by Amy Marie
As quickly as the image comes, it’s gone. I fall back into reality, and the contact is broken when I close my eyes, shaken from the vivid vision.
“Did you see it?” he asks.
“See what?” I ask, wondering if he could know what just happened.
“The memory. You designed it, the symbol we use for the Statera. You designed it when we bound and re-covered the book.”
“What was that? Did you show me that memory? How did you do it? And I’ve told you… she designed it. She did those things. You’ve got to learn to differentiate her from me.” My confusion, as usual, pours out in a cluster of questions and frustration.
He leans forward, explaining, “That feeling, the change in the air. That is the reminiscence. I am a trigger for you. Especially when we look into each other’s eyes. The eyes are said to be the windows to the soul. It is one of the few ways to truly see. I did not show it to you, you found it in me.”
He reaches out hesitantly to touch my hand and my chest flutters.
“I know who you are, Nora, better than you think. But you must understand, there is a part of her in you. And even to have that small part back, I am grateful.”
He lets go of my hand as he reads, and hopefully understands, my discomfort.
He sits back to give me more space in an obvious effort to keep me from running out the exit.
I take a deep breath, not sure if I’m trying to steady my thoughts, or my racing heartbeat – probably both.
“So aside from dreaming of memories, I can look into your eyes and remember… the same way I can go to places I’ve been to and remember. Like the river. Is there anything else I can do with you that we used to do, to jog these memories?”
It was intended to be innocent enough, but as soon as the question is out, my regret is immediate. Darcy’s developing smile is fiendish. “Well…” he starts to say.
Hundreds of years old, and still a boy.
Before he even gets a chance for whatever clever response he had lined up, I interrupt him while praying my complexion has not turned as red hot as it feels. “Stop, please… unregard…or I mean… disregard that. I didn’t mean it how it sounded. Just forget it!”
Thankfully, he complies, though I’d like to wipe the sly smile off his face.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I say in exasperation.
“Pardon me, madam,” he says. “The miracle in which I had been hoping and praying for, in order to attain the power to defeat the evil man who has destroyed my life and cursed my existence, has finally presented itself. I have found my light at the end of the darkest of tunnels.” His head bows in my direction.
“I am not your light,” I say, somehow feeling that he’s implying things that are way too intimate with me.
The pressure of the situation is stifling me.
“You are the light. The key to unlocking the mysteries and the curse. And neither Gabe, nor I, could interpret the Statera the way that you could.”
“STOP! Please… stop talking to me as if I’m her!” I’ve never had a real temper in my life, but anger begins stirring inside of me.
“Stop pretending she is not a part of you! You are fighting it! Every memory, every thought, every feeling you have is a part of her. You keep fighting it when you should be embracing it!” He yells in anger for the first time, and I get a true glimpse of his dark temper. I shrink back in my chair, surprised by his outburst when he has only ever shown me great patience.
Seeing my reaction, he stands up to give me space and take a breath himself. He rakes his fingers through his thick, dark hair.
After a moment, I calm my voice to reason with him. “I am not your Eleanor, Darcy. The more you try to make me fit the mold, the more I want to fight it. I am my own person, if you’d care to get to know me.”
He turns around to glare at me with anger evident on his face. “It is not about her, or you. It is so much bigger than that. There is so much you do not understand.”
“Yes, I know, your curse. That’s what is most important, to break your curse,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“No, Nora. There is more!”
“Then tell me!” I scream, at my wit’s end.
“I cannot!” he screams back, equally frustrated. “How many times must I say it? I cannot simply tell you or even show you. It has to come from you! You will understand when you embrace the past and stop fighting it.”
“Out of nowhere, I’m being hunted down by this evil guy, and told that I’m somehow connected to this woman from a past life. I’m burdened with being the only hope for breaking curses and defeating evil! You expect me to lose myself, give up everything, and conform to this great responsibility. I didn’t ask for any of this!” I say, indignant.
I’m beginning to break under the pressure.
“Well I suppose that is the difference between you and the woman you are working so hard at separating yourself from. She would have given anything for this cause, to defeat the threatening evil. She would have sacrificed everything she had in her life… and she did.”
My eyes cast down, and I’m filled with overwhelming shame.
Caught between equal desires to apologize, and to scream at the top of my lungs while taking off my shoe and throwing it at him, I opt to stay quiet.
There’s something about Darcy that sets off a stubborn range of emotions that I’ve never felt, and I’m not sure how to control it.
In an attempt to find a neutral subject, I start over by bringing up Gabriel.
“I was thinking of beginning my efforts to help today by asking you about your relationship with Gabriel, from your days of education. And to find out more about the Statera before Eleanor was introduced to it… if you could please help me remember.” I mumble the last few words, knowing how child-like I must sound.
“I would be delighted to help you… Eleanor,” he says in a sickly-sweet voice.
He is testing me.
