Carnival Souls

The Past is the Past (part one)

Owen and Vivian sat the tiny card table in the center of the room, both sipping from steaming mugs. A plate of shortbread cookies sat between them. "Not as good as our chef prodigy I'm afraid, but still tasty," Vivian had said as she set them down. Owen had taken one to be polite though he had never really liked shortbread. An awkward silence now bloomed between them. Vivian appraised Owen thoughtfully over the rim of her cup, giving her the appearance of an affectionate but strict grandmother. Owen hoped she wouldn't launch into some odd fortune-telling demonstration as she had the first night he met her.

"Don't worry," said Vivian. It was unsettling, in an ironic way, how much more normal she seemed when she wasn't speaking in an affected voice and putting on airs. "I won't tell you your fortune unless you ask. That's the first precept of an occupation such as mine, though most pretenders ignore it in favor of establishing themselves and proving their so-called ability."

It took an extra second for Owen to puzzle out the meaning of her words. "You're a real fortune-teller then?" he asked hesitantly, not wanting to offend her.

"I rather detest that designation," she said mildly, as though she was describing her dislike of the rain. "'Fortune-teller.' Anyone can tell your fortune. Most are hedging and will never be correct. 'Psychic' I believe is more accurate—it means relating to the soul—but it still doesn't quite fit. It sounds almost cheap, does it not? I suppose that's due to sensationalizing in the papers and the like..."

"Um," said Owen, not at all sure what he was supposed to say.

Vivian waved her hand. "Forgive me, dear. It's been a while since I've had any real conversation. I forget myself. To answer your question, yes. I was born with a predisposition to clairvoyance. I could predict peoples' fortunes with a rather high degree of accuracy. But without all this hullaballoo," she said, gesturing at large to the tent and carnival beyond. "This is Bebinn's idea of what I did. In truth, people knocked upon my back door at twilight and I would speak to them at my kitchen table. Much like we are now. I am out of practice now I fear. Not many mortals come this way if you can imagine."

Owen set his cup down; the fragrant tea was getting to his head. "If you don't tell the fortunes of the dead souls then what exactly do you do?"

"I show them their pasts." She refilled Owen's cup. "Souls have memories, but sometimes they have a hard time re-experiencing them. Most memories are of what happened to you in relation to your body. Once you shed your skin, many of the memories fade and become hard to recall, but there is much to be learned from studying the past." She caught Owen's eye and the corners of her mouth twitched. Owen felt sure she knew but didn't want to risk voicing it aloud. If she was willing to talk to him about the past that was good enough for him.

"Most souls who wander in here want to know their future," continued Vivian. "Is there a heaven? A hell? If so, how will they be judged? I cannot answer that. Once souls cross into this world, their fate is no longer in their hands and so out of my sight. A higher power judges them, one I have no hope of understanding, and it would be a terrible thing to fashion myself as one who can read the mind and decisions of God, or gods, depending on your preference.

"The past, however, is quite different. I'm sure you've noticed the souls that come here are the unsavory variety. They have done things of a certain degree of terribleness that renders them the way the appear now. But that does not mean they cannot face what they have done, and in doing so, perhaps offer themselves a better chance at a more favorable afterlife."

"So... the souls who decide to face their past—how does it work?" asked Owen.

"I can show you if you'd like," said Vivian.