FLASH FICTION - SUPER POWER

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s three months since my last confession…”

How often had I heard those words? Today, I listened as a young man – in his twenties I’d say from his voice – reeled off the usual litany of peccadillos: improper thoughts, envy, lust…nothing special.

“But father, what about you?” he asked, following absolution. “There must be something that you desire, something you’ve always wanted?”

I laughed. “No, my son, nothing. Poverty, chastity, the chance to serve, are all I’ve ever desired.”

“Come on, Father. Try harder! Just one thing.”

“Well,” I whispered conspiratorially to the grille, “I would give anything to be able to look into a person’s soul.”

“Anything?”

“I have few possessions – none I treasure – so, yes …anything.”

At that I heard footsteps rapidly retreating from the confessional box, the creak of the old church door, then shivered as an icy blast filled the nave – it was July!

The tolling of the bell confirmed it was time for home. I wended my way up the aisle, shaking my head, chuckling at the young man’s comments. The cheek of today’s youth! When I was a youngster, never would I have-

“Afternoon, father.” It was the church warden.

“Alfred. Good day.”

Then I recoiled – startled by what I saw! Bared in a way that I simply cannot explain was his soul, in all its foul extremities. Hypocrisy, envy, cruelty and greed, a dark vortex trying to suck me in; kindness, compassion, honesty and hope, like shining stars – dwarfed, but infinitely strong.

“I’m sorry. Have to go,” I stammered, then hurried home to the rectory for a tumbler of something strong.

My ministry lasted many years more and I must have met tens of thousands of parishioners, young and old, saint-like or foolishly-strayed, who unbeknown to them revealed more to me than they could ever have dreamed possible. Like so much in life, as I have discovered, I became more used to, more skilled at, manipulating, my new-found ability. I learned to focus on those bits of a person’s soul I wished to see, masking any I found repulsive or upsetting. I gained local fame for ‘understanding’ my flock in ways no other priest was able and, unsurprisingly, rose to be bishop.

My 70th birthday was to be my last as vicar of Christ. Retirement called and I sat, for the final time, in the cathedral’s confessional.

“Bless me father…” His voice hadn’t changed. Still a young man’s. “We made a deal. You said you’d give ‘anything’ for the power that I granted.”

“But, I…” I could scarcely breathe and ripped away the grille. There he sat, a smartly dressed man in his twenties - a pitch-black void where his soul should have been. I fell to my knees. “But that was 25 years ago!” I felt my whole being empty, my spirit flying to him across the few dark feet separating us; then watched, agape, as he rose, turned, and tipped his hat in thanks.

Super-power comes in different guises, or as my grandmother would say, ‘all shapes and guises.’

This philosophical enlightenment took place in the late 70s. I was starting to move away from the school playground games, preferring to open books or hold discussions with those fellow students who held similar interests. To be honest, these students numbered three, but nonetheless eyes were widened and so were our minds to the wonders of literature, of nature, of possibilities, of life. 

During summer school holidays it was not uncommon to find me in the countryside under a tree with a book. You could say it was a form of escape from the trials of homelife. Whilst I may have been physically alone, I wasn’t alone. All around, my senses worked overtime. 

I would always choose a vantage point whereby I could see a canvas of bright and light, a celebrated kaleidoscope of bursting colour, a folding and fusing vista, a place where nature would not be disturbed going about its daily work whilst I invaded its space. 

My chosen tree provided shade and occasional shelter from the warm summer rain; but it was more than that. A summer breeze would hold a conversation with the leaves and branches, and birdsong – the Green Woodpecker in particular, would compose a symphony conducting Jays and Jackdaws. If my station was under a tree close to a house or in a formal garden, the joy of hearing Robins in the tendered hedgerow was entwined with the occasional marauding pheasant foraging and keeping away from the shooting rights. Swallows would swoop and dive in and out of the wheat fields and I am sure the poppy seeds were scattering in the breeze and coming to rest in the soil to grow tall the following summer.

Toward late August, the blackberries and raspberries in those same hedgerows would be an absolute bounty for birds and me – I can still taste my grandmother’s crumble and pies.

So, what was in my backpack? A bottle of cordial mixed with water, advised to remain upright to avoid spillage on the bicycle ride; two rounds of corned beef sandwiches, two packets of crisps, two apples and a banana if I was lucky. And of course, my chosen reads and a notebook and pencils. A few scribblings have survived from those days that have woven into my poems and the odd short story. It was not unusual to spend at least six hours under the tree – I confess to the odd afternoon snooze!  

Back in the late 70s and early 80s I remember the summers being fairly settled and we would speak of ‘glorious summers’ or ‘golden summers’ – perhaps in homage to our Enid Blyton books? The magic figure of summer comfort was 77 degrees Fahrenheit, 25 degrees centigrade in modern money!

Super-power does come in all shapes and guises (smiling face and thumbs up to my grandmother).

It was night. Reema lay there, alone in the darkness. She lived in a mansion in the English countryside, far away from anyone else.

She had been raised in India, but had spent the last three years in England, bought as a slave to help her family to pay their way in the world. Reema was 18 now, and should have been contemplating her future steps as an adult. But such experiences were far away.

The only sounds that Reema could hear, curled up in her dungeon, were the sounds of her own sobs as she remembered how she had become a captive, believing those who had told her she was on the road to a better life. The room was dark, echoing the darkness of her own mind, hidden away from those who belittled her on a daily basis.

As the tears rolled down her face, moving from side to side, they reflected Reema’s mood, moving from pessimism to optimism and back again, before finally staining her pillow, the only way Reema could ever leave her own mark on her surroundings. Reema was beautiful on the outside, but this hid a darkness that wrapped itself around her every thought. 

