Five Percent

The boys were lying on opposite sides of the home. Owen was still recovering from the surprise earlier in the… day? Night? Owen couldn’t tell; it felt like he’d been here for centuries already.

After Keeper raised his spear to attack Owen, things quickly escalated, but Owen was able to talk Keeper out of the impulsive decision of killing him. Stating how the source would still be out there and they could easily attach to a new soul for power. Keeper agreed to help Owen figure things out if Owen would help to find the source.

Afterward, the Keeper just went up into his loft. Owen assumes to sleep, so he just went to the opposite side of the cottage to lay on a couch in what looked like a mini library. Owen, though extremely exhausted, was having trouble sleeping.

Maybe it was from all of the stress or the fear of death. He figured that once he died that all of that would be over. He was hoping that he could just die and get the stressful stuff over with. As depressing as that sounds, that was the truth for the young boy.

Owen lies there, thinking of all that has happened. His death, he can remember it so vividly now. He was lying in his hospital bed and feeling his body giving out. Owen sighs and looks around the tiny home.

Though the Keeper keeps a grim and stern expression, his home is warm and full of life. Plants grow in the window sills of his house; books cover every shelf, blankets and pillows are thrown in various spots for comfort, and colorful rugs and carpets.

After wandering in the sand for hours, this place feels like paradise and safe, even after the earlier events. Maybe the Keeper just felt threatened, Owen thought to himself. After all, Owen felt the same thing. Perhaps he is doomed to lose his humanity, and maybe he is a threat to the Keeper and himself.

Why is life so cruel, and why is death so heartless?

Owen laughs to himself as he remembers the books of philosophers on the shelf. What would they think of the veil, he wonders to himself. What would the mighty Aristotle say about his fate in the veil if he ever had to visit? Would he accept it? Would he feel anger and regret?

That isn’t for Owen to decide. However, what is for Owen to decide is how he responds to being in the veil. There is no one that he can go to in hopes of escaping this burden, there is no one to tell, and there is no one he knows to even know what had happened to him. He wonders if the Keeper even cares about mortals’ lives.

These souls that come into the veil do they all meet him? Do they also get greeted with the same coldness and anger? Is it the Keeper’s fault, or has he grown tired of watching the same thing happen to these souls? Owen is lost.

His mind wanders with no escape. Action has to be taken, but where would he even start? The Keeper has no idea who would have had an attachment to him. Maybe there are symptoms of having an attachment to someone.

Owen grumbles as he looks at the bookshelves. If he can’t sleep, he should at least be doing something. He searches for the book the Keeper had earlier, and eventually, he finds it.

“Modern Dark Arts…” Owen reads the book title as he thinks back to his time alive.

He had always thought of magic as something silly people did chasing power over their lives. He shrugs away the wave of embarrassment and remembers how he and his sister tried manifesting his disease ‘to go away.’ His sister was sweet and Owen’s biggest fan, and if there was anything Owen would hold onto, it would be her.

As Owen opens the book and scans the pages, he looks for anything that would help him. How would he even know the information in the book is correct? He studies the front of the book for the author's name; even though it’s a long shot, he might recognize the name.

“Ashton Pipe…” Owen mumbles to himself.

Nope. Owen lets out a sigh and goes back to reading the book.

“What are you doing?” Keeper grumbles from behind Owen.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Owen turns to look at the short man. The Keeper is leaning against the doorway with his hair pulled back into a small ponytail.

“So you’re looking through my crap?” He raises an eyebrow. “Okay.”

He seems to be in a much better mood after his nap. He jumps over the side of the couch next to Owen and looks at the page he’s on, and Owen moves the book so they both can see better.

“What exactly are you looking for here?” The Keeper looks at the page.

“I was hoping there was maybe a list of like….” Owen starts and pauses to think of how to word his question. “Is there a way to tell if someone has an attachment to you? Like side effects? What would you even need to do to make a connection?”

Keeper looks away from Owen for a moment and pulls his knees up to his chest. He tilts his head to the side as he scans the page Owen is on.

“Go to page 426.” Keeper blinks and helps to turn the pages. “I’ll grab another book to help. This one won’t have much information, but there is a page on how to make an attachment and the different types of attachments.”

“Thanks.” Owen blinks. Surprised by how calm Keeper is.

“Yep.”

The boy scans through the page. He sees all sorts of information but has a hard time understanding it. The book keeps switching between old English and some other language. The Keeper grabs another book from the shelf and offers it to the boy.

“Here you go… Uhm…” The Keeper blinks for a moment. “What’s your name?”

“Owen… Owen Creeks…” Owen says, he can’t help but laugh. All this time and only the Keeper had introduced himself.

