by Dee Willson
“What happened? Where did we go?”
“Over thousands of years, Earth suffered a series of natural disasters. A passing comet caused killer tsunamis, plate shifts, seismic activity, and major volcanic eruptions. Mu slowly broke into several parts, some buried, most sinking under the sea.”
“Just like Atlantis.” What an awful fate.
“Unlike Atlanteans, Lemurians had time to prepare, to amass an immense understanding of weather and astronomy. In fact, our comprehension of science and natural law proved to be our greatest asset, allowing some of us to spread to foreign highlands, to safety, before catastrophe obliterated our entire race.”
“Why don’t people know this? Why isn’t this documented?”
Bryce’s pen stops mid-air. “It was,” he says. “Try to envision the chaos, the upheaval. Everything was burned, buried, or lost at sea. What was left survived only in the tormented minds of the beaten and broken, in nature’s refugees.”
I look back to the black line of trees outside the window. “Until all that is left is myth and folklore.”
Bryce smiles. “Atlantis has been the jewel of the storyteller’s trove, but Mu has not been forgotten.” Bryce joins me at the window. “Tales of tall, light-skinned survivors of an epic catastrophe are told across the globe, in diverse cultures, entwined in almost every belief system, all with similar notes of our sunken realm. And not all was lost,” he says, bowing gracefully. “The Keepers remember.”
I watch the spark in his eyes as it reflects off the glass.
“My grandfather was involved in the preservation and transcription of one of Japan’s oldest historical documents, the Fudoki, or Record of Ancient Matters. Evidence of Lemurian culture exists for those willing to look for it.”
It dawns on me that Bryce’s soul was actually there, watching everything and everyone he loved killed, and he remembers. His soul remembers. I take his hand and squeeze tight. I can’t imagine having to dwell on such awful memories.
I hear the sound of tiny feet only seconds before Sofia runs into the room at full throttle, flying into Bryce’s open arms. He dips her formally, holding her tight, and winks at me. Now that Thomas thinks Sofia’s presence will keep Bryce from making a move on me, from getting physical, she’s allowed over a lot more. I haven’t commented. Bryce is thrilled. Sofia begs for a bedtime story. I watch Bryce negotiate with his niece, raising the ante with every offer. Bryce caves and I laugh. He settles for four books at breakfast and Sofia jumps from his arms, running to the door where Nanna awaits.
I wave to Nanna and she smiles. Everyone says goodnight before Bryce and I are alone again, staring out into the woods.
“Sofia is beautiful. She looks just like you.” The moment the words are out, I blush. I can’t believe I just called Bryce beautiful.
“I wouldn’t mention that to Thomas if I were you. That’s a sharp bone for him, that Sofia looks more mine than his.”
“Does Sofia know you’re a Keeper? Does she know what her father is?”
I know Sofia isn’t an old soul, Bryce told me a week ago when I asked about Abby. Our children were born with new souls.
Bryce shrugs. “I’m not entirely sure what Thomas tells her, but my family and I don’t censor Sofia, we have nothing to be ashamed of. She knows we’re different, hears us talking. But she’s too young to understand the perplexity of our world. Someday, when she’s older, if Thomas will allow it, we’ll teach her everything.”
I can see it hurts him to keep things from his niece. I know the feeling. Fudging the truth about Maxi’s death and the break in has eaten away at my conscience for days. But part of parenting, part of maturity, I think, is knowing when a child is mature enough to hear the truth. And when they’re not.
Bryce leans forward, resting his forehead on the window frame. “When children are born with a strong connection to their old soul, they naturally tap into hidden talents from previous lives. But society frowns upon unusual talents and eccentric behavior, quickly putting the kibosh on what is deemed adolescent imagination at best, or mental illness at worst.” He sighs. “It’s a shame really, because when nurtured these children bloom, gifted at telepathy, precognition, telekinesis, levitation, and much, much more.”
“When I was a kid I used to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until I could touch it. I swear I’d float, hovering inches from the stucco. I remember telling my mother about it once.”
