Caught in Camera
Created | Updated Jan 8, 2009
Gregory felt bruised by the angry tongue-lashing the villagers gave him. He didn't understand the language but it was obvious they were objecting to his photographing the little girl, in the strongest possible terms. The tour guide warned them all, but he hadn't taken the warning seriously. It just seemed such nonsense in this day and age, that there were people who still believed that their souls could be stolen by a holiday-maker with a 'phone/camera. They didn't look quite primitive enough, in their western T-shirts, emblazoned with the ubiquitous smiley faces and cheeky slogans.
The child was practically begging to be photographed. She was playing with a collection of dusty fish heads while her mother did some alfresco cooking. She had the sweetest little face. He'd done it automatically: just reached into his pocket for his mobile phone and snapped her. The next thing he knew, the woman was screaming at him and he was surrounded by a crowd of furious villagers. He showed them the picture, trying, somehow, to persuade them that it was perfectly all right. That had only convinced them that he was threatening something worse. They looked at the picture in horror and seemed about to lynch him when the tour guide pushed his way through and demanded to know what was going on. When Greg told him, the guy instructed him to delete the picture immediately. That was a mistake too. They seemed to think that, having stolen the child's soul, he had now destroyed it.
What a drama! The tour guide herded the party back to the coach as if he thought they really were in serious trouble.
Now, back at the hotel, the other people in the tour were treating him like a pariah. He'd ruined their day. And the guide was livid because he'd never be able take a party to the village again. Greg sat under a slowly rotating fan at the dim end of the bar, sympathising with himself and staring gloomily into his empty glass, shoulders hunched in the manner of an innocent man condemned.
The barman came over and asked if he would like another. He nodded without looking up. Half a minute later his empty glass slid away and a fresh one slid in under his nose. Then he looked up with a half-hearted smile.
"Thanks Mike."
"Me special barman senses tell me you need it."
It looked a thing of beauty, shimmering in the oppressive, midday heat: crisp and golden with beads of condensation trickling down its frosted sides.
"Like that scene at the end of Ice Cold in Alex."
"I've not seen it."
"Oh. Too bad. It was a good film."
"D'you have a bad trip?"
"Hmm?"
He took a long swallow of his beer.
"Your trip this morning. You've a face like a smacked arse. Did it not go well?"
"No. Looks like I've upset everybody."
"Aye. Almost everyone. I'm still talking t'you though."
"Thanks Mike."
"What d'y'do? Wink at the chief's favourite daughter?"
"Why? Is that against the rules too? No. I just took a photograph."
"Ah."
"What do mean, 'Ah'?"
"I mean 'Ah, there might be something to worry about'."
"Oh, good grief! You too?"
"Didn't that guide fella warn you?"
"Yeah but..."
"You took no notice?"
"Nope."
"Well, you should've. Anyone in that picture's lost the soul of 'em. That's what these folks believe. How many was in the photo?"
"Just one little girl and the feet of her mother. It's a ridiculous superstition. I can't believe the fuss..."
"That's because you've no notion. That kid's got no soul now. You've taken it away. They know that - I mean they *really* believe it!"
"Yeah, but why? Has no-one tried to explain to them about reality?"
"I take it you've no beliefs yourself, at all? No religion? Philosophy? Ideology? Anything o' the kind?"
"Sort of. Sort of Church of England. I suppose. I'm not an atheist or anything like that. What about you?"
The barman laughed. "I'm Catholic. Of course. As you'd've guessed. Left home years ago to get away from all that..."
"Superstition?"
"Not at all. The troubles. But I understand about beliefs. How would you feel if you clocked someone ripping a wee child's soul away?"
"By taking a snap of them for the album? It's rubbish, isn't it? You don't believe it. How could anyone believe such a crock?"
"Is it not the easiest thing in the world to believe?"
"You're pulling my leg."
Greg finished his beer and got up to leave. "See you later Mike."
"I'm not joking, y'know? There *will* be trouble. They take the loss of a child's soul very seriously. They'll try to get it back if they can."
"Yeah well, I haven't got it! Okay?"
