19
‘‘The what?’’ Grant asked dumbly.
‘‘Your entire world has changed,’’ Morgan said in her polite diction, the smile gone from her face, replaced by a furrowed brow of concentration. She was concentrating on him, studying his every response and facial tic.
Her statement wasn’t a question.
Grant looked down at his feet. He’d liked this woman instantly, and yet . . . there was a lingering sense of perception about her that made him crumple under her gaze.
‘‘Yes, it has,’’ he said.
‘‘You feel like a doormat in a world of boots, I imagine. It began with this,’’ she said, producing her right hand. A sparkling gold ring rested on her middle finger, with an inset burgundy gemstone.
He nodded, then glanced briefly around the room. The others watched with rapt attention, some of them nervously stroking their own rings.
Morgan stared at his ring for a long moment, then shook her head in . . . was that wonder?
‘‘I know you have millions of questions. Or quite possibly more.’’ Her soft eyes twinkled as her face became round and welcoming again. ‘‘I am afraid I do not have quite that many answers, but I will tell you all that I can. First, I wonder if you would tell me something.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ he replied tentatively.
‘‘How have you been sleeping of late?’’
‘‘I haven’t.’’
‘‘Quite,’’ she nodded thoughtfully. ‘‘‘And thereby hangs a tale.’ You tell yourself the nightmares come from the trauma you have endured.’’
It wasn’t a question, but he answered anyway. ‘‘Yeah.’’
Her round eyes were stern, but he detected a hint of compassion in them. ‘‘When the truth is that you’ve learned very quickly how to keep yourself busy, running headlong from one task to the next. No time for sitting idle and putting genuine thought into how you feel. Oh no, can’t have that. Because that is more frightening than anything in your nightmarish dreams.’’
Grant wanted to argue with this logic but found that he couldn’t.
‘‘Yes, I understand you all too well, Grant,’’ she said with a gentle smile, as if reading his mind. ‘‘We’ve never met, of course. I simply recognize a familiar pattern.’’
‘‘So you have trouble sleeping, too?’’
Morgan smiled again. ‘‘As Hamlet said, ‘There’s the rub.’ I do not sleep. Ever. Grant, all of us here have been through precisely what you’re facing now. We know every feeling, every fear, every ridiculous notion that has crossed your mind since this began. Nothing makes sense to you right now, does it?’’
He shook his head.
She took a deep breath and never moved her eyes away from his. ‘‘I like to begin by telling my own story. It seems to help those who come here to know that their experience was not as uncommon as they think.’’
She leaned back in the chair and collected her thoughts. ‘‘It happened rather inconspicuously, really. In my former life, I was a librarian working at the London Library, near St. James Park. As I was leaving work one day, I stopped in the rest room. I caught my reflection in the mirror while washing my hands . . . and I screamed. The reflection I saw was not my own. And a foreign voice was screaming. I had a different face, different clothes. My purse was gone, and had been replaced by a different one, sitting in the same spot on the counter where I’d left mine. No one else entered nor left the rest room while I was inside, so I opened the purse. Within, I found a photo I.D. that matched the woman in the mirror, and a set of keys I didn’t recognize.’’
He nodded. This sounded very familiar.
‘‘After a great deal of study and investigation, I eventually came upon a few others who had also experienced ‘the Shift,’ as we call it. Most of us had nowhere to go, and many were so traumatized by the shaking of the foundations of their very existence that they lived in mortal fear of what might happen to them next. After all, if one’s identity is so malleable, so vulnerable, that it can be taken away in a heartbeat . . . then anything is possible. So I decided to create a haven where those like us could gather and be safe. Eventually . . . we found this place.’’
She grew silent, allowing Grant time to process this.
‘‘How many are here?’’
Morgan’s shoulders rose in a small shrug. ‘‘Perhaps fifty or sixty at any given time. It varies. This building was constructed to hold more than two hundred, but we’ve never reached even half that capacity. Still most who find their way here never leave.’’
‘‘But why?’’
