Souls of Fire

by Vanessa Black

  This book was the most beautiful volume he had ever laid eyes on. The exquisite brown leather was velvety soft to the touch, the feel of finest silk running through his fingers; it had an ethereal glow to it … it was humming gently … a slow rhythmic, undeniably seductive sound … like a lullaby meant only for him … slowly pulling him under…

  Persephone pinched him hard in the side.

  “Ouch … what …?” Aaron demanded, completely thunderstruck by Persephone’s sudden attack.

  “I’ve been more or less shouting your name for the last minute … you downright spaced out,” Persephone accused.

  “What?” Aaron enquired doubtfully. “But I … I didn’t hear you.”

  “Which is why I pinched you,” Persephone said pointedly.

  Aaron didn’t respond. “Hmm,” he finally muttered to himself.

  “What?” Persephone wanted to know.

  “Well,” Aaron struggled to put what he was feeling in words. “This book … it feels like it’s mine … or … a part of me … it’s so beautiful …”

  “And apparently seductive,” Persephone added.

  “Why would you choose that word?” Aaron asked, feeling caught.

  “Because you looked at it like a woman looks at a piece of chocolate after a two month diet.” Persephone said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s your comparison, a piece of chocolate?” Aaron asked unconvinced.

  “Hey, we love chocolate! Don’t insult chocolate. Besides, have you ever dieted for two months straight? You’d probably eat shoe laces by the time you’re finished,” Persephone argued.

  “Okay,” he gave in, “I catch your drift.”

  “Let me look at it,” Persephone suddenly said, holding her hand out to take the book.

  Aaron hesitated for a moment; he was reluctant to let it out of his grasp … he had only just found what he felt he had been searching for his whole life.

  Only it was ludicrous … he hadn’t searched for anything … at least he hadn’t known he was searching. Maybe, subconsciously, he had been looking for answers to his past, but he couldn’t really be certain this book held any answers for him. So he handed over the volume to Persephone, eager to observe the way she responded to it.

  She didn’t respond to it ― it responded to her.

  Aaron couldn’t believe his eyes when the book sprang to life in Persephone’s outstretched hands, the pages turning over in quick succession; an invisible force seemingly paging through the volume with inhuman speed, making the stale, humid air of the cave whip around their faces and making the hair on Aaron’s arms stand on end.

  The book opened up to a certain page, shot an incredible beam of dazzling, blindingly white light in the air, and then abruptly lay completely still in Persephone’s trembling arms ― silence settling all around them like a spell, the air thick in the aftermath.

  Chapter 9 * Book of Light

  I sat in shock, the electrifying surge of power that had run through my whole body mere seconds before was still tingling ominously as it slowly dissipated, leaving me breathless.

  “Are you okay?” Aaron asked, seeming a million miles away from me as I struggled to get a grip on reality. My eyes were out of focus, my vision blurry, and I couldn’t form a coherent thought ― I felt as if I were drunk.

  A succession of images and sensations ran through my mind, a rapid repetition of seemingly random disconnected impressions, inexplicable yet strangely familiar, as though I should have known what they meant.

  “Persephone?” Aaron’s voice pierced through the haze of my clouded thoughts, finally managing to get through to me and bringing me back to the real world.

  “Yes?” I responded groggily.

  “Are you okay?” Aaron repeated, his voice sounding anxious.

  “I … yes … no, I don’t know,” I responded, confused. “I feel like I’ve been … zapped,” I added uncertainly.

  “Zapped?” Aaron asked, apparently unable to grasp the concept.

  “Yes, like I’ve been electrocuted.”

  “You can’t have been ‘electrocuted’,” Aaron pointed out, “you’re still alive.”

  “I don’t feel like it, though,” I stated, repeatedly rubbing my palms over my eyes in an attempt to dispel the lingering feeling of drowsiness.

  “What happened … exactly?” Aaron enquired, his voice a mixture of curiosity, anxiety and foreboding.

  “Something … powerful … streamed through my body, like a charge of electricity, or well, what I imagine a charge of electricity would feel like. I mean, I’ve been shocked a couple of times, you know, the kind of low-dose electricity surges, nothing dangerous. But this felt like what I imagine would be a shock you don’t recover from.” I rambled on, making a great effort to explain the sensation, feeling I had portrayed it inadequately.

  “I’m not explaining it right,” I added, “It’s more like … power … surging through me.”

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘power’?” Aaron probed, suddenly sounding alert and, moreover, slightly alarmed.

  “That’s the craziest thing … I don’t know. But if you asked me to describe the feeling I had, that’s the first word that comes to mind … and somehow I just feel that it’s the right way to describe it.”

  Aaron didn’t say a word. It seemed he didn’t know how to respond to what I’d said. After all, he was as lost as I was; everything that had been happening to us of late was just as new to him as it was to me.

  After another moment of silence, I decided to tell him the whole truth of what I’d experienced. We were, after all, presumably in this together, and it felt good not to be the only one in the dark. His not knowing any more than I did made me feel less alone.