“And?”
“She told me to keep it to myself. That I was silly and adorable.”
“A few months ago, I was called to assist with a situation. A four-year-old boy had been lowered into a dormant well to cleanse his body of evil spirits. When I arrived at the remote Turkish village, the boy had been at the bottom of the thirty-six foot shaft for three days without food or water. This was the local clergy’s cure for clairvoyance.”
“The thought makes my skin crawl, but I’m not surprised. Human beings can be brutal in their beliefs.”
Bryce nods. “Not only was the boy’s soul capable of recalling the art of telepathy, he knew the power of invisibility. And could explain it. He could describe the use of light to transform physical matter into transparent matter and the use of energy from the seven major centers in the chakra system to project energy. He could, by all accounts, remember man’s oldest form of self-defense, invisibility.”
“What torturous past did this boy’s soul experience to recall disappearing from sight?” The thought makes me shiver, and a few of my more recent nightmares come to mind. “What happened to the boy, did he survive?”
“He’s living with a friend of Angitias.”
“The witch,” I say, remembering the woman from Bryce’s Halloween party.
Bryce grins. “Her friend runs a school for the gifted in Russia, a secluded little place called the House of Ved’ma.” I must look confused because he says, “The Russian word for witch is ved’ma, literally meaning, one who knows.”
It all comes together. Bryce’s powers, the mind reading, the superhuman strength, the memory; these are natural capabilities of the human mind, the soul, but are considered witchcraft. A light flickers in my head. To protect my family, I need to learn how to tap into my soul’s inner strength, its knowledge of the mystical. I’ve got to think like a witch.
Bryce’s chuckle pulls me from my thoughts. “Change of plans,” he says, grabbing my hand and guiding me from the office.
At the front door he tosses me my coat. He looks downright giddy so I follow without question. I’ve just finished lacing my boots when he pulls me close placing a knitted hat over my head. We laugh as the puff of wool flops over my face. “I know where you can concentrate,” he says, grinning. He opens the door and we step out into the night.
Even in the dark the woods call to me. The moon reflects off the bright white snow, illuminating the forest in shades of indigo. I’m overwhelmed by an urge to paint, to capture the beauty on canvas. The dense packing snow crunches under foot. There is no wind but the air has bite, nibbling the tip of my nose. I remove a glove and reach out to touch the branches of an ancient blue spruce. The needles are chilled, but soft. Furry buds await spring. The silence captures me, trancelike, until I feel Bryce watching, his billowing breath the only proof he’s breathing.
“Close your eyes, feel the energy that radiates from the trees,” he says.
I tilt my head back and concentrate. The warmth starts at my feet and works its way up my body until a buzz rings in my ears. I feel . . .I feel . . .alive.
I open my eyes and the forest snaps back into place, serene but dormant. The feeling is gone, the cold seeping into my boots.
“Tell me,” I say, turning to Bryce, “which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
Bryce laughs, his entire body shuddering with amusement.
“Funny girl. I assume you’re referring to which came first, the human form or the soul, and the answer is neither. One does not exist without the other. Some Keepers believe their soul expe
rienced life for millions of years before man. But if this is true, if our soul existed within creatures like dinosaurs prior to mankind’s rein, we have no memory of it.”
I walk along the tree line, kicking at clumps of snow. A fresh blanket drapes over manmade mounds, and I realize these woods are well-traveled. I spot what looks like a fort and a pyramid of snowballs.
“Who created souls?” I chuck a snowball at Bryce. It hits him in the shoulder, smashing into bits. He looks surprised.
“The great unknown question. Good luck finding someone to teach you that one.”
I gather snow into my gloves. “I thought you knew everything.” I throw another ball but Bryce disappears and it smacks into a tree.
I hear his laugh before he appears a few feet away. “Keepers contain the knowledge and power of our race. But we’re limited in regards to history pre-dating our own creation. This is why religion, legends, and sagas are so popular. They give people something to believe, a neatly packaged answer to the unknown. Most don’t care if it’s the right or wrong answer, they just like to feel that there is one.”
