by Amy Marie
I want to continue to argue on Rafe’s behalf, but I stay silent and let Uncle Mike finish.
“After meeting him, I know in due time that Raphael will be involved. But as I’ve tried to explain to you, I’m only giving you small portions at a time, so as not to overwhelm you. There is so much potential here, I cannot begin to describe the importance of it to you. But I can tell you that your help in this matter is vital. You are more qualified than you can even imagine.”
He grabs my hand, pleading, “Please, have faith.”
Something about his tone changes the feeling in the room. There is a shift in the air. It’s clear that he’s keeping things from me, and trying to ease me into whatever this project involves.
But why?
Suddenly, I want nothing more than to help him, feeling almost as if something crucial depends upon it.
“Okay.” I’m surprised at how sure I sound.
“I will only keep you for a little longer tonight,” he says. “Let me explain how what you know so far ties together. The printer’s mark you see is indeed originally the mark of Richard Grafton, a King’s printer for Henry VIII and Edward VI. It is true that he was most famous for printing Bibles, but he was eventually arrested for printing documents that were described as ‘unlawful.’ Which connects us to this mystery text. After he was thrown into prison, his property was seized and destroyed. The only copy of this text was supposed to be destroyed with it, but it was passed down through his family under strict secrecy.”
The text wasn’t destroyed?
I lean forward, anxious to hear more.
“I believe Gabriel Grafton was entrusted with this document through his ancestors. And that he was hunted down under the pretense of rebel accusations, when he was really being pursued for the same reason as his six-time great-grandfather. This mark makes the connection.”
“That doesn’t explain how the mark made it to the windows of this building,” I wonder out loud. “Those windows don’t look to be pre-revolutionary. Rafe had said this building was built in the early 1900’s by the local seminary.”
“The symbol was used by Gabriel, and was passed on by his business partner to continue on for years after. It has always been meant to represent the freedom to distribute written word without oppression, thus ‘receiving the engrafted word.’ It’s why he used it as his rebel mark, it’s why the Free Press has used it, and why it was carried here to this building, where we house theological literature of all varieties. No discrimination based on content. All written word is freely distributed here.”
A suitable explanation – though I’m disappointed that there’s no unveiling of a secret society associated with the symbol.
Uncle Mike keeps looking at me as if I’m the key to unlocking his chest of ancient mysteries. I feel useless so far in helping him, but I suppose we’ve only just begun. I’m still not sure I understand how, but it seems our mission is to track down this secret text through Gabriel Grafton.
“I think we’ve come far enough for day one, dear,” Uncle Mike says, looking at his watch. “Please think over the details, and let me know if parts of this story sound similar to anything you’ve discussed with Raphael, or seen at work. Keep in mind that if we can positively trace the secret text down the Grafton family tree, then that puts the text in this area only a few hundred years ago. Maybe see what you can find on Gabriel that I may have overlooked. This is where his property was located.” He goes to his desk and fumbles for a sheet of paper to write out directions, handing them to me.
I stand up to take the directions, noting that they lead to an area close by my own apartment. I grab my purse, but fumble the strap, spilling half of its contents onto the floor. Uncle Mike rushes to help as we pick up the various items that have scattered. He freezes just as he is about to hand me my planner and a half-crumpled piece of paper.
He slowly opens the crumpled paper in his hand and the color drains from his face. Remembering my drawings, I blush with embarrassment and grab the paper from his hand to stuff it back in my purse.
“Eleanor. That drawing. You know that man?” he asks, voice shaking.
Wondering what could be affecting him this way, I try to get him to sit back down. “No, I don’t know him. I drew that after I’d seen a strange man my first weekend here. I drew it from memory, so it may resemble someone else. My mind plays tricks on me sometimes,” I try to explain.
“Eleanor,” he stops me, shaking hands grabbing mine. “Please, tell me you did not see that man.” His grip seems so much colder than earlier. He’s almost frightened.
“I saw a man that looked like that downtown last weekend, but he was harmless. I even thought I saw him earlier today…” I trail off. “Why?” I stop. Uncle Mike recognized the man. Maybe he knows him. Maybe he’s afraid of him. “Uncle Mike… do you know him?”
He reaches over to the pile of books that he had brought out earlier in the evening. He pulls out one of the bottom books and opens it to a marked page, handing it to me. The page has a printed copy of a commissioned painting of a British officer.
The exact same empty staring face from my drawing and my memory looks back at me from the painting. My eyes jump to the caption below the picture to try to make sense of what I’m seeing.
Brigadier General L. Marcus Talbot – 1765.
Chapter 9
I don’t realize I’m shaking until Uncle Mike grabs my hands again.
“Eleanor, I know this doesn’t make sense right now. Some of this, I can explain. I didn’t want to get this involved yet, but…” He goes on explaining something, but it’s lost to my ears in panic.
No. No way. This is not possible.
There has to be a reasonable explanation. It’s just a resemblance. A family relation. But they’re identical!
I can’t even begin to put my thoughts in order.
I need air.
Vaguely aware that Uncle Mike is still talking, I stand up and turn toward the door.
