“I’m not a teacher,” Jörg protested, but the Count continued, unconcerned.
“You need not educate her. I simply wish for you to protect her when she goes outside, when neither Xandra nor I can accompany her.”
“Would there be any danger involved?”
“No. You would just be with her when she goes out shopping or for a walk. All quite uneventful. However, if the event ever does arrive, I do hope you demonstrate your excellence as a soldier.”
“You risked going into a war zone just to find someone for a job like that?”
“Soldiers on the verge of death make good servants.”
Jörg gazed at the Count, who smiled enigmatically. He couldn’t tell where this conversation was headed and wondered what the man would make him do.
“How do you feel?” the Count asked.
“Fine.”
“If I’m being perfectly honest with you, that is not your original body. I extracted half of your soul and imprinted it into a simulacrum, a hollow body of sorts. Hence why you are uninjured and don’t feel any pain.”
Jörg furrowed his brow in confusion. “…I don’t understand.”
“Your original body—your corpus—is still in the trenches of Champagne.”
“As a corpse?”
“No. It is very much alive.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Humans only have one soul, in one body. If I’m alive here, then my body on the front must be dead.”
“As I said, I put half a soul in each.”
“Half a soul…?”
“I divided your soul in two, imprinted one half in a simulacrum, and left the other half in your corpus.”
Jörg looked even more perplexed. “If my soul’s been cut in half, then shouldn’t I have only half my intellect as well?”
“No. That is one of the wonderful things about humans. It’s what makes this magic worth using for me as well.”
“So having half a soul doesn’t significantly impact intelligence…?”
“No.”
“Really? Not at all?”
“Persistent, aren’t you? If I say it doesn’t, then it doesn’t.”
Jörg squeezed his cutlery tightly, completely bewildered.
The more answers he got, the more confused he became. He even considered the possibility that he’d sustained severe brain damage and was currently in the midst of some bizarre dream.
The Count continued, unperturbed. “Come now, war requires only a portion of your intellect. The full breadth of human intelligence is not needed to shoot a gun or wield a shovel. Did the army not order you to discard your human sensibilities? And you must have faced a number of situations in which you were forced to throw away rational thought, no? Simply put, fighting only requires a body and a tiny spark of life. So utilize your abundant sensitivities in the simulacrum to protect that child for me.”
“So you’re saying,” Jörg muttered, “that right now, I exist both on the battlefield and on the home front, with one of me in each place?”
“That is precisely what I’m saying.”
“How in the world is that even possible?”
The Count ignored the question, instead asking, “You don’t want to go back to the front lines, do you?”
“But I left my company behind— No, I guess I didn’t. Honestly, I think I probably just want to forget everything and never go back…”
Jörg held his head in his hands. He had thought about running away countless times, but every time, he’d desperately managed to resist the impulse, thinking that he couldn’t face the people in his town as a deserter. Yet the harder he fought that feeling, the harder it became for him to stay, and he’d found himself crying at the bottom of the trenches.
The Count spoke as though consoling him. “With each wave of fighting, the part of your mind and soul that despised war grew, and eventually, it was large enough that my magic easily convinced it to leave your body.”
“Are you saying I—this me, now—chose to leave my body?”
“It happens frequently, especially with humans.”
“—What do you mean?!”
“People go to war with lofty ambitions, but when they’re faced with the harsh realities of the battlefield, they abandon everything and run away. It happens often in regular jobs as well.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“So leave your corpus on the battlefield and use this simulacrum to enjoy a different life here. With us.”
“But if I wander around, I might be conscripted again.”
“Can anybody conscript a man like you who has lost his nationality? Provided that you don’t volunteer, your simulacrum will never see the battlefield.”
Jörg stared blankly ahead, and a faint smile appeared at the corners of the Count’s mouth. “It’s understandable if you don’t believe me. Anyone would have to be mad to simply accept what I’m saying.”
“But what will happen to the me on the battlefield? Won’t he die in the fighting?”
