by Dee Willson
“We? We who? A purpose? What purpose? Why the hell would you need to change into an animal? How? If you can do this stuff, why do you hide from—”
“I do not hide,” Bryce says, all signs of stress vanishing in an instant. He stands tall. “I am not ashamed of who I am.” He shakes his head. “You’re missing the point. Only the oldest of souls—specifically seers, creators—can see into someone’s soul, to the good and evil there, to the experiences that have left permanent marks.”
“A seer, what the hell is that? Are you a seer? Are you saying I chose to see you as a bird—your soul as a bird? That makes no sense!”
He laughs and it sounds unusual given the weight of our conversation. I stare at him dumbfounded.
“I am not a seer, you are, and you don’t make a conscious choice to see. This is who you are. This is who you’ve always been. Only now your soul is stronger. In times of great duress your soul awakens, becomes aware. Some describe this as the opening of one’s psychic eye. It is the connection between your body and soul, a timeless fusion meant to help you through extraordinary circumstances, if you are willing to listen.”
An abundance of information, too large for me to process, aches like a cancerous lump in my head. Confusion becomes tangible, pounding me internally. Stray tears cascade down my cheek as the absurdity of it all hits me like a brick.
“Shit. I’ve become my mother. I really am crazy.” I hit the step quick and hard.
Bryce closes the distance between us, pulling me into his arms.
“You are not crazy.” I fall limp in his embrace, a deflated shell. “You only see what is already there, what is real. It is a gift to see one’s soul,” he says, unleashing a brief chuckle. “You are not crazy.”
He swipes at my tears.
Eye to eye I lose myself in his brilliance. He is beautiful, calming, almost entrancing, but not normal. I’d seen it from the start. I refused to accept what I was seeing. But it is real. Very real.
“I’m not crazy,” I say, as if it becomes true when said out loud.
“No. You are amazing, strong, and I—” he pauses, changing course. “But you’re not crazy.”
I’m immersed in his eyes like they are fathomless pools of water and I am floating, watching the light show from within. I touch his face and his breath catches, his chin relaxing into my hand.
“What are you?”
“First and foremost, I am a man.”
“Are you the same as that man in the cafe?”
“No. I am an old soul with unique talents, but I am not lost.”
“What does that mean, to be lost?”
Bryce peers into my eyes.
“I will never lie or keep secrets from you. Ever. But I need you to trust that what I tell you is the truth.”
“I trust you.”
“Then know in time, when you are ready, I will teach you everything you need to know.”
“Teach me. Teach me what? To do what you do? Why? How much time?”
“Our truth, history, purpose,” he pauses, glancing at the front door. “Everything.”
The doorbell chimes, making me jump. Someone bangs on the door.
“Police here!”
“How do they—”
“I called them when you were seeing Abby off.”
“These things you can do. What if people find out, will you be in danger or trouble?”
A smirk inches the right side of his lip. “There is no governing body to control us, we make choices and deal with the consequences.”
“So there are no rules?”
“I said there is no law, no governing body to control us. We are guided by our conscience. That doesn’t mean existing rules don’t have merit. Once the police have completed their investigation, I will help you put everything in place, so you and Abby will feel comfortable.”
I scan the room, the mess bringing me back to the here and now.
“Mrs. Morgan, are you okay? We need to come inside.”
“I’ll be right there,” I call out to the officers.
Bryce takes my hands, encasing them. He kisses my fingertips one at a time.
“I promise to tell you everything.”
Everything. Now there is a loaded word.
Everything
The police spend most of the evening inspecting the crime scene and asking questions I can’t answer. I can’t mention the man in the café. I have no idea who he is and no valid reason to explain why he’d do me harm. What could I possibly say? I saw some guy’s soul molesting Sonia? I’m not about to tell the cops anything that would result in a straitjacket and Abby motherless, and although I’m sure Bryce can fend for himself, I don’t want him in any more trouble than he already is. Clearly Bryce’s involvement is of concern to the officers since two are assigned his interrogators and even after a thorough line of questioning remain his shadow most of the night.
It’s after midnight before I get Bryce in a room alone, and when I do, I find it hard to speak. I’m stressed, somewhat nauseous, and my nerves jump like cats on hot coals. I want to know more about the lost soul who broke into my house, if Bryce thinks he’ll return, and how I protect Abby if he does? I want to know how Bryce even knows this stuff. Only these aren’t questions I can ask in a house crawling with police officers, and it’s driving me batty. Well, battier. I can see people’s souls, a murderer has ransacked my house because I witnessed something I shouldn’t, and the man I’ve come to admire is . . . something extraordinary. I suppose I’ve hit rock bottom.
“You keep referring to souls, old souls, lost souls,” I whisper to Bryce. “Explain.”
We’re so close I can smell the lemon laundry detergent on his clothes. We’re collecting cookbooks from the kitchen floor, skimming pages to steal a moment without an audience.