I’ve never believed in a higher power. I’ve always thought we humans were the power, and that miracles are within us. I never doubted we are capable of so much more than we understand.
Bryce dissolves, and when I turn he’s standing right beside me. He’s so close I can’t lob the packed snow in my fist so I hide it behind my back. Bryce laughs and I pretend the silver sparks in his eyes don’t provoke my stomach to do flips. I step back and stumble into a ditch, a long hole dug behind a rudimentary wall of ice and snow. Under me lies a pile of snowballs, and when Bryce reaches to help me I grab one and aim, but he’s disappeared again.
“Nice try!” he bellows from afar.
Suddenly the hole reminds me of an open casket. Meyer comes to mind. “Where do we go when we die? I know where our body goes, back into the earth in one form or another, but what about our soul, where does it go? Does it immediately jump to another body, a newborn?”
Bryce leans over the wall, shaking his head. “Most choose to reflect, to think about what they’ve learned.”
“They go to heaven?”
“Where they go is more a time than place. Some souls call it Spirit World, but that’s merely a name of convenience. There, a soul feels at peace, one with Earth’s energy. There is no negative emotion, only contemplation, an infinite time for basking in the contribution of life.”
“Sounds kinda beautiful.”
I hope Meyer is there, at peace.
“It is,” says Bryce, “and it isn’t. There’s no color, yet everything is bright. There’s nothing to touch or smell, but the aroma of your favorite bread engulfs you and the memory of a fleeting touch is so strong you’d swear it was real. Eventually you realize the experiences that drive you, make you feel, are memories made while joined with a living being.”
I suppose I wouldn’t enjoy the scent of grass if I couldn’t wriggle my toes in it. And what would love be if you couldn’t hold the one you’re attracted to, or look into their eyes, or hear them breathing?
A series of thumps followed by flying snow catches my attention and I peek over the wall. Bryce is about twenty yards away, partially concealed behind a similar wall of ice. When he sees I’ve made out what is obviously the stage of an earlier snowball fight, he laughs and throws another one in my direction.
“Finally, a counter attack!”
We take turns hurling well-packed balls at each other, mine hitting nothing but branches. Bryce is either quick to move or he disappears all together. I lean over to scoop more snow and get belted, the force knocking me over.
“Sorry.” he yells.
I duck into the trench, gathering snow for an arsenal. I need time, a distraction.
“Is that the best you can do? You’re a Lemurian, a Keeper! Come on, man, I want to see this power in action!”
“You’ve seen my soul as an eagle.” He’s not even slightly interested in taking my bait. “What more do you need to see?”
“I’d just witnessed the violation of my private property and the murder of my dog. I was under serious duress.” I tweak the line. “I wanna see your tricks.
Bryce laughs and a round of shots pound my barricade, the last leaving a gaping hole at one end.
“Let me see you fly,” I say, trying not to chuckle, “or lift a bus or something.” My knees are frozen numb and I can hardly move my fingers. I count the mini mounds of snow that barely pass as balls, formulating a battle plan.
“Tess, power has a cost. I don’t hurl it around like a toy. I could lift a bus, but why would I?”
I pop up, lobbing an armful of mushy bullets, one at a time.
“To show me you can.” I watch Bryce shatter each snowball with a simple wave.
“What about the people on the bus? What about the driver? What about the innocent people walking by or the curious child? Do I disregard their safety to prove something to you?”
The last of my snowballs falls to the ground, not even close to the mark. Okay, so I hadn’t thought about the potential passengers. And I’ve officially lost this snowball fight.
I pout.
“We make choices,” says Bryce, stepping over his wall and toward me. “We learn from the decisions we make, the good and the bad.” He pulls the hat down over my eyes. “Lifting a bus to show off would be a bad call on my part.”
Bryce is right and I know it. Still, there are things I want to see him do, things I want to learn. There is so much I don’t know. And speaking of choices, why did he let Thomas hit him?
