Vision

by Beth Elisa Harris

  VISION

  by

  Beth Elisa Harris

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  *****

  PUBLISHED BY:

  eInteractive Media on SMASHWORDS

  ISBN: 978-1-4581-8136-7

  VISION

  Copyright © Beth Elisa Harris, 2011

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS Registration Number 2011904385

  Harris, Beth Elisa

  Vision / Beth Elisa Harris

  Juvenile Fiction/Science Fiction, Fantasy, Magic

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to barnesandnoble.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you respecting the author’s work.

  *****

  “We want to know the truth about reincarnation, we want proof of the survival of the soul, we listen to the assertion of clairvoyants and to the conclusions of psychical research, but we never ask, never, how to live.” Jiddu Krishnamurti

  *****

  Remember…

  Clairvoyance: 17th century French with clair meaning “clear” and voyance meaning “vision.”

  Guardian: a person who guards, protects, or preserves.

  Bane: a person or thing that ruins or spoils; destruction or ruin.

  PROLOGUE

  Colonsay, Scotland

  July 1731

  Sarah and Jonathan MacPhie collapsed into the goose down mattress, a wedding gift from Jonathan’s father seven years ago. Sweat beads gathered on her upper lip as she traced random patterns on Jonathan’s chest, her mouth smiling, her eyes full of woe.

  She lay tucked into his arm, not shifting her head to meet his eyes, but she knew they were closed.

  She knew this was their last night together on earth, but Jonathan did not know as he lay peacefully, stroking Sarah’s long amber curls, smiling over his good fortune.

  When Jonathan fell into deep slumber, she softly slid from the bed, slipping her gown over her moist body. Sitting at the small table in the kitchen, the vision was channeled into a letter, her last words left for anyone to read. She walked over by the fireplace where her mother’s marble urn sat in the corner – its contents emptied earlier that day.

  Carefully rolling up the letter and tying the circumference with string, she slipped it into the empty urn. Outside by the peach tree she buried the urn holding the letter in a shallow hole, knowing it would be found in time and read by the intended recipient. This vision had been the clearest one of all.

  In the distance the men gathered to plan her death.

  Further away a woman wailed with grief.

  There was nothing to do but wait.

  Portland, Oregon

  Present Day

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Run!” She shouted, before plunging to her death. Tonight my feet betrayed me like cement boots. Glued to the ground, unable to move, one of the men held a knife to my throat, ready to remove my head with one swift slice. Pulsing veins throbbed in my neck, exposed and vulnerable, anticipating the intense burn of the blade just before the deadly slash. But I would not surrender to my fate, because it was not my fate, it was hers. So with just the thought of running, my feet detached from the earth and I ran, leaving my killer behind, bewildered, his arms dropping to his sides.

  Then we were both chased. I ran behind her, watching the long, faded blue Highland gown burning, disintegrating ashes drifting from her body in puffs of air as the cliff approaches. She would make the jump as always, while I woke myself up before they chased me over the edge onto the jagged sea rocks.

  Now I know it’s her, but I didn’t always – Sarah.

  Her amber hair and eyes exact replicas of mine. The all-consuming grief coursing through her veins as she leaves her love behind is palpable, and I can only dream of a love so rich.

  Afterward my nightshirt is always soaked, hair kinked and clinging to the sides of my face.

  The horror would never stop. Ever. Sleeping through the night had eluded me for the past ten years. So exhausted, I get up and shuffle to the shower; head pounding with each step, doomed to this endless freak show called life.

  I’m so over it. And then I remembered. Today I’m leaving for England.

  That thought alone gave me a shot of pure adrenaline.

  Today would be different and if my evil plan works, Portland High would not see my face again. I pictured the rumor mill spreading like wild fire, with talk of my exotic travels overseas, the enviable opportunity to expand my boundaries at such a young age, to escape the parents. The truth is if anyone did notice, the story would likely morph into some silly or mildly spectacular rumor. Did you hear about Layla Stone? She went to England to have her baby…or perhaps, I heard Layla’s parents shipped her away because they didn’t want her anymore. I grinned to myself and relished having another secret to myself.

  My dad Sam drove me to the airport while I mindlessly fidgeted with the new silver charm bracelet he gave me as a going away present. There was one single charm; a heart with my name engraved – Layla. He told me over time charms could be added to represent my experiences, until it was full – as in a full life. Dad loved symbolism, and was ironically more emotionally charged than Liz, my mom, who worked almost round the clock in a research lab conducting neurological experiments on gosh knows what. And even though Dad works weird hours as a physical therapist for the Seattle Seahawks, we were way closer than Mom and I would ever be.

  Honestly, it’s highly doubtful she even likes me.

  Whatever. There are still perks to being me.

  Growing up in the Stone house with absentee parents has been like living on my own, isolated being an only child, but with tons of independence. They were lucky I was smart and chose studying over ink and piercings. Someone else in my position would have been a seasoned rebel with a police record, or pregnant, or a drop out, exercising full exploitation of too much freedom.