Reema’s one connection with the world outside were the tiny windows at the top of the walls of her cellar, visited by curious birds who flew down to explore. Some were regular visitors, and Reema had given them names. She wondered if, one day, she would meet those feathered friends, without the barrier of glass which separated them. 

Then it happened. Was it fate or was it divine intervention? Reema had been cleaning the house when the phone rang. It was answered by the lady of the house who was left her in a state of panic. She threw the phone down, screaming, rushing towards her car, catching her coat in the front door as she went, so that the door did not close.

That chink of light was the route that gave Reema an avenue to the outside world. Not daring to believe what was happening, she waited until the lady’s car had left and made a bolt for freedom. She ran and ran, the wind blowing through her hair, so that it cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall. 

Reema was free! 

Ten years later, as a free woman, Reema went back to the house, determined to meet the lady again. Looking around her, she wondered if the birds she could hear were her old friends.

Then she knocked on the door. What had been a door that had admitted light ten years before, was now a door which revealed darkness. 

‘I have made a new life.’

‘I know. The day you left was the day my husband died.’

Staring into the sadness of the woman’s eyes, Reema understood that the moment of freedom for her had been the moment of tragedy for her captor. 

Then Reema exercised that most powerful of all superpowers: the power of forgiveness. 

Bronislawa looked at her daughter playing on the floor. Maria’s dark ringlets escaping from her headband as she moved small bottles, cups and bowls around. Smiling, the mother gently tucked the curls back, Maria didn’t look up from her task. Their fifth child was as bright as a button, being the youngest, she had learnt quickly from her siblings. They had affectionately nicknamed her ‘Mania’. Not yet four years old, she could already speak well and calculate simple sums.

Maria held a bottle up “Water Mama please.”

Bronislawa nodded, “Of course my little Mania.” 

Taking the bottle she filled it from the water pitcher. This small flat was not suitable for the seven of them, but she’d had to give up her job at the Warsaw school after Maria was born. Her husband earnt just enough with his teaching to feed and clothe them. They’d lost their savings and property through their support of Polish independence from the Russian Empire, but they were luckier than most.

She gave the bottle to the child, “Are you making dinner for us all Mania?” 

Tipping water into a bowl, the child shook her head,

“No Mama, I look to see what’s in the water.” She held the bottle to the light and swirled it around.

Bronislawa smiled, “I must ask Papa what experiments he’s been showing you!”

“I put half in here and you put it by the window Mama.” The child was obsessed with the rays of sunlight that crept in through the shutters in the late afternoon, sending beams across the dark wooden furniture. 

“I want to catch the sunshine Mama!” she’d laugh, jumping around the room and making shadows in the fading light.

“That would be a wonderful gift if you could catch it Mania, we could just take it out of a bottle whenever we needed it.”

******

Sadly Bronislawa did not live to see her daughter’s true gift and the effect it would have on the world. When Maria was just ten years old, her mother died from Tuberculosis. Maria threw herself into her studies; excelling in physics, chemistry and mathematics. Poland did not accept women in further education at that time. After working as a governess she saved enough money to continue her education at the University of Paris. She fell in love with a fellow scientist Pierre, marrying him a year later, he gave her the French version of her name, Marie. Together they carried out extensive research, leading to the discovery of radium and polonium. 

In 1903 Marie Sklodowska Curie was jointly awarded the Nobel Peace Prize with her husband Pierre Curie and Henri Becquerel, for their work on radioactivity, principles still used in x-rays today. She was the first woman to receive the award. Marie Curie’s super power was her ability to continually research the elements and identify how they could be used in medical science, especially in cancer treatment. She achieved far more than catching the sunshine.

I was fourteen when my special powers finally matured. I realised no one must know they were more than childhood fantasies.

My parents had been amused, I thought, when, aged about five, I first waved as we drove past a cemetery. They had told it was a place where people, we had lost, lived. Any young child might have thought about waving without thinking why. But, I waved because the dead people were waving at me -  people of all ages, many in strange clothes. 

I tried to describe the people to my parents. Their amusement turned to anger.

“You must never disrespect the dead,” they said. “Don’t you ever be so silly, again.”

So I wasn’t but I still often saw the people and I waved in my head. 

Over time, I heard the dead people shouting but it was like the roar of a football crowd and only when they chanted together did I detect what they were saying. It was HELP.

Last week, everything changed, as I walked home from school, through St. Mary’s church yard. I stopped to pick up a coin I’d spotted on the path and I heard a women’s voice. She was almost weeping.

“Tell Harry I am ok here.”

A woman in a maid’s outfit, was standing alongside a Victorian grave. I didn’t reply, shaking with a mixture of fear and excitement. I was crossing a boundary, seeing and hearing beyond life, possessed of a power few had, perhaps a power to help the dead and the living. I couldn’t help this woman. I guessed Harry should have found his way to the OK place a long time ago, if he was going to make it. 

But, who could I help?  Should I even try? I realised, if anyone knew what I could do I would be at risk, condemned as a freak, exploited for profit or perhaps attacked by those threatened by revelations I could uncover.

I walked further and stood by another old gravestone, again a figure appeared and spoke to me. I realised I could only pass on messages coming from recent graves when there might be living relatives.. This needed some thought. I wouldn’t do anything today.

Back in my bedroom, I found an unused notebook and started the story of my life. I titled it The Go-Between. Already, I could think of several chapters – Love Messages, Warnings, Family Secrets and more chilling Evidence for Crimes.

I decided to start with the family. I knew where to find many of our graves. But, from then on I would follow recent murder cases and learn where victims were buried. I hoped to get evidence that would convict more of the guilty.

Next day I went to my twin sister’s grave. She died too early. I wanted to talk to her again.