Across the bar, Drax, his old friend and bartender, wiped down a spotless counter and shook his head with a sigh. "It's not just you, Bastian. Business is bad for everyone. This place has been empty for days."
He paused, leaning on the counter, his voice dropping to a somber tone. "People aren't thinking about buying anything new right now. Did you hear about Aunt Martha? She hasn't left her house in three days. I took her some food and, " Drax hesitated, eyes downcast. "Her eyes were swollen from crying. She lost another one."
Bastian set his glass down and exhaled deeply. The weight of the situation hung between them like the thick, oppressive cold outside.
It all started about ten years ago, with the animals. Old creatures, those past their prime, had begun to collapse without warning, dying inexplicably. The tribe's shaman had inspected the bodies and declared that it was the result of their "souls" leaving. But back then, no one had taken it seriously. It sounded more like a fanciful explanation for something natural.
Then the plants had begun to wither. First, it was small patches in the northern forests, where the trees stood barren and dead, their once-thriving branches reduced to skeletal remains. What used to be vibrant, snow-covered woods transformed into eerie, silent wastelands. The shaman had been surprised at the scale of it, musing aloud that perhaps the old legends were right; plants, too, might have souls.
Soon, though, it became clear this wasn't just a local oddity. The phenomenon began spreading across the land. Fruit trees, already scarce, succumbed in droves, while weaker animal species started dying off rapidly. The giants, always at the top of the food chain, found themselves having to venture further and further in search of prey.
At first, it seemed like a plague that only affected the weaker creatures of the land. But ecosystems are interconnected, and as the base of the food chain crumbled, the giants and even the mighty dragons at the top began to suffer. What had seemed like a distant issue became an urgent threat.
The shaman's warning had been dire; decline was inevitable if the plague continued unchecked. But no one had foreseen how swiftly that decline would come, nor how devastating it would be.
Three or four years ago, the true horror revealed itself: not just animals and plants, but elders and newborns in the tribe began to fall victim to the strange affliction. The assumption that only the weak were vulnerable was shattered. Giants, with their already low birth rate, began losing precious newborns, and each death struck harder than the last. It was more than a personal tragedy; it was a death sentence for the future of the tribe.
And still, no one knew the cause. No one knew how to stop it.
Bastian took another swig of the kumis, letting the warmth spread through him, though it did little to ease the cold dread settling in his gut. He pushed back from the table and stood. "Well, if business is slow, I'll just have to take matters into my own hands. I'll go door to door if I have to."
He turned to leave, but then paused. "Aunt Martha's going through hell. She could use one of my enchanted blankets; the kind that keeps you warm, body and soul." His voice softened as he spoke, thinking of the heartache that now defined the lives of so many in the village.
As he stepped outside into the biting wind, the cold hit him instantly, snow swirling in the air like tiny shards of glass. But something else caught his attention, a figure standing just beyond the doorway, lingering in the shadows.
Bastian squinted, recognizing the familiar shape, though something was off. It was the spirit of a giant; one of the restless souls that sometimes appeared since the beginning of the strange plague. This one was different, though. It was missing an arm and a leg, half of its body a twisted, ghostly silhouette. Even its head was incomplete, as if it had never fully formed in life.
Bastian's breath caught in his throat. He knew this spirit.
Gearlard," he whispered, recognizing the newborn who had died not long ago. The small, twisted spirit couldn't speak, but it curled into a ball, its one remaining eye looking up at Bastian with a gaze full of sorrow and helplessness.
Pity welled up in Bastian's chest. The child hadn't even had a chance. Born soulless, Gearlard had been doomed from the start.
He knelt, lowering himself to eye level with the lost spirit. "Gearlard... do you have something you want to say to your mother?"
The spirit trembled, its tiny, fragile form flickering in the cold air. Bastian waited, his heart heavy. He didn't know if the spirit could respond or if it even understood him, but he hoped, somehow, that he could bridge the gap between the world of the living and the lost soul in front of him.