"No. You've not. That's a problem. They'd find a way to exchange your own immortal essence for the child's - to get the wee darlin's back from wherever souls go. But you've not got one, so they might have to use the very life of you, instead."
Greg stopped and looked hard at the barman's face. "Is this your Irish sense of humour? I can't tell when you're not smiling or laughing."
"As I told you, I'm not joking. Not at all. But I'm only the barman. Don't listen to me... if you think y'know better."
"I've got no soul? How do you mean?"
"Well, frisk yourself. Where is it? Do you feel you have a soul, at all? What does if feel like? How would you know?"
"I don't know. I'm alive. I can think. I'm not evil. What are the signs? How can anyone tell? How can you tell?"
"Now, that's where we're at a disadvantage. THEY can tell. The people of the village know you've no soul. They've been told, practically the first thing that happens to 'civilised' bairns, the moment they're cleaned an' polished o' the after-birth, is they've to pose for a picture an' lose their souls."
"What? So none of us has a soul then?"
"'Fraid not. And none of us knows how it feels to have a soul either. It's like our antennae's amputated before we're even aware. After that, o'course, we'll not see or feel the things people with souls see and feel."
"Ignorance and superstition!"
"Ha! You know better o'course. You don't believe all that daft nonsense. You understand so much more. You're more educated and sophisticated than these 'primitive' people, right?"
"Humph."
"But they know the real reason y'can't believe. It's because y'can't see what they see. You were 'blinded' before ever y'learned how to look."
"Is that what you believe?"
The barman gave him a look that told him all he needed to know.
"Maybe you've been living here too long."
Greg turned and strolled from the bar, giving Mike a wave.
Mike called after him. "If you'll take my advice, you won't go wandering outside alone."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Greg was woken by an icy wind whipping round his body, biting at his flesh. He felt naked. And he couldn't remember where he was. Camping in the Himalayas? No. That was... when was that? He couldn't remember. It had been cold like this but the atmosphere, the smell - the taste of the air - was... different. He did his best to suppress the creeping sense of apprehension and gather his thoughts.
Too cold. Must be suffering from hypothermia. That would cause confusion. It might explain why he couldn't remember - couldn't think. He tried to listen but all he heard was the wind whistling and his teeth chattering. Except... There was another sound behind the rushing wind, beyond the rattling teeth. Someone whispering? If only he could stop shivering, it might be possible to hear. He went to hold his jaw steady with his hand. That's when he discovered that he was unable to move. He couldn't feel his limbs.
What do you do with an hysterical level of panic when you can't move? It broke over him like an immense, freezing wave. He drowned in it until it choked out all his senses - until he thought he was dead. Then he surfaced.
The wind had dropped. And the teeth had stopped chattering. That happens with hypothermia - just before the end.
Now he could hear the voices, but couldn't understand what they were saying. As fear loosened its grip on his heart and lungs, he pulled in a great, shuddering gasp of air - and noticed two things. The air in his lungs was not cold, though all his other returning senses told him that his body was in an environment of sub-zero conditions. Also, he could see something. Both of these things surprised him despite the persistence of the terror. Reason informed him that one or more of his senses must be malfunctioning. He considered and dismissed the possibility that he was having a nightmare, using the usual formula: Question - how do you know this isn't a dream? Answer - you just do!
But the voices were becoming more comprehensible to him - and that doesn't happen in waking life. His reason told him that a foreign language stays foreign and beyond your ability to understand, until you learn it. That's how undream-like his reasoning was. Confusion was almost beginning to outweigh fear. The voices were pleading - all of them, pathetically begging for... something. It was the overall sense of the words rather than their individual meaning that he was getting. It was a message that tapped directly into some primitive communication receptor, by-passing the language centres in his brain.
What he could see was a hazy, yellow-tinged light. It seemed to be coming from several locations. As he watched and wondered, the light got closer, and resolved itself into innumerable, feebly glimmering dots. The dots grew as they approached him. For reasons he couldn't quite define, they made him feel agitated. The place felt desolate - full of sorrow and loneliness. Something horrible, like a disembodied hunger, that perceived him as the answer to its prayers, was closing in on every side. His agitation fed and renewed his terror.
