Uten Sjel (Without a Soul)

Træl was addicted to funerals.

The first funeral he attended was for Herres colleague. It was the first time he’d been so far from the house. He would’ve been left behind, had Herre not injured himself the previous day.

Few noticed him standing beside Herre. None noticed the engraving in his metallic neck, marked with the word“træl.” It was hidden by the trench coat Herre had given him, to make sure the metal plates which protected his wires, computer chips, and gears were invisible.

“No one wants to see a træl,” Herre calmly explained, as if Træl had asked, as if Træl cared. “At a funeral, no one wants to see something uten sjel.”

No one wanted to see something without a soul at a funeral.

Træl was, as Herre pointed out with delight, et mann-maskin: a man machine. He had no feelings, or rather, very few feelings. He vaguely remembered what emotions were, how it had pulsed through blood and skin. Once, long ago, he had been en mann, not et maskin. He had begun to think of emotions as facades mennesker used for show. It was a choice.

He didn’t realize this was untrue until his second funeral.

This funeral was for Herres daughter. Herre was an absolute mess in his scruffy clothes, frazzled gray hair, snotty nose, red face, and glistening eyes. This wasn’t a facade Herre would choose to show. It wasn’t en maske.

And something stirred within Træl. Something tapped at his consciousness, awakening an electric current that made his cold metal arms tingle, though he had no nerves, though supposedly he had no emotions, no hjerte.

He wanted to feel it again.

To experience emotions again.

The next funeral was a potluck for some poor, faceless woman who had fallen down a ravine. Herre wasn’t there. He wasn’t even in the country. Whatever it was Herre was doing, he hadn’t wanted to bother getting Træl through the metal detectors.

Not that Træl minded.

Finding funerals was difficult, made even more difficult because he wasn’t allowed to leave the house without Herres permission--and, of course, he never would get Herres permission. But each time he went he could feel that emotion again. He could taste life again. He could almost believe he was levende.

That was something Herre could never believe, never imagine, despite his scientifically brilliant mind. Maskin and menneske were two different things. Never en og samme.

The solution wasn’t immediately clear. Menneske had this thing called moralske prinsipper. Herre, in a convoluted lesson that involved challenging his own beliefs and realizing he was being hypocritical, had tried to impart the importance of moral principles.

“Moralske prinsipper are crucial to live among society,” Herre said gravely. “Uten dem, society will fall into kaos and we will destroy ourselves. Moralske prinsipper are what holds us together. It is a mutual agreement to work together, be united.” He wagged a finger. “You must follow these rules. Forstå?”

Træl did not understand, did not forstå. Menneske rules were constantly broken by the mennesker themselves. The rules were vague and relied on something Herre insisted Træl didn’t have: en sjel.

And how were these rules applicable to him if he wasn’t menneske?

The first time Træl created a funeral was almost by accident. Almost.

Herres son was in the kitchen while Træl worked on making dinner. Herre was gone. Gutten refused to leave. Kept peering around Træl and sneering about his lack of sjel, his missing hjerte.

Later, Træl calmly explained to the grieving Herre that gutten had been drunk and knife fighting with a friend. The floor had been wet, and the friend’s knife slipped right into gutten. The friend had run, horrified.

It was a ludicrous story.

But that didn’t matter. Herre believed Træl. Of course he would. After all, Træl was a mann-maskin.

He had no sjel.

The funeral was beautiful. Nameless emotions flared in his wires, electrified his metal plates. It thrilled his mind, made the world seem bright and levende. The church, so dark and grim, sparkled with color and with overwhelming emotion.

Creating funerals became an experiment. A wondrous practice. He’d feel something with every kill and feel something with every funeral. The biggest emotion he experienced was when he killed Herre.

No one ever knew it was him. After all, he was just an invisible træl; en mann-maskin uten sjel.

Træl - bondservant (nynorsk)

Trell - bondservant (bokmål)

Herre - n. master, lord

Uten sjel - without a soul

Menneske - n. human

Mann - man

Maskin/maskineri - machine/machinery

Maske - mask

Hjerte - heart (bokmål)

Levende - alive (bokmål)

En og samme - one and the same (bokmål)

En - one (bokmål)

En - one (nynorsk), a [man/thing] (bokmål)

Moralske prinsipper - moral principles

Kaos - chaos

Dem - them

Forstå - understand

Gutten - the boy

I am learning Norwegian (bokmål). I had to use a translator on occasion, so I may have switched from bokmål to nynorsk for more than just træl vs. trell. If you know, please inform me on the matter.