Gearlard's single eye blinked slowly, and for a brief moment, Bastian thought he saw a glimmer of recognition. Then, with a soft, fading sigh, the spirit began to dissolve into the night, leaving Bastian alone once again, the wind howling in his ears.
Bastian stood up, pulling his fur-lined cloak tighter around him. There was so much he didn't understand, so much that no one did. But for now, he had to keep moving, keep helping where he could. And maybe, just maybe, find a way to bring some warmth back to the cold, dying land.
***
Bastian was an alien, with a gift or curse, depending on how one viewed it, that set him apart from others: he was a natural clairvoyant. Perhaps this strange ability was the very reason he had been abandoned as a child, left to wander the world alone.
In most cultures of this world, there was a firm belief that the realms of the living and the dead were meant to remain separate. The living belonged to the earth, the dead to the underworld, and it was forbidden for the two to intermingle. The dead would eventually find their way to the River Styx, where their souls would rest. To bridge these two realms, even accidentally, was to invite misfortune.
For people like Bastian, those who could see souls, their mere existence was a threat. To have feet in both worlds, as the saying went, meant they were destined to bring disaster to those around them. And if anyone ever discovered Bastian's ability, they might blame him for all manner of ills, especially the "loss of soul," a mysterious affliction that struck the unfortunate. It wouldn't take much for frightened and superstitious people to turn against him, to accuse him of dark deeds simply because he was different.
Bastian often mused over this bitter truth. He knew, deep down, that he was simply a lonely soul with an extraordinary gift. He had no control over the world's natural disasters or the tragedies that befell others. But that didn't stop people from blaming his kind. He imagined those unfortunate souls, the ones tied to stakes in the past, doomed because they spoke truths learned from the dead. Their warnings, delivered to the wrong ears, only led to their destruction.
Now, Bastian found himself standing outside a weather-beaten tavern, pretending to be troubled by the snowstorm brewing outside. In reality, he was focused on something far more important: trying to reach out to Gearlard's lingering soul. The infant had died not long ago, and Bastian was desperate to learn more about the child's fate.
". . . Mother," the faint whisper echoed from the otherworldly realm, as frustrating as ever.
Communicating with spirits was never easy, and with children, it was even more difficult. Bastian could manage conversations with the elderly, those poor victims of dissociative disorders who had died in their sleep. They often didn't even know they had passed, their conversations riddled with confusion and half-forgotten memories. But when it came to children, especially babies like Gearlard, the task was nearly impossible. Their souls were fragile, incomplete, and lacking the language or awareness to express what had happened to them.
Gearlard's infant spirit was no different. The child's restless soul could do little more than point north, toward the edge of the village, and murmur the single word it knew: "Mother."
With a heavy sigh, Bastian set out for the north of the village, his boots crunching through the snow as he made his way toward Aunt Martha and Uncle Charles' home. They had taken him in when he first arrived, showing him kindness that many others would not.
As he walked, a gust of wind swept through the village, and when he glanced back, the last traces of the dead infant's spirit dissolved into the air, leaving only a faint image of its tiny hand, still pointing north.
When Bastian finally reached Aunt Martha's house, his heart grew heavier. The visit had gone about as poorly as he feared. Uncle Charles, once a proud hunter and a man who wrestled dragons, was now just a drunkard, barely sobering up by the fire. Aunt Martha, bedridden and feverish, lay mumbling the same name over and over: "Gearlard."
"Aunt Martha," Bastian spoke gently, his voice filled with the weight of what he had to say, "in my tribe, we believe that calling out the names of the dead keeps their spirits tethered to this world. It prevents them from finding peace, from reincarnating. For Gearlard's sake, you need to take care of yourself. You have to let go, for him."
Whether his words were true, or just a well-meaning attempt to console a grieving mother, Bastian wasn't sure. But as he turned and left, making his way back through the snow, he couldn't help but glance toward the bar once again. There was no sign of Gearlard's spirit this time. It could be good news. Or it could be bad.
". . . Death?" Bastian whispered to himself, as if the wind might carry the answer.