The oncoming tide of little glows was almost upon him. They were close enough to reveal his surroundings. He found that he was 'standing' on, or perhaps floating above a flat, grey plane. It was dry and utterly devoid of features. Dust hung in the dead air like a frigid, yellow smog, dimly illuminated by the growing number of approaching glimmers. He saw that the glowing entities wore human shapes - some more distinct than others. Some had almost faded to nothing and he could hardly see them at all. They stretched their hands out to him, as if for warmth and he felt the temperature drop even further. They were drawing energy from him and he was helpless to stop it.
Momentarily, he caught a glimpse of a child's face. It was smaller but brighter than the others. And he recognised it. But then the little face moved back into the crowd. It was so bright that it shone through the larger, paler ones around it.
Unable to respond in any way, his life-force bled freely into the lonely, famished ranks. Then one pushed its way to the front and hovered right in front of him. It wore his face, but it looked eager, starved, bestial. The thing wrapped itself round him like cellophane. As it touched him, it seemed to liquefy and soak into him. All the other... lost souls - he suddenly understood that's what they were - drew back, defeated. He felt a huge expansion of his... being - a great surge of energy, from nuclear winter to the heart of the sun, an explosion of emotion, rapture - and a strange, disturbing hunger.
It was back! The part of him that he'd never even missed because he didn't remember it. And he was filled to overflowing. Ecstatic. His senses tingled. The fear had left without a trace. Every part of him felt more alive - more complete. And he could move on this unfamiliar plane. He could fly!
He flew. Soared like an eagle, swooped like a flock of starlings, over the dreary plane - expanded outside what had once been his boundaries and, just as he was reacquainting himself with his lost soul, he was yanked into his body, lying on a bed in his hotel room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Greg felt himself deflate. A terrible sense of loss replaced his recent elation. A sigh that went on and on in his mind, long after the breath had all gone, ended suddenly as he was jarred back into an awareness of his body, by a sharp thump on the chest.
"Back you come. How're you feeling?"
"What? What the...?"
"You went on a wee trip. Remember? Now it's time to wake up and open your eyes."
Penetrating the fog of confusion, he recognised the barman's voice, muffled by a general shuffling, rustling and whispering. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. And he blinked several times, trying to focus on the surprising number of faces surrounding his bed.
"Mike?"
"Right."
"What the hell's going on here?"
"I took the liberty of slippin' you a Mickey with your after-dinner brandy. 'Twas all in a good cause though. Your villagers here, put it to me that, if I could con you into helping get the little one back - you wouldn't have to die in the process. I reckoned you'd agree it was a bargain... under the circumstances."
"What are you talking about?"
"The wee girl whose soul you so carelessly lost a few hours ago. Remember? They'd to be quick. Couldn't hang around. Time's short. The soul goes savage if it's parted from the body for too long. Forgets to be human. So you see, we couldn't mess about, persuading and debating with you?"
"What have you done to me?"
"Only sent you to find what was lost. They guided the little truant - don't ask me how - to the remnants of your soul and your soul should have homed in on you when you passed over to its side of the veil. They were fishing for the kid, using you as their bait. And it worked. She's back. They snatched her out o' the desolation as soon as you started whooping and chortling in your sleep."
"My soul! That's right! I was whole again. I have to go back and get it..."
"You can't. It's too late for you. The little darlin's going to be fine. Hers was only gone a few hours. They'll knit back together good as new. But yours's gone mad. It'll be a wicked thing of murderous desires. You won't be able to control it."
Greg struggled to sit up, his face twisted with anguish.
"No. You don't understand. I'm empty. There's a cold wind howling through a wide open space where my... my..."
He trailed off, searching Mike's face for some clue to the baffling question.
"Strange I never noticed it before..."
"Yeah. I know. Ignorance was bliss. You shouldn't have snapped the kid."
Jaw working, brow furrowed, Greg stared at Mike, recognising suddenly that Mike understood completely.
"You should try to forget it. Try to get some sleep now and meditate on your good fortune. After all, you survived and you haven't lost anything you can't live without."
