It started with trees, and leaves; flowers, and fruits. A tree winding and curving, instead of going straight toward the sky. It’s dancing, he thought, a dance worth a click, worth a picture… worth memorializing, worth sharing.

He took that first photo, and uploaded it to show a couple of friends, and maybe the world, what he had seen. Look, he wrote, it’s an amazing tree, eccentric, and centuries old.

But, he never went back to see, to visit that tree, a second time.

The same went on with the flowers and the fruits. Colorful, exotic, different. New to him, and, he figured, new to those in the world from which he came, new to his friends and their likes.

From trees, leaves, flowers, and fruits, he progressed to buildings, old and new. Ones that rose with intricate columns, with sculptured figures climbing and adorning the walls, on yellow, white, and pink stone.

Look at this building, he wrote of one. Look at its beautiful features, the depiction of a man with a torch, the hippogriffs perched on the top corners protecting it, or maybe carrying it and all those inside to another world.

It was [always] simply a photograph, a picture, of something interesting.

And eventually, of someone interesting; and, then of couples exuding love, and happiness.

A violinist in a crowded square. The backs of two sitting on a bench with entwined arms. Two entering a building with clasped hands… Look, he wrote, they’re walking into a new life, a life together.

This went on and on, with him still not knowing what he was doing, because he never went back to those buildings, or spots, or to those individuals, or couples, to see, to ask, how life had progressed.

This went on and on, until, one day, when he stopped at a shop, a shop owned by a couple, an older Irish couple, a shop called the Golden Cauldron.

They had thick green sweaters and scented white candles; walls decorated with green leaves and golden branches.

The couple were about the same height, about the same width, both plum and blushed. The man with loads of white hair and a gruff white beard; a green vest, gray pants, and black shoes. The woman with a white head cover, a green top, a gray skirt, gray stockings, and also black shoes.

What a couple!! he thought. I must, oh I must share this; they are exquisite and beautiful; not of this world, not my world.

“What are you doing?” the man asked.

“Oh. Just taking a picture.”

“No no. Stop.” The man put up his hand to block the camera’s view.

“No. Please don’t,” the woman pleaded.

“But why? It’s just a picture. Just something to share with my friends.”

“No. Please don’t,” the woman repeated. “Please don’t,” the man said again, shaking his head.

He was so disappointed, almost distraught, but it was only a picture, not much lost, not much that he would’ve gained, aside perhaps from a smile or two.

Still, he wondered and questioned.

But why, why would they do that? he continued as he walked away from the Golden Cauldron. He turned his head and looked back at the store, at the displays, at its dark wooden door… and noticed the banner atop the door’s frame: the cauldron, golden yellow, with two four-pointed stars, and a string of gray smoke just on top of it.

Maybe a private-minded couple, his thoughts continued on their train.

It’s not that, a voice in his mind replied.

What else could it be? he asked all too naturally.

Soul-minded couple, their souls too precious.

Ha!! Soul… minded… couple! He paused his thoughts and stared at the cauldron some more, and could have sworn that the smoke moved sidewards and upwards, then down toward him.

And then, he heard that voice again, in his mind. Your device is not what it seems.

He looked down at his hand, at the hand holding that… thing, the device, the camera. A light and dull silver, box, with a knob, a lens. Still, innocuous, innocent.

But have you been back to that building? the same voice asked.

Building… what building, he wondered to himself.

The one with the hippogriffs?

Hippogriffs?

Hippogriffs!

He looked back up, at the cauldron, and suddenly a strange thought crossed his mind, finally, that perhaps he was hallucinating. But, just in case, he thought, in response, that maybe I should ask for advice.

Advice. Good idea. But from whom? And, more importantly, about what?

He looked around the other shops and then started walking away, shaking his head. Maybe I need some water, he thought.

At the sidewalk he noticed a sandwich board advertising Daniella.

See Daniella

Experienced Intuitive Medium

for Work Love Life

He stared at the white board, at the letters spelling Daniella’s name.

I’ve never spoken to one, was his first thought, his first response.

And why not? was his second.

Daniella sat on a maroon chair, a cigarette in one hand, a cell phone in the other. She tore her eyes from the phone and focused on him. “Relax. Sit,” she said, then, “let me look at you.” She looked, gazed, at his eyes, his face, his chest. She coughed.

“I can help you.” She coughed again.

“With what?” he asked.

“I can help you balance your chakrahs.”

He was surprised, but only a little. That sounds good. I like balancing. Yeah.

“But it will cost you.”

Oh, it can’t be that much.

“About two thousand dollars.”

“What?”

“Two thousand.”

“No.” He shook his head sideways as if trying to wake himself up. “No balancing. I don’t want balancing.”

“Then what? What do you want?” Daniella asked.

“I have one question, about this thing, this camera.” And he took out the camera, the dull-silver cube, from his back pocket. It was his turn to cough, at the strangeness of his question. “What does this thing do?”

Daniella remained neutral. The question, oddly to him, did not perturb her. She moved her eyes to look at his silver cube. She extended her hand. “Let me see.” She took hold of it, closed her eyes. “It takes souls.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Maybe stating the obvious would help. You’re the one who came here,” she noted, and returned the camera to him. “It captures part of a soul’s energy and freezes it. Freezes it in that moment. It’s like an in-between. Between here and there, this world and the other world.”

He shook his head again. It was too much. Pictures was all he took. Not souls. Not energy. Pictures… maybe time. Yes. Maybe time. But still pictures.

“This is what you have to do.”

“I don’t want to do anything.”

“You have to free them. You have to let go.”

“But I didn’t take anything. I took pictures. Just pictures.”

“Go to a lake, or the sea. You need water. Any body of water will do.”

“We have a river here.”

“No. No river. Only a lake or a sea.”

“A pond.”

“A pond is okay.”

“We don’t have a sea. How about the ocean?”

“Ocean is fine.” Daniella pulled the cigarette to her, drew a dose, puffed, coughed, ticked the cigarette. “Before, long ago, we used to burn the pictures, and paper. Now, I don’t know if it will work, with these computer things,” she raised her phone, “but you try. Go to the water. Take a metal bucket with you. And burn it. Put the bucket in the water. Then say this prayer. It’s a command. Say…

He debated in his head only briefly. He was rather averse to risk. It mattered to him that he not risk catching anything that did not belong to him, certainly not some soul or energy. Whether there was any truth to anything Daniella said, or the odd old couple, did not matter. So he drove himself to the ocean, walked to the beach, into the water, bucket in hand, the crazy perhaps haunted dull-silver camera inside it, some paper, all dowsed in alcohol. The bucket floated and wobbled.

He flicked a match, threw it into the bucket, and sat himself on the shallow water and sand, water reaching his hips.

The fire was magnificent. Flames reached over the bucket’s rim, giving off a bit of smoke, but more mirages.

He mumbled something to the effect of, “Return to your current and proper homes.” Then felt compelled to add, “forgive me,” and “I did not mean to… I did not know. I really didn’t.”

The mirages moved up and away and hovered over the water. He repeated the mumbling, hoping with all his might that, if there was any truth, that this would work.

He finally stood up, water dripping, turned and left the bucket behind, still shaking his head. “I’m never again taking another picture.”

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