“Every living thing has a soul, or spirit, or conscience,” says Bryce. “The name is insignificant. It’s an enigma of energy that gives life to a body, like a battery. Our soul is part of our being, part of what makes us human. Our soul resides in our brain, guiding us through each lifetime, learning, and contributing. It’s our connection to nature, to the elements, our plug to the network of life.”
I attempt to absorb such a fantastical concept, but it’s a bit out of my realm of belief. I try really hard and for a moment think I sense my soul, feel it inside me, but the moment passes. I twitch with that creepy-crawly feeling you get when talking about lice or spiders.
“What makes a soul an old soul?”
“Each time a soul’s physical self—body, you could say—reaches expiry, it moves to a new one. You might liken it to reincarnation, I guess. Old souls are exactly that, old. They’ve experienced many, many lifetimes. Every one of these lives has a purpose, a goal, something to learn, to contribute. Some old souls are responsible for creation. Some focus on protection or the acquisition of knowledge. And a few,” he stops to grin, “are here to teach.”
I think back on all the times I’ve been called an old soul, an ancient one. Those people weren’t nuts after all.
“If I’m an old soul, how many lives have I lived? What is my purpose? You say I’m a seer, what does that—”
Bryce shushes me, turning to look over his shoulder. An investigator steps into the room and drops his coat on the kitchen counter. He loosens the collar of his shirt and unbuttons his sleeves. The window has been boarded, and I’ve blasted the heat so he’s hot.
I inch closer to Bryce so I can whisper. “How does a soul get lost?”
“They aren’t lost in the literal sense. Lost souls are old souls who have lost their purpose. They have trouble learning from past experience and therefore live immorally. It’s a vicious cycle resulting in millennia of heartache, loss, and death, in one form or another. They’ve lost their way on the path to spiritual enlightenment.”
I frown. “And we’re back to religion.”
The investigator fiddles with the door handle to my back patio then squats to pick through a mound of po
ttery and soil. The fern I’ve nurtured for years is barely distinguishable, mashed into the floor tile.
“Spiritual enlightenment and religion are not the same,” whispers Bryce. “Developing one’s soul and purpose is done from within, a power summoned internally in the quest to experience life and be a better person.”
“How does a person learn from a past they can’t remember?”
“They feel it. Like a computer, a soul stores past experiences, and lessons learned in previous lives make a person who they are. Memories are erased when the body dies and the soul starts a new life, but some things are permanently engrained in a soul’s hard drive. Imagine a child born afraid of dogs or water. Not because he’s been hurt or traumatized in this lifetime, but because his soul has learned something in a previous life to make him afraid. Your genetic make-up decides if your eyes will be green or blue and how tall you’ll grow to be. Your soul contributes to the person you become.”
“So the child is predestined to live in fear of the dog next door?”
Bryce shrugs. “Until he chooses to conquer his fear.”
“Now we’re back to choice.”
“Always.”
Bryce touches my arm, glancing at his shadows. They’ve come into the kitchen lugging kits with strange looking supplies. One starts taking photos while the other fidgets in the corner, organizing paperwork on a clipboard. I don’t have time to contemplate what Bryce’s touch does to me. His cell rings and he stands, turning away to talk while another officer passes through the kitchen carrying a roll of plastic bags, stopping to recruit brawn for bagging Maxi. The cops debate what a broken neck implies and my heart sinks.
I know what a broken neck means to me. It explains why Bryce wouldn’t let me hold Maxi. It says Maxi died quick, thank God. And it reminds me I’m about to have one devastated little girl to console, with no clue how to explain Maxi’s absence.
“Don’t worry, we’ll think of something,” says Bryce, covering the mic on his cell to speak to me.
I push Bryce into a corner of the living room. He’s still on the phone, listening to someone rant by the sounds of it. I think its Thomas.
“You read my mind,” I hiss.
He shrugs. “Sort of, I’ll explain later.” He places a hand over his heart and grins at me.
And that’s what it takes to push me over the edge. That and three men rolling poor Maxi in plastic. The air becomes thin, making it difficult to breath. I lean against the wall before sliding to the floor, dropping my head between my knees while I cry uncontrollably.
“Hey, hey now,” says Bryce, lowering to sit beside me. He pulls me into his arms and holds me tight. “Don’t worry, you’ll get through this. You’re stronger than you realize. You and Abby will be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”
The officers leave the room with Maxi in tow, and I bury my face in Bryce’s shirt. When I finally come up for air his shirt is wet and I’m a mess. Bryce wipes the tears from my chin.
“Was that Thomas on the phone? Is he okay?”
Bryce nods, grimacing. “He wants to be here, with you, but I convinced him to stay away. Since I’m under the microscope with the authorities and Thomas isn’t on their radar, he has a better chance of learning more about this lost soul. We don’t even know why he was here, in Carlisle. His kind usually stay close to well populated coastal regions.”
“His kind? I thought you said lost souls are just people?”
“Ah, so you have been listening.”
I shoot daggers with my eyes, but Bryce just smiles.
“Some of the most powerful old souls, ones most connected to ancient ways, became lost after the destruction of their homeland, Atlantis.”
If I wasn’t already on the floor . . .
“Atlantis? Are you serious?”