Mike patted Greg on the shoulder, stood up and ushered the villagers from the room. As they left, Greg saw the little girl in her mother's arms, staring at him with an almost adult look of seriousness and sympathy. And then, just as the woman walked through the door, the child stretched an arm towards Greg, and pointed a yellow-glowing finger at him. He felt a brutal hunger gnawing inside him - chewing round the raw edges that had gone so long unnoticed - hollowing him out.
The child was practically begging to be photographed. She was playing with a collection of dusty fish heads while her mother did some alfresco cooking. She had the sweetest little face. He'd done it automatically: just reached into his pocket for his mobile phone and snapped her. The next thing he knew, the woman was screaming at him and he was surrounded by a crowd of furious villagers. He showed them the picture, trying, somehow, to persuade them that it was perfectly all right. That had only convinced them that he was threatening something worse. They looked at the picture in horror and seemed about to lynch him when the tour guide pushed his way through and demanded to know what was going on. When Greg told him, the guy instructed him to delete the picture immediately. That was a mistake too. They seemed to think that, having stolen the child's soul, he had now destroyed it.
What a drama! The tour guide herded the party back to the coach as if he thought they really were in serious trouble.
Now, back at the hotel, the other people in the tour were treating him like a pariah. He'd ruined their day. And the guide was livid because he'd never be able take a party to the village again. Greg sat under a slowly rotating fan at the dim end of the bar, sympathising with himself and staring gloomily into his empty glass, shoulders hunched in the manner of an innocent man condemned.
The barman came over and asked if he would like another. He nodded without looking up. Half a minute later his empty glass slid away and a fresh one slid in under his nose. Then he looked up with a half-hearted smile.
"Thanks Mike."
"Me special barman senses tell me you need it."
It looked a thing of beauty, shimmering in the oppressive, midday heat: crisp and golden with beads of condensation trickling down its frosted sides.
"Like that scene at the end of Ice Cold in Alex."
"I've not seen it."
"Oh. Too bad. It was a good film."
"D'you have a bad trip?"
"Hmm?"
He took a long swallow of his beer.
"Your trip this morning. You've a face like a smacked arse. Did it not go well?"
"No. Looks like I've upset everybody."
"Aye. Almost everyone. I'm still talking t'you though."
"Thanks Mike."
"What d'y'do? Wink at the chief's favourite daughter?"
"Why? Is that against the rules too? No. I just took a photograph."
"Ah."
"What do mean, 'Ah'?"
"I mean 'Ah, there might be something to worry about'."
"Oh, good grief! You too?"
"Didn't that guide fella warn you?"
"Yeah but..."
"You took no notice?"
"Nope."
"Well, you should've. Anyone in that picture's lost the soul of 'em. That's what these folks believe. How many was in the photo?"
"Just one little girl and the feet of her mother. It's a ridiculous superstition. I can't believe the fuss..."
"That's because you've no notion. That kid's got no soul now. You've taken it away. They know that - I mean they *really* believe it!"
"Yeah, but why? Has no-one tried to explain to them about reality?"
"I take it you've no beliefs yourself, at all? No religion? Philosophy? Ideology? Anything o' the kind?"
"Sort of. Sort of Church of England. I suppose. I'm not an atheist or anything like that. What about you?"
The barman laughed. "I'm Catholic. Of course. As you'd've guessed. Left home years ago to get away from all that..."
"Superstition?"
"Not at all. The troubles. But I understand about beliefs. How would you feel if you clocked someone ripping a wee child's soul away?"
"By taking a snap of them for the album? It's rubbish, isn't it? You don't believe it. How could anyone believe such a crock?"
"Is it not the easiest thing in the world to believe?"
"You're pulling my leg."
Greg finished his beer and got up to leave. "See you later Mike."
"I'm not joking, y'know? There *will* be trouble. They take the loss of a child's soul very seriously. They'll try to get it back if they can."
"Yeah well, I haven't got it! Okay?"
"No. You've not. That's a problem. They'd find a way to exchange your own immortal essence for the child's - to get the wee darlin's back from wherever souls go. But you've not got one, so they might have to use the very life of you, instead."
Greg stopped and looked hard at the barman's face. "Is this your Irish sense of humour? I can't tell when you're not smiling or laughing."