  “There’s more,” I started hesitantly, “I … I saw something.”

  “What …,” Aaron cleared his throat, apparently apprehensive to hear the answer to his question. “What did you see?” he continued.

  “I saw … pictures … I mean images. It’s all so confusing. I’m not exactly sure of what I saw … but I think it was …,” I couldn’t honestly say that I had any concrete theory about what I had seen, so I tried a different approach:

  “Okay … I don’t know what it was … but I’ll try to describe it. You know how the images of a movie fly by when you fast forward? That’s kind of what it seemed like … images bleeding into each other so fast it’s impossible to keep up and get the storyline if you haven’t seen the movie before.

  But … somehow … I kind of felt like I knew the storyline … like it seemed familiar … only now that the images are gone, I can’t recall it.”

  “Well, I … hear … what you’re saying, but I still can’t wrap my head around it,” Aaron said helplessly. “What do you think it could mean?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure …,” I replied, “but it seems as if … the book is trying to tell me something. I didn’t just see images; I could also feel a flood of sensations rushing through me.

  Unfortunately there were so many intermingled that I couldn’t pick out any individual ones … But … now that I think about it … there’s one that kind of stood out … and it seemed to drown out all the others.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask,” Aaron said, only half joking.

  “You should be,” I responded, deadly serious.

  “Okay, now you’re scaring me,” Aaron said, no longer joking due to the seriousness of my countenance. When I didn’t respond immediately, Aaron asked:

  “So, what’s the sensation that stood out?”

  “Terror ― I felt … terrified …,” I admitted, unable to stop a shiver of fear that had begun coursing through my body.

  Hugging my arms tightly around myself in an attempt to keep warm and stop the icy sensation from spreading further, I struggled to continue, the words coming hesitantly, as I wasn’t sure I could explain it in a way that would make him understand the magnitude of the experience.

  “I felt … I kind of felt like I was on
a path … or a journey … or something … and where I was headed was somehow … doomed. I had the most dreadful feeling that … that it was … the end … of everything.”

  “What do you mean by ‘the end of everything’?” Aaron asked, even though I could tell he already guessed the answer and was hoping he was wrong.

  “The end of life,” I answered in a hushed voice as if saying it aloud could actually make it happen.

  “The end of life,” Aaron repeated, doubtful.

  “Yes,” I responded, “Oblivion.”

  I could almost see the struggle inside Aaron; his general acceptance of the possibility of the paranormal warring against his common sense and the need to dismiss any ounce of truth my ‘vision’ could possess.

  His urgency to suppress his fears and hold on to the sense of safety a simple, sane world provided seemed to have won the battle. Aaron’s countenance relaxed noticeably as he refused to believe me.

  “So, what’s on the page the book opened up to?” Aaron asked me, evidently intent on changing the subject.

  My gaze wandered down to the pages that lay open before me. Until Aaron had mentioned it, I had forgotten all about the book that was now lying completely still in my arms. The sight that filled my eyes was one I would not have expected:

  Blank.

  The pages were completely blank.

  “Like I said,” I couldn’t help but comment, “Oblivion.”

  “Very funny,” Aaron countered after taking a closer look at the obviously empty pages before him. “I don’t think that’s something you should be joking about,” he said a bit irritably.

  “Sorry,” I apologized, “I just thought it was fitting. No more jokes about oblivion, promise,” I added quickly to appease him. Apparently it worked.

  “Okay,” he said a bit calmer.

  “How can the book be empty?” Aaron asked. “I honestly can’t understand why Adam would have wanted us to find an empty book. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Unless those are the only blank pages,” he added suddenly, once again excited about the prospect of finding something of importance after all.

  Bookmarking the blank pages carefully with one hand, I used the other to turn the pages of the book in search of some ― or any ― writing.

  There was nothing.

  I returned to the pages the book had opened to and sat in silence looking down at the mystery that presented itself.

  Aaron was right. All the trouble Adam had gone through to get us to find the small room and consequently the book ― for there had been no other item in the room ―, did not make any sense unless the book held answers. But it held no answers, it held nothing.

  “You’re right,” I agreed, my right hand stroking carefully over one of the empty pages, “there should be … something.”

  “You don’t think it’s possible that it was somehow written in invisible ink?” Aaron asked, his hand moving toward the page as if touching it would confirm his suspicion, which of course it could not.

  The moment Aaron’s fingertip touched the page my hand was resting on ― our skin connecting as he grazed my hand along the way ― what looked like blood-red liquid ink raced along the page in intricate ancient handwriting, words upon words woven into sentences before our very eyes. In an instant the page was covered in red.

  Shocked, we immediately withdrew our hands. Where our flesh had rested upon the page, the ink had seeped underneath and continued to form words. When we had removed our hands, the red liquid underneath had smeared slightly along the page.

  I looked down at my hand, red as blood. What had happened? How was this possible? And why hadn’t it happened before when I had touched the book at first?

  “What is this?” Aaron asked, examining his red fingertip.

  Before Aaron could continue to guess, I already had the answer.