“Yes, Atlantis was an ancient civilization—”
“I know what it was. You’re saying it was a real place? Not just a legend? This is insane!”
Bryce sighs. I think he regrets bringing it up.
“Tess, myths are passed through generations, stories originating from real life circumstances and lessons elders wish to impress upon their young. Atlanteans, for example, had been thriving for millennia when disaster struck, killing every man, woman, and child, and destroying everything they felt connected to. Those who were not crushed or burned were swept away by waves the size of entire cities, leaving survivors to scramble for higher ground, to find refuge wherever they could. This is a story of devastation at its worst. One that will never be forgotten.”
“How . . . how do you know this? Were you there? No. That would’ve been . . . Was my soul there? Oh my God, there were survivors?”
“A few,” says Bryce, obviously upset. “A limited number of people were able to hold on to small pieces of land that didn’t sink. They refused to surrender their riches to nature’s cruelty, and defiant, continued to dwell on Atlantis, adapting to a largely aquatic life. But nature has its way and Atlantis was slowly devoured by the sea, piece by piece, until all that was left was a fading relic of the once glorious city.” He sighs. “The souls remaining lived on boats and man-made islands. They became bitter and indignant, determined to take the life of every sailor who dared enter their domain. If they couldn’t control the sea, no one would.”
“Hence the—”
“Mermaid legends. These lost souls have spent thousands of years struggling to shake the morally corrupt decisions their souls made after the destruction of their homeland. Very few still live in the depths. Some have found their way to a life of serenity, learning from their mistakes. Most have resurfaced to wreak havoc on land, taking from others what they believe was taken from them, free will.”
I connect the dots. “Vampires.”
“Um hmm, the origin of vampire folklore.”
The sheer thought of Atlantis being a real place that was swallowed by the sea makes me quiver. What those people must have gone through, how terrified they must have been. To witness the entire world go up in flames, to watch everything and everyone you love incinerated, torn apart, or drowned. No modern-day movie could ever accurately depict this kind of horror and devastation. No amount of time would ever be enough for your soul to recover.
“Some people think it was for the best, that the fall of Atlantis was inevitable. Over the years Atlanteans turned away from the spiritual principles that guided their ancestors, and instead applied their skills to creating wealth. Ambition turned into greed. An obsession with material riches created a fear of loss resulting in the need for security, so they raised fleets and armies. Atlanteans ruled for eighteen centuries, but had their land remained above water they would have, eventually, self-destructed. Some think their end was nature’s way of correcting a genetic flaw. Like karmic payback.”
“But you don’t,” I say.
“Nothing living ever deserves to be torn from their soul, robbed of a lifetime.”
Yes, what a price to pay, to lose everything.
“Is there anything left of Atlantis now?”
Bryce stares out the window, to the stars. “Seventy-one percent of Earth’s surface is covered in ocean. More than half is over three thousand meters deep. Under four percent of our underwater world has been explored by modern man. We know more about Mars. Even if there is a part of Atlantis remaining, if there’s proof of man’s history, the technology to reach it doesn’t exist.”
Bryce stays within a few feet of me the entire night, coddling my nerves with his controlled demeanor and the odd gentle touch. Eventually his shadows leave, making the atmosphere slightly more tolerable, and as the remaining officers complete their investigation, Bryce and I are given approval to clean. We right smaller pieces of unbroken furniture, sweep glass and pottery, and discard food, even stuff untouched in the fridge. The vast majority is put into garbage bags or boxes labeled for the insurance company, and the broken Christmas ornaments I can’t bear to part with are packed for future consideration. The place looks pretty bare an
d for a split second I think Meyer will freak when he sees our home like this. Then I remember he’s gone and won’t see a thing. Only Abby and I have to start over.
By daybreak the last of the men in uniform have left and Bryce and I have the house somewhat organized. I’m so tired I can hardly stand upright and anxiety has gone to bed. I’ve been awake almost twenty-four hours, the longest, most shocking twenty-four hours of my life. I’ve got questions and concerns by the dozen, only they’re loosely formed concepts I can’t grasp at the moment.
I turn a corner in time to see Bryce lift my credenza three feet off the floor and pull the curtain out from under it. Somewhere, buried deep, I know I should be blown away. But I’m not. It’s like I’ve been electrocuted to the point of numbness.
“How do you do that, exactly?” I grip the doorframe for support. “It took four delivery guys to get that thing in here.”
Bryce takes my hand and leads me to the credenza.
“Close your eyes,” he says. I do and he places my hands on the credenza. “Everything has a magnetic currency that pulsates against the magnetic pull of gravity. If you concentrate, you can feel it.”
I try, but all I feel is wood grain begging to be touched. And, to be honest, a tad dizzy.
“It’s quite simple, actually. Every particle radiates at a specific frequency. The object as a whole need only resonate at the frequency of gravity, 1012 hertz, or the frequency between short radio waves and infrared radiation, to lose its weight. So, if you use electromagnetic force to suspend gravity, you can render anything, even stone, weightless.”
I stare in awe. “Sure, that sounds simple.”