Inside I’m screaming to correct the name. Giving myself a moment to calm, and with the greatest effort I have ever put forth in dealing with another human – if you could call Darcy that – I swallow my pride and simply say, “Thank you.”
Darcy begins to tell his story, and his voice and accent cause for a smooth telling. I am immediately caught up in the attention of details as he describes how the book came to be.
“Gabriel always said his family had told him that even before the Statera was printed, there had always been various written accounts, and stories told even before that. The instruction was always passed down for when it was most needed. There were those select few who were chosen to carry over the knowledge from previous times and remember through the reminiscence.”
“I suppose I fall under this category? Why? What qualifies me?” The questions rush out before I can stop them. He gives me a pointed look that suggests I need to stop asking him questions and figure those answers out for myself.
Ignoring the interruption, he goes on, “But there was also the evil that always followed, working to destroy the instructions and wipe out the knowledge of how to fight it. There has been a blood trail throughout history of lives lost and destroyed written word, but the knowledge always found a way back through the reminiscence.”
Flashes of lives float through my imagination.
Or is it my memory?
“At one point, the ones with the reminiscence decided to gather and print the knowledge to keep it from being destroyed, and possibly lost. Richard Grafton was an ancestor of Gabriel’s and he was charged with printing the text. They thought that by printing the text and having it on hand for each generation to add to, they would speed up the process of the reminiscence and give them an edge over the evil that hunted them.”
I can almost see the old printmaker, hard at work, compiling and creating the secret text.
“Richard was not one who had the reminiscence. Therefore, he was able to safely hide the text and pass it down through his family until it could be found again
by someone with the potential to understand the knowledge, and remember how to use it.”
“Eleanor?” I ask.
He looks at me, almost as if he expects me to remember something, but I’m drawing a blank. “Yes,” he says, after the pause. “Eleanor had the potential to interpret the text from knowledge that she gained through reminiscence. Over all, she was able to make the most progress on the information before she… well.” He trails off at the painful memory.
“So…” I say, digesting what I’ve just heard. “Eleanor, back then, had the same things happening to her that are happening to me? She was remembering memories from a previous life’s knowledge?”
“That is right,” he says, nodding his head in excitement at my connection.
“And I’m wondering why, but you can’t tell me… because I’m supposed to be able to recall answers through this knowledge that I’ll remember?” The statement turns into a confused question.
“It will come to you. When you open up to it.” He raises an eyebrow, challenging me.
“How?” I ask.
He stands up with a grin on his face, looking suddenly much younger and eager. Glancing down at me, he holds out his hand to me in invitation.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
Unsure of the direct answer to that question, I try to remember what Uncle Mike said about opening up to Darcy. Still hesitating, I look up into his eyes. And behind the charge, the answer is there.
I nod my head and reach out my hand to place into his.
“Then remember with me,” he smiles, taking my hand.
Chapter 18
“But I thought you can’t go out in the sunlight,” I hesitate.
“We are not leaving the building,” Darcy assures me. He pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and makes a quick call asking, “Is it clear?”
I marvel at the idea of a person who was born in the 1700’s having a cell phone. Right away I’m overwhelmed with the curiosity of what his pro-longed existence has been like.
The things he’s seen!
Before I know it, we’re upstairs in Andover Hall, and my thoughts of picking Darcy’s brain are forgotten as we turn the corner and enter the theological library. I stop again in awe at the magnificence of the space.
With everything that’s overwhelmed me within the past week, I’d forgotten my original desire to find my way back to this place. I turn to Darcy with a genuine smile of pleasure plastered on my face.
The look he returns to me when he sees my smile is slightly disconcerting in its unguarded affection.
Trying to be understanding of his struggles in separating me from his Eleanor, I take the gift for what it’s worth and thank him for bringing me here.
“Oh, do not thank me yet. We have some work to do,” he says, leading me to a private conference study room that’s been cleared for us.
A stack of books sits on the long table in preparation, and I again wonder how many people here know of Darcy, and who may have set this up for him.
A blank journal has been set at one seat, and Darcy points to it saying, “This is for you to write down anything you need to help keep your mind in order. All of the memories can be overwhelming in conjunction with your own.”
“Thank you, I was actually looking for something to write in earlier today. This is perfect. What’s the rest of this?” I ask, gesturing to the pile of books.
“Some things to help you remember. It may be hard to believe, but there is actually a lot of documented information that connects with people and places that you may remember well.”
“Like what?” I ask, my mood uplifting in the excitement to mix history into the task at hand.
He takes a book from the stack and opens it to an earmarked page, setting it in front of us. He explains, “When I met you… or um, Eleanor, that is,” he makes an honest effort to correct himself. “Eleanor’s uncle Thomas was a rising figure in the local politics.”
The history book in front of us is opened to a page that highlights biographical information on Boston’s former governor, Thomas Hutchinson, including a copy of a commissioned portrait.