“Owen?” The Keeper chuckles too. He sits back down, once again pulling his knees to his chest and taking Modern Dark Arts from Owen.

“Is Keeper your actual name?” Owen takes the new book and opens it. “Oh, and I couldn’t read that other language.”

“That’s fine; I can, so I’ll just tell you what it says.” The Keeper chuckles and reads the page. “No, but it’s the name I’m comfortable sharing. I don’t believe in that touchy-feely shit and getting to know people before they die… again.”

“Thanks.” Owen scans the pages. “How would sharing your name be touchy-feely? If you don’t mind me asking….”

“Names carry a lot of power.” Keeper mumbles as he focuses on the book. “Okay, Gehechtheid aan de menselijke ziel moet worden gemaakt op het exacte moment waarop de ziel van de persoon het lichaam verlaat. Anders hecht je je alleen maar aan het menselijk lichaam.”

“What?” Owen can’t help but laugh as he feels utterly confused.

“Attachment to the human soul must be made at the exact moment when the person's soul leaves the body. Otherwise, you will only attach yourself to the human body.” Keeper translates for Owen.

“Oh.” Owen leans back and thinks for a moment. “Did they need to be around me when I died?”

“Not in the same room, but in the same area. To have had a strong enough attachment to last through traveling realms… they would have needed to see you at least.” Keeper sighs.

“I died in a hospital, and there were tons of people in the same building as me….” Owen sighs and rubs his eyes.

“That’s a start. Who could have seen you?”

“Staff. I know there were cameras in the room, and my family was also there, but my parents and sister wouldn’t have done this.”

“Hospital staff…” Keeper sighs as he thinks. “Yeah, that’s a lot of people to go through, but it is a start.”

They both sit a little longer and read through their books. Once again, Owen’s stomach growls. Keeper glances up at him but soon focuses on reading again. He shifts on the couch and gets up, still reading his book. He moves out of the room and out of Owen’s sight for a brief moment.

“Here. Eat.” Keeper says as he hands Owen a bowl of stew.

“Oh… thanks!” Owen gladly takes the food. He eats while he reads.

“Don’t get food on my book. I’ll kill you.” Keeper grumbles as he watches Owen eat.

“I’ll try not to….” Owen says while zoning back into his book. “So, why would someone want to attach to a soul?”

“Well, it depends. An attachment can be used to harness more energy, tap into the spiritual realm, or used to feed a spell.” Keeper sways back and forth as he continues to read his book.

The boys continue to read and brainstorm together. Owen is thankful that the Keeper’s mood is much lighter and much more tolerating after eating and having a nap. Hopefully, it stays that way.

“It looks like we might have to go to the mortal realm to figure out who this necromancer is.” The Keeper grumbles as he looks into the bowl that Owen just emptied.

“Why are you staring at my bowl?”

“Oh, so it’s your bowl now?” The Keeper grumbles.

“That’s not what I meant-” Owen sighs, giving into the Keepers’ mood swings, and waits for the Keeper to answer him.

“I was using a spell on the soup to see if I could use scrying to get any hints on who this necromance could be… but nothing.” The Keeper sighs and throws the wooden bowl into the sink.

“Oh, could you maybe tell me next time you put a spell on me?” Owen grumbles.

“I didn’t put a spell on you; I put a spell on my soup that I let you have!” The Keeper crosses his arms, and his frustration shines through.

Owen can’t tell if the frustration is at him complaining or because his spell didn’t work. The Keeper starts scrubbing the bowl and sighs.

“Now I have to go back to the mortal realm!” The Keeper complains as he dries and puts up the bowl.

“What are the rules about going back?” Owen asks.

“The usual, don’t try to reach out to your loved ones, don’t screw with stuff, and stay with me. Mortals can’t see you, but they sure as hell can see me.” the Keeper sighs and rubs his eyes.

“Why can they see you?” Owen responds with a curious tone.

“How else am I supposed to strike deals with Mortals?” He chuckles and goes back over to Owen and sits beside him. “You mortals love to chase immortality, even if the entire universe warns against it.”

Owen sighs and finally puts his book down to look at The Keeper. The Keeper sits with his knees pulled to his chest as he watches the fire’s glow bounce around on the bookshelves. He seems tense and stressed, and so is Owen.

“What are the chances that I will make it?” Owen sighs, a question that had been asked a lot when he was alive.

“Slim, but not impossible. Around 5%.” The Keeper answers bluntly. In a way, it was almost calming to hear someone say it like that for Owen. The doctors and his family would always try to avoid giving accurate statistics and dance around the harsher news.

“5% is better than nothing.” Owen chuckles to himself. “Not half bad.”