  “Blood,” I said, not able to explain, but knowing beyond a doubt that that was exactly what it was.

  “Our blood,” I explained further.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Aaron said, closely examining his fingertip, “there’s no puncture wound.”

  “After what you just saw you’re honestly thinking about the logistics of puncture wounds? You have got to be kidding me!”

  “Fair enough,” Aaron responded, “so let’s talk about the logistics of how you can be so certain of it being our blood?”

  I had only half listened to Aaron’s last retort. I was more caught up in trying to figure out why the book had suddenly reacted. I pictured the moment once more. My hand had touched the page, but nothing had happened directly. Unless it just took a moment longer to react to my touch. Somehow that didn’t seem right to me, though. Nevertheless, I had to try.

  Aaron, who had remained silent, patiently waiting for me to snap out of it and respond to what he had said, seemed to be done with waiting and was just about to say something, when I lifted my forefinger to my lips, indicating that I needed a moment.

  I raised my hand and let it float above the left page ― the one that had remained blank.

  Nothing happened.

  I moved my hand closer and closer to the page, stopping each time to see if there was the slightest change. There was none. Finally, my skin and the thick, ancient-looking paper connected.

  I had been hoping there would be some kind of response to my touch this time and was disappointed when ― once again ― nothing immediate happened.

  After waiting for what seemed like a whole minute without anything happening, I let out a frustrated sigh and lifted my hand off the page.

  “You try,” I addressed Aaron, unconvinced it would work but eager to try something else.

  Aaron gave me a skeptical look, apparently just as convinced as I was that this could not be the answer, and lightly touched a finger to the upper corner of the page:

  Nothing.

  “But then, why did it just do that with the other page? I don’t get it,” I said impatiently and placed my finger next to Aaron’s, our hands touching. At exactly that moment the page came alive with movement, the same blood-red writing springing up on the no longer blank page.

  Realization seemed to hit both of us at exactly the same moment, our eyes meeting and holding above our outstretched hands, our pulses racing, our breathing uneven.

  “We triggered it,” Aaron brought our realization out into the open. Spoken aloud it sounded incredulous to me ― but it was true. We had somehow triggered the manifestation. Our united touch, skin against skin, ignited the book and enabled writing to spill forth.

  “What does it say?” Aaron asked a while later after having taken a couple of deep breaths, obviously having succeeded in calming down again. He got up off the mattress and came around to sit next to me so that we could read the script together.

  My eyes focused on the elegant cursive handwriting. The style looked old-fashioned.

  On a dark night long ago, underneath a blood-red moon, was born a legacy, a foe, a darkness that arrives too soon.

  The world will end in blazing fire, will turn to dust and blow away. Humanity will thus expire, condemned to watch, to hope and pray.

  Charcoal black and red as blood, drawn like moths to the flame, desire rushing like a flood, sending fire through their veins.

  Star-crossed lovers meant to die, born to a dark and twisted fate, taking down with them the sky; mankind’s outcry comes too late.

  Cursed to live aside each other as they are consumed by lust; bound to one another until the earth is naught but dust.

  Thus will come about the end, when the rose is in full bloom; lest another’s heart should mend, beware impending doom.

  Darkness shall fall and cover earth with everlasting night. Say your goodbyes to friends and foes, to love and to the light.

  I didn’t know what to make of it.

  “It’s pretty cryptic,” I said to Aaron. “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know,” Aaron replied, “none of it makes any sense to me.” />
  He was silent for several moments, evidently rereading the mysterious text.

  “Actually,” Aaron amended carefully, “there’s one thing that makes a little sense … maybe.”

  “Seriously?” I demanded, “what’s that?”

  “The part about a rose in full bloom,” Aaron responded, “at least I think it might actually be referring to your birthmark, since there’s a rose on the cover of the book … and … because the book responded so strongly to you. That could be something to consider … couldn’t it?”

  My heart plummeted at hearing Aaron’s words; he didn’t seem to realize the implication of what he had just said. If the section about the rose in full bloom was in any way connected to me, then I would be responsible for bringing about doom.

  There was no other logical explanation. If the script related to the rose above my heart ― and the writing warned about this bloomed rose resulting in doom ― then whatever evil would befall the world must be my fault because I should somehow be able to control it or stop it from happening.

  Of course I had absolutely no idea what it was that caused the rose to bloom, much less how to stop it. The only indication I had gotten so far, was that the rose had already started to change; two petals had opened.

  The last time I had seen it, it had remained tightly shut. When Aaron had told me about it having stirred, I had been stumped to discover how different it looked.

  And though I was certain that it must be changing because of Aaron, reacting to him in some unfathomable way as I myself reacted to him, I didn’t know if the occurrence was triggered by the things he did or said, or by his emotions or my own, or by … magic … of a darker nature ― or all of the above.

  And because Aaron affected me, it meant he was just as responsible.

  “What’s wrong?” Aaron asked, obviously having sensed my sudden distress.

  “What you just said … don’t you realize?” I said in an unsteady voice.