“I have to go.”
“Eleanor, please stop. I know you’re in shock, but if this man has seen you–”
“I’m sorry, I have to go.” I grab my purse and start running. Uncle Mike’s yelling voice follows me down the hallway. I take two steps at a time on the stairs and turn down one more corridor to reach the main doors.
Bursting through the door into the chilled night air, it feels as if a spell has been lifted.
I dig into the depths of my purse for my keys and rush to my car in a panic. My whole body is shaking as I struggle to unlock the door. My eyes sweep around the parking lot in fear as I get in and lock the doors.
Questions race through my head as I drive aimlessly. I try to count my breaths and calm myself enough to think logically.
It could just be a coincidence.
One thing is certain: I saw the blond Talbot look-alike before I even met Uncle Mike, so my mind can’t be playing tricks on me.
My whole life has been filled with feelings of coincidence and déjà vu. There have been constant excuses to myself about my overactive imagination, flukes, and happenstance. No matter what reasoning I try to come up with in my head, my gut tells me something is seriously wrong in this situation.
I race back to my apartment, surprised to find Char gone. But then I remember, she must still be out with Rafe. I grab my phone to text her, but it’s no use – dead battery.
After locking the door, I immediately decide to make myself a cup of tea to calm my nerves. As I set the kettle on the stove, I hear a noise from one of the bedrooms.
“Char?” I call out.
No answer.
With my heart in my throat, I grab for the closest weapon – a butcher knife from the wooden knife block next to me.
Pressing my body against the wall, I slide as slow as I can to the corner of the hall leading back toward the bedrooms.
The handle of the knife is slippery in my sweaty palm, so I tighten my grip, praying I won’t need to use it. The more I try to quiet my
breath, the harder it seems to breathe. Just when I think my heart might pound its way out of my chest, the intruder darts from around the corner to grab my weapon.
We struggle back and forth and before I know it, the blade of the knife sinks into the intruder’s stomach. I stagger away and look from my bloody hands to the man in shock.
What have I done?
The blond man from my drawing is gripping the knife, hunched over in pain. A large amount of blood starts to pour out of his wound, but then something incredible happens.
The blood flow from the gash stops. The man pulls the knife from his gut and flips it in the air, the handle landing right back into the palm of his hand. The hole where the blade pierced his stomach heals itself to a pink-fleshy color and then disappears. I’m so stunned by the magic of what’s happening, I can barely register what the man said.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend, Eleanor?”
“Wha…” My voice gets lost in hysteria. The room begins to tilt. I steady myself by leaning my arm against the wall for support.
The teapot on the stove begins its high-pitch whistle. The blond man casually cleans up his blood from the linoleum floor, and moves to pour us some tea.
Am I dreaming?
It’s sometimes so hard for me to tell, but this reality is so bizarre, I’m wondering if I’m trapped in a dream after all.
I pinch myself, hard.
Ow. Guess not.
The blond man moves to offer me a cup of tea, but I back away. He holds up his hands as if signaling he’ll back off, and sets the cup on the counter of the bar that divides the kitchen from the living room.
When he levels his gaze at me, I get a chill. There’s something behind his eyes… he tilts his head and in a blink, the feeling is gone. He even manages a small smile.
“I am guessing you recognize me, but you may not know how,” he says, moving around to avoid my stare.
I nod, still too shaken to speak.
His voice is setting off alarms in my mind. I’ve heard it before. It frightens me. But does it frighten me because of him, or because I don’t know how I’ve heard it before? My thoughts are in an endless, twisted jumble.
“My name is Marc. Marcus Talbot. Does that ring a bell?” he asks.
The painting!
The image, burned into my mind with the date 1765. How is that possible?
He shakes his head. “Ah, the old man must’ve mentioned me. He’s wrong about me, you know.”
No, I don’t know.
But I keep my thoughts to myself.
“He doesn’t know the truth. It’s the other one you need to be afraid of. The dark one. He’s the enemy. He made me into this,” Talbot points at his ripped shirt where the wound was. “Has he found you yet?” he asks.
Immediately I know he’s talking about the man by the river, though I have no idea how. They’re connected somehow, my recognition of them both is obvious. He was… dark, but was he threatening? I can’t remember.
I focus on the man in front of me.
“What are you?” I squeak out.
“It doesn’t matter what I am,” he says, almost tenderly as he moves closer to me. “All that matters, is that I finally found you.” Talbot tilts his head. The mask of the friendly demeanor is gone, and he gives me a hollow stare. This is who he is.
I take an involuntary step back. Something screams in my head.
Finally found you.
Now that is familiar, but not in a good way. This isn’t right.
Another step back.
“You remember…” I’m not sure if he’s asking, or stating it. But one look in his eyes, and I know I’m in real danger.
I draw in a breath, preparing to scream, but my front door crashes open.
A dark blur rushes in, and in seconds there’s an epic battle destroying the kitchen. Two men, one light and one dark, are pounding into each other, using everything in reach to bring the other down.
Talbot rips off a cabinet door and smashes it over the head of the stranger.