  That’s why they are letting their almost sixteen year old (okay, in five months) daughter travel to Cambridge for a year to study and live with a host family, completing what will be equivalent to my junior and senior year abroad in a college environment.

  I’m the poster child for the advantages of good grades and scholastic achievement.

  It pays for freedom.

  Anyway, I was looking forward to a good dose of humanity – living people and all, a new world.

  Dad noticed the distant land I occupied in the car. Between my bracelet and touching the edge of the envelope containing the letter, he could see I was a nervous wreck. “You okay, sweetie?”

  My stomach was in the middle of performing Olympic size somersaults, so I only returned a meek nod.

  Tucked in the pocket of my carry on, sent by Abbey Grace of Scotland, the letter arrived just days before departure as if anticipating a change in inertia – kind of creepy, but creepiness wasn’t a foreign concept in my world.

  After reading it several times, my memory held the contents verbatim, remembering the near perfect handwriting on the canary stationary.

  Dear Ms. Stone,

  Please forgive the sudden correspondence from a total stranger. My name is Abbey Grace, a resident of the Isle of Colonsay in Scotland. I have discovered something on my property that concerns you, and possibly your Mum. I think it would be too confusing to send. Is there any way you could get here? I understand you will be going to Cambridge to study – I will explain how I know that when we talk. Please contact me when you settle in. I a
m enclosing my phone number below.

  With regards,

  Abbey Grace

  The strange letter almost made its way to the trash before instinct kicked in. Something told me it held secrets, and while I couldn’t deal with the concept just yet, throwing it out was not an option. Neither was discussing it with anyone. That’s how the letter ended up in my carry-on.

  Dad was talking. “Sorry Dad, what was that?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled in the familiar way I would miss, his thick brown hair disheveled from rushing to get out of the house. Earlier he when he galloped downstairs pulling a Police t-shirt over his head, I caught a rare glimpse of his one and only tattoo. The dark bluish-green name Liz was inked over his heart in one-inch high calligraphy – homage to my distant, cold, over-achieving absent mother. I know, poor me. Cue violins please.

  They met while attending Stanford taking pre-med courses. Both had sights on medical school, but ended up on a different path. Dad chose physical therapy, and Liz picked research.

  Personally, the whole ink thing made me cringe. Tattooing someone’s name on your body was way too intimate for me.

  “I said your ambition reminds me of your mom,” Dad repeated.

  My head jerked to face him and my eyes narrowed into slits. “I. Am. Nothing. Like. Her,” I seethed.

  He startled a bit, sensing my obvious displeasure with the comparison making me hunch down in the seat. He didn’t deserve me barking at him like that.

  “Jeez Layla, I meant that as a compliment.”

  With arms folded over my chest, staring out the window, my heart thudded with guilt for snapping. Dad was only trying to broker peace, but the thought of any remote resemblance to Liz was horrifying. We were polar opposites. She is an aloof scientist, while I am a passionate reader of literature. She thought about numbers and formulas, while I thought about Faulkner and Wilde. I could read minds, and she was, well, clueless. “Sorry I snapped, Dad. I just resent the comparison.”

  All he could do was sigh and I left it at that. I didn’t have time to explain about all the times Liz had forgotten to pick me up after school, or at the mall. How I packed my own lunch, or searched the house for spare change while he was away training and Liz was responsible for my wellbeing. No, there wasn’t time.

  I had to go.

  He pulled to a stop in front of the airport. I had already forbid him to walk me in, another of my demands that crushed his intention. He wanted to go through security and escort me safely to the plane, but that was only an excuse since the diligent TSA team should resolve any threat to my safety.

  I probably hurt his feelings then too but I could foresee the inevitable overt display of maudlin. It was hard enough leaving him, and my heart broke a little more each minute that crept closer to departure time. We would see each other – again – and I wanted to show him my super strength; the same stuff that had brought me to this place. I could do this. But the part of me that wanted to cling to his leg like I used to as a little girl, fought viciously with the yet unformed part of me expected to be mature about the situation. The contrast was brutally unbearable and there were moments in between the excitement of the adventure when I questioned what the hell I had gotten in to.

  So much for my plan – right after I said goodbye to Dad, tears blinded my vision as I pulled my luggage into the terminal. The waterworks finally subsided once the plane leveled off at thirty thousand feet and I put my earbuds in, drifting off to sleep, suspended between two continents, existing nowhere.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My host family, Henry and Patrice Brown and their daughter Sienna picked me up at Heathrow Airport. Sienna was my age, completing her compulsory education requirements, and advancing to Sixth Form College at Hills Road in Cambridge where we would both study. Students in England finish what is equivalent to high school in the States at sixteen. Very cool.

  After a quick check in at home, answering a list of sterile questions administered by Liz who unfortunately picked up the phone with her guilt clad, I’m so busy running around and really need to be working voice, I turned full attention to my new surroundings, absorbing everything around me like a sponge. The Brown’s were warm and laid back, easing my angst almost immediately.

