The Soul Counter  by Charles Sutphin

The cross looked small from the back of the nave. Flanked by emblems of the Alpha and Omega, the Celtic Cross, called the Cross of Iona by the church fathers, appeared disfigured in the stained-glass light. Holling Krannert, statistician of the Second Presbyterian Church for more than fifty years, had a decision to make.  Having spent the night in a pew, meditating upon the sins of the world, he would decide the fate of the church—whether the building he loved and served so faithfully should live or die in flame.

                                                          

Above the cathedral the banners of the Nicene Creed, Scots Confession and Heidelberg Catechism hung like eyelids and shielded the congregation from the anger of God.  In the morning light the Greek monograms flared red against a gold backdrop scattered with stars.  Dissecting beginning and end, a cross punctuated the “A” and inverted “U” like a dagger through the heart.  A vapor from the floor reminded the man of the decision he was about to make.

Holling first noticed the woman with the red hair during service at sunrise when people filled the chapel with reverie for loved ones gone.  He waited until the offertory had concluded before beginning the count.  With doleful eyes, pale skin and lips that curled into a diminutive smile, the soul counter walked the corridors every Sunday in service to the community. Over time, his ability to divine the number of congregants sitting in a row turned transcendent.  Like an angel incarnate, he could perceive a configuration of people and know—without thought or effort—how many were there: instantaneously.  Freed of the burden of counting their bodies, he was charged with the task of observing their souls.

Listening to prayers mumbled into the ether, Holling watched as penitents bowed in moments of reflection.  Time and again he noted the transformation that occurred when a worshipper confronted the demons of sin. Like peeking beneath a rock, he witnessed unconscionable things crawl over a face subjected to divine inspection—and tried to help.  A touch on the shoulder, a cup of coffee, words of encouragement, Holling provided comfort as best he could.  Unmarried and childless, he found meaning in making the lives of others less difficult, but such was no longer the case.

As the century expired, the spirit of the age revealed a void upon the world. A disquieting number of elders and deacons, prominent men who governed with pinching authority, flaunted a message of form over substance.  Such men focused on projects designed to expand their own notoriety and increase the prestige of the church.  Greed cackled down the hallways.  Gossip spread through the parking lot.

“Good week on Wall Street,” men commented as they clustered in the foyer before and after the service. “All-time high on NASDAQ!”

“Thank you,” the ladies prattled.  “I purchased it yesterday from Neiman Marcus.  Will we see you at the gathering on the fourth?”

From the hallway, the despair of the woman with the ginger hair was evident.  Delores’ husband had recently died. Creases across her face suggested a prolonged death.  Holling made note and introduced himself a week later.

“Cancer,” she explained while sipping coffee in the Community Room.  “My children live elsewhere. Friends have passed or live in nursing homes . . . the world seems to have small use for widows these days.”                                                                               

Dressed in a tailored suit with straight lines pressed into the fabric, Delores appeared well-kept. Her hair was dyed an auburn red. She wore make-up and walked crisply—but the soul counter saw the squalor inside. 

“You must be lonely after so many years of marriage,” he said.  “I’ve always considered the church my family.”

They nodded and sipped their coffee.

“And now we’re friends,” she said and patted her hair.

 “We’re not so old,” he responded.  “We’ve plenty of golden years in front of us.”

She chuckled and released a little pain into the air.

Holling thought he was winning the battle against her malaise until the truth emerged.  Standing in the aisle in performance of his duty, he made a terrible discovery.  Adding up sums effortlessly and gazing into the faces of people at prayer, he cast his eyes upon the widow and beheld nothingness.  While those around her prayed, Delores sat wide-eyed like a mannequin.  Her face was blank; her gaze opaque.  A void clung like absence upon an amputee.

Turning, she focused and saw that he knew.  He looked away. Too late.  He knew her secret, and she knew his.

What he was about to do was a transgression but one ordained by God. The church had been violated, knowledge of the atrocity belonged to him alone.  He had discovered the body, read the note and concealed the evidence.

Sprawled in a chair, the corpse seemed comfortable in stillness.  The paisley print of the dress blended innocently with the burgundy of the chair.  With a glance he knew.  Though the body appeared at ease upon its worldly perch, the details revealed an extinguished soul.  The mouth gaped as if inviting death to dwell forever within the hollow shell.  Eyes rested deep within their sockets.

The official version stated Delores died of natural causes—a stroke or aneurysm.  An autopsy was not performed to reveal the foreign substance inside.  The note had disclosed the truth.  Addressed to him—the soul counter, the tabulator of the world—it proclaimed the depth of the woman’s despair.  Unable to absolve God for the death of a husband whose screams had echoed into the sanctuary of dreams, she had sought rebirth beneath the shelter of the church.  Finding none, she took relief at her own hands.  Holling had failed.    

Approaching the cross, the knower of souls sighed in remembrance of the beauty that had been.  In each hand he carried a container. Though he loved the building—the dark places, the spire up high—the contents were spoiled, the message lost in the miasma of the coming age.  The congregation had discarded its purpose for worldly pursuits.  Instead of serving, it ignored.  Instead of worshipping, it desired.  Instead of respecting, it disregarded the old man who made his rounds like a dutiful son—listening to the mumbles, wants and needs of his flock, counting individuals with a transcendent stare in representation of the spirit of God.

Holling lowered the cans of gas and knelt before the altar. A death in God’s house was a terrible thing.  The sin must be rectified.  He splashed the contents upon the cross.  The wood sucked the gas like a thirsty child.  He poured liquid across the scarlet carpet and onto anything that would burn: lectern, Eucharist table, pews, curtains.  Lifting the second container, he hurled the gas past the limestone walls and onto the trestles that sheltered the building from the wrath of God.

Prepared to burn with what he cherished, Holling stood in the middle of the sanctuary. With outstretched arms, he raised his head toward Heaven and prayed to be relieved of his duty. He prayed for clemency, for those who would follow, and for mercy upon his immortal soul.  In the heretical halls of a cathedral aflame, the soul counter closed his eyes in anticipation of the fire.  In rapturous glory, the banners of the creeds, like the sealed eyelids of God, shriveled to ash and floated to the floor.  High in the chancel, the Alpha and Omega peeled from their moorings and sizzled as the heat and flames licked at the foundations of the world.

Charles Sutphin

Image@ Interior of a church with stained glass windows, altar and pews, light beaming through from the side. From pixabay.com