The stranger pulls out a drawer and whips it around into the blond man, shattering it into pieces.
Talbot takes a pan from the stove and knocks the stranger in the jaw with a sickening metal thud. He falls to the ground.
Talbot turns to me with a menacing lack of emotion. I could swear he’s a Terminator, ready to kill. Before he can move in my direction, the stranger picks up the discarded butcher knife and stabs through Talbot’s foot and into the floor, anchoring him in place.
“Run!” The dark stranger screams with such a growl, I have no choice but to obey.
Abandoning my purse and phone, I grab my keys and bolt out the door.
In seconds, I’m in my car, speeding away from the alternate reality I just fell into.
My entire body is trembling so hard, I can barely keep hold of the wheel. I glance up into the rearview mirror in fear.
I think I’m going into shock.
My intuition warns me, but it’s too late. I’m already drifting off the side of the road.
Losing control of my vehicle, everything seems to happen in a slow-motion, disembodied manner. The squealing of tires is followed by the sickening crunch of metal. The smell of burnt rubber and dirt fill the air. The inside of my mouth has a warm metallic taste. My blurry vision is fading, and numbness has overtaken the impact of pain.
All senses are drowning as I succumb to the darkness that overtakes me. My last coherent thought before I fade away is of the empty stare of a man from beneath the hood of a black cloak.
Chapter 10
Disembodied.
I must find my way back.
I’m surrounded by dark. But not afraid. Darkness is better than emptiness.
There is light.
I’ve found my feet. The rest of me follows.
I’m back at the river, hopping across the stones at a brisk pace. Excitement builds up inside of me. Something tells me I need to get to the other side fast, but I can’t remember why.
On the opposite bank, I peer through the trees for any signs of life from the property. The pathway through the woods is a bit overgrown, but I make my way through and enter the clearing that houses the cozy cabin.
Circling around the side of the cabin, I reach the front where the door is ajar. I call out to see if anyone is home, but get no response. Stepping closer to the door, my nose catches a faint metallic scent and – is that sulfur?
Gunpowder!
I’m lifted off my feet and blown back in a large explosion from the center of the house. I land several feet back from where I was standing in the yard with my hands blistering and my hair singed.
I roll over in pain wondering how badly I’m burnt, when rough hands grab me from behind. My wrists burn as my arms are tied back. My head turns from side to side in an effort to identify my captor, but I can only make out the black fabric of a cloak before my vision disappears into darkness as a textile sack is put over my head.
I’m hauled over someone’s shoulder, grunting in pain. After a few moments, I’m thrown down into the dirt where a strong musty scent of the earth surrounds me. I can barely move to feel around the muddy walls, but determine that I’m in some sort of hole.
Something is being thrown on top of me in large clumps. With my arms tied behind me and my head covered, I can’t see or stop the continuous assault of what feels like rocks hitting me in the face and chest.
As more and more of the rocks and dirt are thrown on top of me, the realization that I’m beginning to be covered hits me harder than any battering of the rocks.
I’m being buried alive!
Moans have been pouring from my lips in pain from the blast and the onslaught of rocks, but that realization brings my screeching to a new level.
Something large knocks me in the head hard enough to lay me back, but not quite hard enough to knock me out. I lay immobile, but aware that I’m helplessly going to die.
As the pressure builds on top of me and the
earth covers my whole body, it takes what feels like an eternity to press the air out of me. Finally, I take my last shallow breath and am consumed by the emptiness.
My own gasps for air wake me in a fit of terror. I’m still fighting the imaginary bindings of my dream. Struggling to calm and catch my breath, I look around at the dimly lit, unfamiliar room. Making an attempt to sit up, my head starts pounding and pain is resonating through my entire achy body.
Sweeping my gaze to take in my surroundings, I fail to recognize the curtained bed I occupy. The only light in the room is flickering from three pedestal candles sharing a small table with an antique clock. A small mirror hangs on the wall above the table.
A similar table on the opposite wall has a place setting with a steaming pot of tea, ready to be poured. The setting is complimented by a beautiful single rose.
Looking back to the clock, the small hand is pointing just ahead of the nine. It must be off, I left the divinity school well after nine o’clock.
The thought of the school brings a wave of memory from my bizarre encounter that hits me so hard, I have to lay back down for a moment. Fuzzy scenes of a fight and an accident flash through my mind, and I stand up looking to the mirror on the wall.
Peering at my reflection, there’s unmistakable evidence that I must have indeed been in some kind of accident. My forehead and cheek have been cut and bruised, but the cuts have been tended and cleaned. Looking down, I don’t see any bodily injuries, but the ache in my bones tells me there will be more bruising.
If I was in an accident, then that could mean it’s now the next morning. I look around for any light to tell me the time of day – there are no windows.
Finding the first door in the room, I open it to reveal a small water closet. Backing out, I turn to the only other door, obviously the exit.
It’s locked.
Knocking, I yell for whoever may be on the other side, but get no response. I try to peek underneath to no avail.
Where am I?
Wondering who would keep me locked up, the sudden image of Talbot in my apartment sends me to the bed shaking in fear.