  Sienna was my physical antithesis, with board straight, short pixie black hair and hazel eyes contrasting her creamy skin, a small nose stud adding to her exotic flavor, and a petite build confirmed we would not be sharing clothes.

  She gave me a quick once-over, and I could “hear” the excitement in her head about my arrival. She seems nice; I hope she’s nice so we can chill. Love the hair…

  But she talked one hundred miles an hour and I struggled to keep up. “You’ll love it here!” was the last thing I heard her say before we pulled into their driveway.

  I smiled and nodded.

  One thing I can do is tune people out mentally, which often leads to tuning them out altogether, which is rude I know but difficult to control. Hearing head voices and actual voices talking is like doubling the number of people around, which can cause full-blown sensory overload. My sentience doesn’t require intense focus or eye squinting or other visible displays of channeling like in movies; it just is. And since I don’t divulge my bizarre world to others, I can seem aloof when really I’m just trying to survive without my head imploding.

  “Here we are!” Patrice exclaimed in the late afternoon when we arrived at the two-story brick house on Cherry Hinton Road, about a mile from the college. Sienna showed me to my room next to hers, a quaint, light, white washed space with a bed, nightstand, dresser and small television – reminiscent of a cozy room inside a quaint inn or bed and breakfast.

  “Oh, and warning!” Sienna turned before leaving my new room. “Mum’s cooking will put sneaky weight on so watch out! Not that you need to or anything. You look spectacular.” Stuart will drool over her.

  For a moment, I forgot. That sometimes happens too and I was jet lagged. “Who’s Stuart?”

  Her eyes expanded. “Excuse me?”

  Oops! Commence back-pedaling. “Oh nothing, just...thinking out loud.”

  After tilting her head in puzzlement, Sienna pointed me toward our shared bathroom at the end of the hall. “Fresh towels in the loo. Make yourself at home,” she said, still thinking about what just happened.

  I longed to wash the travel dirt down the drain while Patrice prepared supper.

  Those curls are to die for, I “heard” Sienna think as she went downstairs.

  That made me smile because I love contrasts and envied the whole dark hair against the fair skin, especially since my hair and eyes are basically the same color…boring. Funny how we always want the opposite of what we have…

  Sienna spun me around Cambridge like a whirling dervish, determined to acclimate me to the town before school started, so that’s how we spent the two days before classes. I tried to stay awake when my Portland body wanted to sleep, and sleep when I was used to being awake.

  The morning classes started, I walked downstairs just as someone knocked on the front door. Hesitating, I hoped one of the Brown’s would answer since it wouldn’t be anyone for me, obviously.

  “Stuart!” Sienna squealed as she flew past me, leaping ballerina style toward the door then throwing it open, and herself in the arms of perhaps the most perfect guy I had ever laid eyes on. Her legs were tied around his waist as she smothered his face with kisses. “You look great! How was Greece?” She never mentioned a boyfriend, but why would she? We just met and it’s not like we were BFF’s. She playfully tossed his onyx hair, which looked no different for wear. I couldn’t stop staring at his large, haunting eyes, and he made it easy by staring back.

  “You missed me obviously,” he smiled kissing her cheek, filling me with sudden displaced envy. “Greece was fun.” The rich tone of his voice filled the air. Dizzy with discomfort, embarrassed for feeling so giddy, my stomach was doing synchronized double back flips, making me blush.

  Thank
god he finally blinked. “You must be, Layla.”

  My throat closed up and the room felt hot. It was not cool to do this over my roommate’s boyfriend.

  Pull it together. “Yes, hi.” I raised my hand up in some lame attempt to disguise the jittery greeting. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, making me too nervous to read him. I abruptly excused myself, dashing to the kitchen for a bagel and coffee with a sudden rush of total inadequacy.

  After initial “hellos” my social skills tend to suck big time anyway, and his sudden stunning appearance didn’t help in that regard. I shoved a few bagel pieces in my mouth chased by swallows of coffee. So, that was the Stuart she was thinking about – why would she be worried about him drooling over me? They appeared to be a happy couple.

  We drove to school together in Stuart’s Saab, apparently a pre-established car-pooling arrangement set in motion prior to my arrival. I didn’t know whether to rejoice or cringe. Something about his presence was intoxicating, but I was a mere awkward third wheel.

  Stuart continued to stare at me through the rear view mirror, causing me to focus my gaze out the window. “You’re taller than I expected.” His crooked grin was warm, but I get defensive when strangers reference my height as an icebreaker, or reference any physical quality for that matter. It’s like, if you’re taller than five and a half feet with anything other than board-straight hair, you fall in the anomaly category of humans. And if you read as many books as me, forget it. Freaky are you.

  So because he violated my rule about introductions to which he held no prior knowledge, my self-possessed acerbic tongue took over. “Yes I am on the tall side. This is true. And my hair is naturally curly, and these aren’t contacts.” If my defensive inflections weren’t evident enough, he certainly noticed my eye roll in the rear view mirror. “And yes, I was named after the song by Eric Clapton when he was with Derek and the Dominos, not that MTV unplugged version, because my Dad is some sort of purest, sentimental rocker.”