I recognize the name as a notable historical figure from my studies and work, and had even wondered in the past if there was a long-distance family connection. But I never imagined how close that connection could really be.
Staring at the picture of the wigged gentleman’s portrait, part of me thinks I may have seen it before at some point. A vague familiarity is present, but no triggered memories. I look up at Darcy in confusion.
“I got nothing,” I say, shrugging.
He seems perplexed. “Hmm, are you certain?”
Taking a second look, I say, “A bit familiar, but I can’t picture anything right now.”
He turns a few pages to another marked page, and I see a beautiful white manor home – wait.
“I know this place,” I say in reaction, recalling a dream where I shared the exact same sentiment. The colonial mansion has a symmetrical build, with elegant detail and a beautiful stone balustrade balcony.
“Do you recall how?” he asks.
“I dreamed of it. Actually, it was more of a nightmare. I made my way around the back and found the river, but I ended up being chased and drowned.”
“This was Eleanor’s father’s mansion. The home was ransacked, and burned. The structure no longer stands today. Have you had similar dreams?” he asks.
I recount the choking dream. I point out that I didn’t think it really happened in Eleanor’s lifetime. Then I go on to recount the cabin explosion dream of being buried alive – also a nightmare as opposed to the memory dreams.
“And the cabin that exploded, you recognized it?” he asks.
“Not at the time, but now I think that it was Gabriel’s cabin.” After a moment, my voice softens as I ask, “That’s how he died, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he says, his face growing impossibly darker.
I swallow back the strong emotions brought on from speaking of Gabriel’s death.
“None of these things you dreamed in these nightmares happened to her, and yet you connected these nightmares all to familiar places from Eleanor’s life,” he seems perplexed. “You say you never got a glimpse of your assassin?”
“No, but for some reason, I know it was him.” I say, referring to Talbot. I shudder at the thought of him.
“Think about the three ways you died in those dreams, Nora. This cannot be a coincidence. In the first, you were choked; no air. In the second, you drowned in the water. In the third, you were buried alive under the earth…” he trails off.
“You’re listing elements, but I don’t really understand what that means.”
“I do not understand myself. But you have not had any more dreams like this?” he asks.
“I’ve had nightmares throughout my life, but nothing like this. It’s only after I moved to Boston that they started to get this bad. These are the only times I’ve actually dreamt out my death.”
“Have you had other dreams?” he asks.
“Memories, the dreams I can’t control. I assume they were Eleanor’s memories. It’s how I remembered Gabriel, and it’s how I remembered the Statera,” I say, growing pensive.
“Would you like to share them with me?” he asks with measured caution, careful not to push me.
Editing certain details, I relay the dreams of memories in the order that they came to me. Starting with the elegant party, and pretending I woke up before we entered the garden. Noticing a slight reddening of his cheeks, I go on to tell of the scene after Gabriel’s death and the Statera. I end by recalling the incident of falling into the river, and his actions of rescue.
“Those were all genuine memories,” he says, choking up. “However, out of order. The river rescue happened early on, when we were still… getting to know one another. The party was some time later,” he says with a half-smile, “at the Assembly Hall.” He glances at me sideways, to register my reaction.
I p
ray more than anything that my face does not give away the memory of the rose garden.
“And then, when Gabriel died and she came to me. That was the night we ran,” he says, referencing the Statera dream.
Although I’ve suspected all along, it’s something entirely different for Darcy to verify that my dreams did in fact happen in his life.
Darcy spends the next few hours showing me familiar places and people. While a few things catch my memory here and there, nothing triggers the reminiscence in particular, especially in reference to the Statera.
We discuss his time at Harvard with Gabriel, and the development of their friendship. Darcy tells me of a fire that occurred at Harvard hall while they were students that was blamed on bad weather phenomenon, and how both he and Gabriel later came to suspect that it was Talbot attempting to destroy the Statera.
He goes on to explain how fortunate he was to have made the connections he did with the seminary through his uncle and the Grafton family, and how he was able to come back and set up a sanctuary right on campus. There are underground areas below several other older buildings that served as previous sanctuaries before Andover Hall was built in 1911.
It turns out Uncle Mike’s own grandfather is one of the few people that assisted Darcy in the late 1800’s, helping in the mission to recover the ancient text.
Darcy even hints of the existence of a few underground passages and hidden tunnels connecting below the campus that only a handful of people are aware of. My desire to explore the underground maze prompts me to ask him to show me these secret passages sometime in the near future.
After a few hours, we pack up and return to the sanctuary, exhausted in our day’s mental efforts.
Without even wanting any dinner, I fumble out a quick goodnight and turn to retire to my room. I don’t make it two steps before Darcy infuriatingly grabs my hand for a quick salute of goodnight by kissing it.
“Goodnight, Eleanor,” his voice follows me as I move away from his affections. Shutting the door with force, his soft laughter again taunts me from the other side. Too tired to even be irritated, I crawl into bed.