“Is Thomas stronger or faster than you?”
Bryce shakes his head, in on my game. “I would neither run from nor strike my brother. I love him.”
“So you just stood there and let him beat you? Why didn’t you stop him?”
“We all make choices. Mine was to allow my brother to vent his frustration.”
I amble to the front of the house, aware of how cold I am. I’m half soaked and frozen.
“You don’t even sound angry about it,” I say.
“I’m not. I would do anything for my brother. There are no conditions.”
“Does he know this?” The answer is written on Bryce’s face, setting me off. “He knew you wouldn’t defend yourself, yet he hit you anyway. What an ass. Why would he do that?”
Bryce takes my hand. “That’s a question you’ll have to ask him.”
“Maybe I will.” When I’m not pissed at him. I look to Bryce, wondering if he heard what I was thinking. “How do you do that?”
Bryce looks away. “Do what?”
“Ha, ha. How do you read my mind exactly?”
He drops the charade. “I don’t hear your cognitive voice, and I can’t visualize your exact words, although sometimes they come through loud and clear. It’s more of a feeling. I can feel your thoughts.”
“Can you teach me?”
“Someday. If you learn to clear your mind and concentrate.” I roll my eyes and he grins. “Like everything, man is made of electro-magnetic energy. Our thoughts create energy that is dispersed into the atmosphere like radio waves. Anyone capable of picking-up on this transmission can essentially read your mind. The trick is distinguishing other thought waves from your own.”
I let go of Bryce’s hand and consider blasting the heat in my car.
“I guess that’s kind of cool.”
“Lemurians rarely communicated using language. They shared memories, images, and sensations, not words. Now, however, it’s a necessary skill, one that allows me to assist my students.” He sighs. “People’s true feelings aren’t always great to know. Sometimes I prefer to work blind.”
“Ah, so you can shut it off.” I dig keys from my coat pocket.
“With you I forget. Partly because you fearlessly say almost anything that comes to mind and partly because I’m so comfortable with you.”
I step closer. “Speaking of that, being comfortable, I mean. Why is that?�
�� I’m suddenly hot. I know Bryce prefers to keep these rendezvous a great distance from personal, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he isn’t telling me. “You know I feel the same. I want to know why?”
His complexion turns pasty. “This is not a subject we should be discussing right now.”
I lean forward, studying his apprehensive features. He doesn’t move, but the muscles in his jaw flex and the glint in his eyes turns bright white. I search for what he’s concealing, but if it’s there, in those explosive eyes, it’s hidden beyond my reach.
“I guess this session is over then,” I say, turning back to Magic Carpet.
Bryce slams the car door, the force rattling the windows.
“I was your consort in several lives,” he says, the words escaping captivity. He rakes a hand over the back of his neck and fumbles for his pockets.
I stop dead in my tracks.
“How is that possible? How could you have been my . . .You were my lover?”
“I was your confidante, your advisor. In this day you would call me your best friend.” He pauses. “And yes, I, my soul, shared your bed.”
Bryce watches me slowly break into a grin. What can I say? I don’t have a clue what to think, never mind putting a thought through my vocal chords. My mind flashes vivid and sensual dreams I’ve had of Bryce, dreams I wouldn’t dare confess. Instantly I remember the first time we met, at the parent-teacher meeting, when Bryce was naked, wrapped in white fur.
We were lovers.
“You know this, Tess. I can feel it when you touch me with even the simplest of gestures.”
I tear my eyes away and his gaze relentlessly searches for another connection.
“Are you going to deny it?” he asks.
Deny it? I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Besides, he’s the one with the accurate memory. My dry mouth refuses to form words as I rotate in neurotic spurts in search of the door handle.
Bryce sighs. “I think you’ve had enough for one night. Head home and get some sleep.”
Like that’s going to happen now. I open the door in a daze.
“Regarding Thomas,” says Bryce as I sit. “You really should give him a chance.”
