  I smile. It brings me some pleasure to see one of the arrogant angels embarrassed.

  “I know what you are doing. Start dividing the souls according to the laws and not at random. Undo the injustices you did before. How, I don't know or care. Or else...”

  I paused for a second. One of the angels was going to answer, but I continued:

  “Or else, I'm going to pray to Him,” I point at the sky, “and sacrifice a goat to Him,” I point at the ground, “and tell them what you've been doing. I would love to see what would be your punishment.”

  “Not if we don't let you get out of here,” said the angel of Hell, taking a step in my direction with its black claws open.

  The other two grab him. I may not like them, but there is a line that the angels of the two higher realms never cross.

  “We'll take care of it,” the angel of Purgatory assures me. “We promise.”

  Without a word, I turn around and abandon the cemetery. Obviously, I'm not stupid and leave, next to the wall, a small microphone to make sure that they don't do the same again. And it's also obvious that they know I'm not stupid and won't do the same again.

  I start walking back to the hospital near where I left my car. The fight between the two youngsters has already ended, and there's no trace of the group. Probably, one of the brawlers offered to a buy a drink for the other so they could make peace and go back to being friends. How stupid.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Joel Puga was born in the Portuguese city of Viana do Castelo in 1983. Since an early age, he has been in contact with fantasy and science fiction, mainly thanks to dubbed films and TV shows transmitted by Spanish channels. As soon as he learned how to read, he got into genre literature; starting his adventure with Julio Verne’s books. It was during this time that he produced his first stories, generally using other author's universes as a backdrop, the reading of which was reserved to family and friends.

  In 2001, he moved to Braga to follow his studies, a time in which he decided his writings should be more than a private hobb
y. This granted him several publications in Portuguese anthologies and fanzines of various sub-genres of speculative fiction.

  Today, he lives in Braga, where he divides his time between his job as a computer engineer, as well as writing and reading.

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  Other Works by the Author

  The Saga of Me - Divine Justice

  It's two in the morning of a dark and rainy night. With quick steps, I approach an old abandoned house in the centre of Braga. In spite of the protection of my trench coat and leather gloves I'm drenched, and I wish I was within the shelter of a roof and four walls. Still, I can't help but notice the posters that cover the old ruin. Adverts for political parties, placed here at the time of the last elections. Elections; a mechanism created to give mere humans the illusion that they can control their own destiny. What they don't realize is that the leaders of the various parties control them first, through this political marketing, the speeches in which they talk a lot but say little, the appearances in public, the “kissing babies” campaigns, as I like to call them, and, sometimes, even the giving of hams to the voters. And the people, surrounded by all this paraphernalia, forget what really matters, the work done by the candidates, their curriculum, their merits and demerits, and vote solely based on sympathies. This is why I never vote. I do not believe in the current state of democracy, in the dictatorship of the majority, in which the majority is brain washed.

  Seconds later I cross the door of the decaying building, and I find myself within a huge room lit by dozens of candles. Around me, naked men and women give themselves to the pleasures of the flesh, but their alabaster skin and long, sharp canines reveal that they are not human. Vampires. Creatures that once were human but that, after learning the truth about Heaven and Hell, came, like me, to the conclusion that neither of the two is a desirable destination and chose to use ancient rituals to indefinitely prolong their lives. Once, I considered becoming one of them, but promptly found out that they pay a high price for immortality, much too high for me. The curse, because I can't see the ritual as anything else, makes them vulnerable to sunlight, so they have to spend all day hidden in the dark corners of the world, and can only go out during the night. In addition, they have to regularly drink human blood or end up weakened or even losing eternal life. When found, they are hunted down and killed. Marginalized and persecuted, many become murderous monsters, living only to satisfy the thirst for blood.

  Fortunately, over the years, I gained the trust of the group that inhabits this house, especially of its leader, and I am confident that they will not attack me. Still, I am prepared in case some do.

  When I get to the middle of the room, one of the vampires, lying alone on the floor, slips away the thin sheet of satin that covers her naked body and gives me an inviting look.

  “Would you like to join me?”

  For more books by Joel Puga, visit https://joelpuga.com/en/books/.

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