‘‘You know why. They want a place to bury their heads and hope the world will not fall apart on them again. You remember that feeling? That cold ache in the pit of your stomach when you first realized that everything you know had irrevocably changed, forever?’’
‘‘I remember,’’ he replied. ‘‘But I can’t imagine just deciding to run away and hide—not even trying to find out what happened and why.’’
‘‘Of course you can, dear boy,’’ she replied calmly. ‘‘You considered it yourself in those first few moments after the Shift. We all do. It’s terrifying to see everything you are and everything you know, stripped away in a single moment. Your very flesh and blood has been replaced, and some find it very easy to lose their entire identity to that. When the world caves in, you contemplate throwing in the towel. That is the first reaction we all share.’’
He thought back to his own experience that first day.
‘‘Do not kid yourself, Grant,’’ she said with sad, compassionate eyes. ‘‘All that separates you from my friends here is a thin line spread across a scant few seconds. Each of us decides in those first moments: run and hide, or press on. But we all began at the same intersection.’’
He looked down at the tiny scar on his wrist that Julie had made, then raised his head to meet her eyes. An entire conversation passed silently between them in that look.
Never give up. Never give in. Never surrender to anger or despair.
‘‘As I was saying,’’ Morgan continued, ‘‘most, once they come here, decide to stay. Some, like your friend Hannah, come and go as they wish. Our door is always open to those like us, who have nowhere else to go. Often, many of them will gather their intellects together—which are considerable, given the fact that everyone here is a genius of one type or another—and spend their time quite literally deliberating and sorting out the vast mysteries of the universe. They call themselves the Loci.’’
‘‘An asylum full of geniuses,’’ Grant mused. ‘‘Genius Loci, I get it. And have they turned up answers to any of life’s big mysteries?’’
‘‘They have.’’
‘‘Then why not share their answers with the world?’’
Morgan gave a sad smile. ‘‘It is easier to learn about the world than try to save it, is it not?’’
Then she sat forward on her chair, bowing her head. He thought she was praying or concentrating at first, but then saw the muscles on her neck were clenched tight. And she was squeezing her eyelids together.
‘‘Morgan!’’ Hannah cried.
‘‘I’m all right, Hannah,’’ Morgan whispered. ‘‘Don’t make a fuss.’’ She massaged her temples for a few moments as Hannah edged out of her chair, prepared to jump to the rescue. Morgan finally opened her eyes and sat back in the chair. She looked sideways at Hannah, who was still standing. ‘‘But you are not all right. You have been electrocuted. Severely, from the looks of it. You should see a doctor.’’
‘‘I’m fine,’’ Hannah said forcefully, still watching Morgan with concern. She returned to her chair. ‘‘Never better.’’
Grant watched them both with concern and curiosity, then settled on Morgan.
‘‘I get headaches,’’ she told him quietly.
‘‘She gets migraines,’’ Hannah corrected her, loudly.
Morgan’s lips curled into a frown. ‘‘Migraines, then.’’ She shot a look at Hannah, who held her g
aze without flinching. Eventually she looked back to Grant.
‘‘You are overwhelmed,’’ she consoled. ‘‘This is a great deal of information to absorb.’’
‘‘None of it seems to bother you,’’ he said abruptly.
‘‘That’s because I’ve been doing this longer than you. Longer than anyone, in point of fact.’’
He blinked. ‘‘You mean—’’
Morgan nodded. ‘‘To the best of my knowledge, I was the first to undergo the Shift. It was over fourteen years ago that I found someone new in that mirror at the London Library. And I have never encountered another who predates me. I was the very first to have this.’’ She held up her ring hand again.
Fourteen years! There were people in this world who had lived for almost fifteen years with what had just happened to him only weeks ago. It was mind-boggling.
His eyes fell upon her ring.
‘‘Tell me about the rings.’’ he said, sitting up straight in his chair now. ‘‘Why won’t they come off?’’
She glanced around the room and then leaned in closer to him. ‘‘They do come off,’’ she whispered. ‘‘But only after the wearer dies.’’