"As I told you, I'm not joking. Not at all. But I'm only the barman. Don't listen to me... if you think y'know better."
"I've got no soul? How do you mean?"
"Well, frisk yourself. Where is it? Do you feel you have a soul, at all? What does if feel like? How would you know?"
"I don't know. I'm alive. I can think. I'm not evil. What are the signs? How can anyone tell? How can you tell?"
"Now, that's where we're at a disadvantage. THEY can tell. The people of the village know you've no soul. They've been told, practically the first thing that happens to 'civilised' bairns, the moment they're cleaned an' polished o' the after-birth, is they've to pose for a picture an' lose their souls."
"What? So none of us has a soul then?"
"'Fraid not. And none of us knows how it feels to have a soul either. It's like our antennae's amputated before we're even aware. After that, o'course, we'll not see or feel the things people with souls see and feel."
"Ignorance and superstition!"
"Ha! You know better o'course. You don't believe all that daft nonsense. You understand so much more. You're more educated and sophisticated than these 'primitive' people, right?"
"Humph."
"But they know the real reason y'can't believe. It's because y'can't see what they see. You were 'blinded' before ever y'learned how to look."
"Is that what you believe?"
The barman gave him a look that told him all he needed to know.
"Maybe you've been living here too long."
Greg turned and strolled from the bar, giving Mike a wave.
Mike called after him. "If you'll take my advice, you won't go wandering outside alone."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Greg was woken by an icy wind whipping round his body, biting at his flesh. He felt naked. And he couldn't remember where he was. Camping in the Himalayas? No. That was... when was that? He couldn't remember. It had been cold like this but the atmosphere, the smell - the taste of the air - was... different. He did his best to suppress the creeping sense of apprehension and gather his thoughts.
Too cold. Must be suffering from hypothermia. That would cause confusion. It might explain why he couldn't remember - couldn't think. He tried to listen but all he heard was the wind whistling and his teeth chattering. Except... There was another sound behind the rushing wind, beyond the rattling teeth. Someone whispering? If only he could stop shivering, it might be possible to hear. He went to hold his jaw steady with his hand. That's when he discovered that he was unable to move. He couldn't feel his limbs.
What do you do with an hysterical level of panic when you can't move? It broke over him like an immense, freezing wave. He drowned in it until it choked out all his senses - until he thought he was dead. Then he surfaced.
The wind had dropped. And the teeth had stopped chattering. That happens with hypothermia - just before the end.
Now he could hear the voices, but couldn't understand what they were saying. As fear loosened its grip on his heart and lungs, he pulled in a great, shuddering gasp of air - and noticed two things. The air in his lungs was not cold, though all his other returning senses told him that his body was in an environment of sub-zero conditions. Also, he could see something. Both of these things surprised him despite the persistence of the terror. Reason informed him that one or more of his senses must be malfunctioning. He considered and dismissed the possibility that he was having a nightmare, using the usual formula: Question - how do you know this isn't a dream? Answer - you just do!
But the voices were becoming more comprehensible to him - and that doesn't happen in waking life. His reason told him that a foreign language stays foreign and beyond your ability to understand, until you learn it. That's how undream-like his reasoning was. Confusion was almost beginning to outweigh fear. The voices were pleading - all of them, pathetically begging for... something. It was the overall sense of the words rather than their individual meaning that he was getting. It was a message that tapped directly into some primitive communication receptor, by-passing the language centres in his brain.
What he could see was a hazy, yellow-tinged light. It seemed to be coming from several locations. As he watched and wondered, the light got closer, and resolved itself into innumerable, feebly glimmering dots. The dots grew as they approached him. For reasons he couldn't quite define, they made him feel agitated. The place felt desolate - full of sorrow and loneliness. Something horrible, like a disembodied hunger, that perceived him as the answer to its prayers, was closing in on every side. His agitation fed and renewed his terror.
The oncoming tide of little glows was almost upon him. They were close enough to reveal his surroundings. He found that he was 'standing' on, or perhaps floating above a flat, grey plane. It was dry and utterly devoid of features. Dust hung in the dead air like a frigid, yellow smog, dimly illuminated by the growing number of approaching glimmers. He saw that the glowing entities wore human shapes - some more distinct than others. Some had almost faded to nothing and he could hardly see them at all. They stretched their hands out to him, as if for warmth and he felt the temperature drop even further. They were drawing energy from him and he was helpless to stop it.