“So long as I’m looking after him, he won’t die. He will heal from any major injury, so you need not worry.”
“If you’re going to such efforts, then why not just transfer my entire soul into the simulacrum? Then you wouldn’t need to keep my corpus around, right?”
“A human’s physical body and soul are inextricably linked. The body allows the soul and mind to exist, so if you left your corpus behind, your mental state would suffer.”
“In what way?”
“Separated from its corpus, a mind gradually deteriorates until it eventually disappears along with the simulacrum. In that way, it would be akin to dying.”
This was all just so bizarre.
If his body and mind were connected, then what did that mean for his memories—both those of his corpus on the front lines and his own on the home front?
“What will happen to my memories? My corpus’s experiences and my own…”
“The memories are shared, for as long as the body and mind are connected.”
“Shared how?”
“The events endured by your corpus will be transferred to your simulacrum, and vice versa. However, you will perceive them as dreams and remember them as such. Regardless of how real a dream may seem, humans understand them for what they are once they wake up, yes? This will be no different.”
“Oh, okay. That seems like it’ll avoid a lot of confusion. I feel like I wouldn’t be able to tell who I really am if our memories were to meld together…”
“You still seem quite exhausted.”
“I am.”
“Don’t push yourself too hard. Consider today an evaluation period, and I will return you to your corpus for the time being.”
“What? You’re going to return me to my original body?!”
“Yes. I hope you don’t think poorly of me, but I’m going to put you back for a while to let what we talked about sink in. I shall visit you again someday soon. I’ll come regardless, but things will go faster if you call for me. Simply call out ‘Count,’ and I will appear wherever you are.”
The Count leaned over the table and instructed Jörg to hold out his palm.
Jörg extended his left hand and opened his fist, upon which the Count set a small sprig of flowers. Their petals were as white as snow, and they gave off a sweet scent. “Take these, as proof that today was real and not simply a dream.”
“What are they?”
“The British call them lilacs, while the French call them lilas. In your homeland, they’re called Flieder, and in my own, liliac. In Romanian, liliac is also the word for ‘bat.’”
The Count set his hand on top of Jörg’s and gently squeezed the white flowers. “Someday we’ll have a chance to discuss this further. For now, however, we must part.”
A sudden darkness enveloped Jörg.
In that dark space, he saw the same iridescent clouds he had earlier. However, this time, unlike the last, they only got farther away from him.
The stench of blood and mud crept deep inside his nostrils. Jörg cracked his eyes open just as a wave of intense pain ran from his chest to his stomach. He tried to yell but instead inhaled the dirt lodged in his throat, and a wave of panic swept over him, more from the fear of asphyxiation than the pain.
His comrade Fritz was trying to free him from the mud and wooden debris. Fritz asked the other soldiers around him for help, and together they finally pulled Jörg from the hole. Blood ran down the other man’s head, enough to make Jörg worry that Fritz might need treatment before he did.
They carried Jörg to the first aid station that had been set up in the trenches. The people who took him were also covered in blood, and they were all examined one by one. Even though Jörg had lost a lot of blood, his mind was clear and he had a regular heartbeat, so his commanding officer decided that he could remain on the front lines. They were set to cycle out and be replaced by the second line in a few days, so he could go with the other soldiers then.
After having his wounds bandaged, Jörg was moved to a bunker to lie down and rest, where he could finally catch his breath. Wounds covered every inch of his body, but he didn’t feel as if he was going to die. His body felt oddly light, changed in some obvious yet indescribable way.
Realizing that his left hand was still clenched tight, he slowly opened it. Flowers as white as snow spilled out. Clear of any mud, they looked as fresh as if he had just picked them.
A chill ran down his spine.
Lilacs. Lilas. Flieder. Liliac.
The white petals emitted their sweet fragrance.
That man had said that in Romanian, liliac was also the word for “bat.”
He recalled that black shape he’d seen in the dawn sky above the trenches, its wings reminiscent of that very same creature.
The taste of coffee and croissants intensified in his mouth, chasing the scent of the white flowers.