Grant thought of the contract killer, Konrad, who had wanted his ring. He knew. He either had to kill me or cut off my finger altogether. Both of which he tried . . .
‘‘Do the rings trigger the . . . the Shift?’’ he asked.
‘‘The two do always seem to coincide. But all I can tell you with certainty is that, despite their appearance, the rings are not made of gold, nor any other precious metal that I can identify. It appears they’re comprised of some kind of alloy that’s stronger—its molecules packed together more densely—than any metal that exists in nature. They’re so strong, in fact, that I haven’t even been able to chip off any residue for study.’’
‘‘Are you a scientist?’’ Grant asked.
Morgan offered a bemused smile. ‘‘Hardly. I was born a lover of books and shall die one. I’d rather be spending my time with Dickens and Steinbeck, but in the years after the Shift, I spent much of my time searching the world and researching our civilization’s entire wellspring of knowledge to find out all I could about these rings. Unfortunately, I’ve learned precious little with regard to their origin. But as for what they are . . .’’ she paused in thought, ‘‘I need to show you what I’ve learned, rather than try to explain it. But before we get to that, though, I would ask you to fill in some gaps for me. Tell me how all this began for you.’’
He launched into his story, beginning with the morning he spotted himself, Collin, walking down the sidewalk, and ending with his daring escape from the Inveo plant with Hannah, only hours before.
Morgan watched him with a soft gaze throughout the entire story. She was patient and allowed him to tell it in his own time. When he finished, she looked away for a few minutes.
Finally she looked at him again. ‘‘May I see your ring, please?’’
He held out his hand.
She adjusted her bifocals until they rested on the very tip of her nose. Gently turning his hand to the side, her eyes narrowed as she studied the ring.
While she was looking at his ring, he glanced at hers. It was just like Hannah’s—nearly identical to his own, only slightly smaller and with no markings on the sides.
Morgan let go of him and sat back in her chair, her eyes focusing on him even more intently than before.
‘‘There can be no doubt; you are the Bringer. Does anyone else know of what’s happened to you, besides your sister?’’ He caught a trace of urgency in her voice.
He thought for a moment. ‘‘There’s this weird girl who keeps following me around.’’
One eyebrow went up. ‘‘A girl?’’
‘‘She won’t tell me who she is. She just keeps popping up and telling me—well, I guess you could call it advice. She’s . . . younger than me. Not much I can say about her appearance. Nothing sticks out. Well, except that she’s always barefoot.’’
Morgan’s spine straightened as she sat up in her chair. ‘‘Barefoot?’’ She stared at him over the rims of her bifocals once again. ‘‘This girl— she had long brown hair? No makeup or jewelry?’’
‘‘Sounds right,’’ Grant nodded. ‘‘You know her?’’
‘‘We have never met,’’ Morgan shook her head, gazing off in thought. ‘‘I thought she was something of an urban myth. Someone fitting that description has been spotted a few times in the past, watching those like us, scrutinizing our movements. But the glimpses of her have been so fleeting I ascribed the whole affair to group imagination.’’ She focused on Grant again. ‘‘She actually spoke to you?’’
He nodded.
‘‘What did she talk about?’’
‘‘Odd things . . . I don’t know . . . The conversations are always so short. But it seemed like, in some way . . . I think she’s trying to help me.’’
‘‘Hmm,’’ Morgan replied. She leaned back in her chair, lost in thought again.
‘‘You mentioned wanting to show me something . . .’’ Grant prompted her.
Her attention snapped back to him. ‘‘Ah, yes, quite so.’’ Her expression changed and she formed her words slowly and carefully. ‘‘I hesitate to say this, Grant, because I realize full well how it will sound to you. But please trust that I would not ask anything of you if it were not of the greatest importance. In this case, I do not see any alternative.’’
Grant leaned back in his seat, wary. ‘‘All right.’’
‘‘In order to show you what I want to show you,’’ she began, ‘‘I need a favor. A very important item was due to be delivered to me, but it was intercepted before I received it. And I need it back. I want you to retrieve it for me.’’