Momentarily, he caught a glimpse of a child's face. It was smaller but brighter than the others. And he recognised it. But then the little face moved back into the crowd. It was so bright that it shone through the larger, paler ones around it.
Unable to respond in any way, his life-force bled freely into the lonely, famished ranks. Then one pushed its way to the front and hovered right in front of him. It wore his face, but it looked eager, starved, bestial. The thing wrapped itself round him like cellophane. As it touched him, it seemed to liquefy and soak into him. All the other... lost souls - he suddenly understood that's what they were - drew back, defeated. He felt a huge expansion of his... being - a great surge of energy, from nuclear winter to the heart of the sun, an explosion of emotion, rapture - and a strange, disturbing hunger.
It was back! The part of him that he'd never even missed because he didn't remember it. And he was filled to overflowing. Ecstatic. His senses tingled. The fear had left without a trace. Every part of him felt more alive - more complete. And he could move on this unfamiliar plane. He could fly!
He flew. Soared like an eagle, swooped like a flock of starlings, over the dreary plane - expanded outside what had once been his boundaries and, just as he was reacquainting himself with his lost soul, he was yanked into his body, lying on a bed in his hotel room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Greg felt himself deflate. A terrible sense of loss replaced his recent elation. A sigh that went on and on in his mind, long after the breath had all gone, ended suddenly as he was jarred back into an awareness of his body, by a sharp thump on the chest.
"Back you come. How're you feeling?"
"What? What the...?"
"You went on a wee trip. Remember? Now it's time to wake up and open your eyes."
Penetrating the fog of confusion, he recognised the barman's voice, muffled by a general shuffling, rustling and whispering. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. And he blinked several times, trying to focus on the surprising number of faces surrounding his bed.
"Mike?"
"Right."
"What the hell's going on here?"
"I took the liberty of slippin' you a Mickey with your after-dinner brandy. 'Twas all in a good cause though. Your villagers here, put it to me that, if I could con you into helping get the little one back - you wouldn't have to die in the process. I reckoned you'd agree it was a bargain... under the circumstances."
"What are you talking about?"
"The wee girl whose soul you so carelessly lost a few hours ago. Remember? They'd to be quick. Couldn't hang around. Time's short. The soul goes savage if it's parted from the body for too long. Forgets to be human. So you see, we couldn't mess about, persuading and debating with you?"
"What have you done to me?"
"Only sent you to find what was lost. They guided the little truant - don't ask me how - to the remnants of your soul and your soul should have homed in on you when you passed over to its side of the veil. They were fishing for the kid, using you as their bait. And it worked. She's back. They snatched her out o' the desolation as soon as you started whooping and chortling in your sleep."
"My soul! That's right! I was whole again. I have to go back and get it..."
"You can't. It's too late for you. The little darlin's going to be fine. Hers was only gone a few hours. They'll knit back together good as new. But yours's gone mad. It'll be a wicked thing of murderous desires. You won't be able to control it."
Greg struggled to sit up, his face twisted with anguish.
"No. You don't understand. I'm empty. There's a cold wind howling through a wide open space where my... my..."
He trailed off, searching Mike's face for some clue to the baffling question.
"Strange I never noticed it before..."
"Yeah. I know. Ignorance was bliss. You shouldn't have snapped the kid."
Jaw working, brow furrowed, Greg stared at Mike, recognising suddenly that Mike understood completely.
"You should try to forget it. Try to get some sleep now and meditate on your good fortune. After all, you survived and you haven't lost anything you can't live without."
Mike patted Greg on the shoulder, stood up and ushered the villagers from the room. As they left, Greg saw the little girl in her mother's arms, staring at him with an almost adult look of seriousness and sympathy. And then, just as the woman walked through the door, the child stretched an arm towards Greg, and pointed a yellow-glowing finger at him. He felt a brutal hunger gnawing inside him - chewing round the raw edges that had gone so long unnoticed - hollowing him out.