Dread flooded Grant’s heart. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Morgan, he’s no thief!’’ Hannah said, rising precariously from her chair. ‘‘If there’s somethin’ you need, I’ll go get it for you.’’
‘‘Dear, you can’t even walk,’’ was Morgan’s reply. ‘‘We haven’t time to wait for your recovery.’’
Morgan spoke to Grant with utmost sincerity. ‘‘I promise you, Grant, this won’t involve committing any sort of crime. In point of fact, you’ll be resolving a crime. The object I’m asking you to retrieve belongs to me. I merely need you to it get back.’’
‘‘What do you know of the Bringer?’’ the Thresher demanded.
The short, scrawny man he held off of the floor by the lapels of his jacket seemed to balk at this question.
But there was no one around to save him. The bar’s remaining patrons were unconscious, resting peacefully on the floor. Apparently this crowd lived for a good brawl, but the Thresher had overpowered the entire room in under two minutes, before rounding on the man he had come here for.
The drunken man dangling in the air drooled beer down his shirt, his eyes over-wide and his expressions exaggerated.
In a flash, the Thresher’s sword was out and upheld, ready to strike, as he held the man with one hand.
‘‘I won’t ask a second time,’’ his brogue accent intoned, menacingly.
The drunken man stared all-too-obviously at the gold ring upon his own finger. ‘‘I heard the phrase before, but that’s all, man, I swear,’’ he slurred.
Why must they always resist? the Thresher thought, bored.
‘‘I couldn’t help noticing,’’ he observed gently, ‘‘that during our entire conversation, you haven’t been able to take your eyes off of that golden bauble on your right hand. Which means that to get your full attention, I will have to eliminate the offending hand from your field of vision.’’
The Thresher prepared to swing, but the drunken man shouted, ‘‘Wait, wait!’’
But the Thresher refused to return his arm to its former position; he held the sword up in striking position, waiting for the other man to continue.
‘‘This guy I know . . .’’ the drunken man slurred, ‘‘he runs with this crowd that sq
uats in some kind of super-secret location. I dunno where they are, man, but he told me they’ve all been talking about this ‘Bringer’, and how he’s . . . ‘on his way’ or something.’’
When the man stopped speaking, the Thresher prompted, ‘‘Continue.’’
‘‘I don’t know no more than that, man! Honest!’’
The Thresher studied the drunken man, discerning the truth from his features. ‘‘If you’ve lied to me—’’
‘‘I’m not that stupid!’’ the other man bellowed. ‘‘You got a rep, man! Nobody’s gonna disrespect you, you’re the Thresh—’’ He broke off suddenly, realizing he’d said more than he’d meant to.
The Thresher brought the sword to rest against the drunken man’s throat, and lowered the man far enough that his mouth was right next to the man’s ear.
‘‘How,’’ he breathed hot air, ‘‘do you know that name?’’
‘‘I-I-I uh, I heard it—’’ the man blustered.
The Thresher dropped the man to the floor. ‘‘From whom?’’ he asked, raising the blade and preparing to strike. Fire had suddenly come to his listless eyes.
But he never got the opportunity to find out more. Something struck the back of his head forcefully, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
20
In the end, Grant hadn’t agreed or disagreed. Morning approached and since the job had to be completed under night’s cloak everybody decided to discuss again after some rest. Grant and Julie accepted rooms for the evening and soon said farewell. After their departure, Morgan ventured deeper into the asylum, winding her way into a distant back corner to the only occupied room in the wing.
Approaching the door carefully, she knocked on it.
‘‘Sí?’’ a tired, low-pitched Latin voice called out from behind the door.
Morgan entered.
Sitting on the bed was a bronze-skinned woman with a wrinkled face and a serious expression. She was knitting.
They called her Marta, though Morgan had no idea what her original name might have been. She was the oldest of all the Loci at seventy-nine years of age—the oldest Morgan had ever met who had experienced the Shift.
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