Elemental Origins: The Complete Series

by A. L. Knorr

  "Georjie!" Jasher ran into the room in his boots, leaving a trail of muck. "Bloody hell! What happened?" I felt his hand on my lower back. "Are you all right?"

  I stood and cranked on the cold water. "Burned myself." I soaked a dishrag in cold water and pressed it to my thigh, and held my wrist under the running water. The heat eased, but the searing pain was still there. I squeezed my eyes shut.

  "You scared the bejaysus out of me. I didn't need tea that bad. Here." He opened the cupboard and pulled down a tin with a piece of masking tape stuck to the lid. On the tape, Faith's fine scrawl read 'Lavender Salve.' He spun open the lid. "Put this on. It works."

  "Thanks, you'd better go. Sorry about the tea." I forced a pain-filled smile at him. "I got it." I wanted to examine my thigh but I wasn't about to take my pants down in front of Jasher.

  "Don't worry about that. You're sure you're alright? Do you need a doctor?" Jasher's eyes bounced between my wet leg and my face. A line had appeared between his eyes.

  Visions of men in white coats with needles loomed in my imagination. "No, it's not that bad. It'll smart for a few days, but I'll be fine. Go on."

  "I hate to leave you like this."

  His concern already made me feel a bit better. "I'll be alright. I'm a big girl. Go on, Jasher. I'll see you later."

  He nodded and gave my shoulder a squeeze. He clomped toward the door. "Uh..." he looked down at the muddy footprints.

  "I'll clean up, don't worry."

  "Sorry," he said with a wince. He disappeared into the mudroom and I heard the back door open. "Use the salve!" he called, and the door slammed.

  "Right." I blew a strand of hair away from my face and turned off the cold water. I looked at the back of my wrist. The skin was red and raw, the pain still intense. My hand trembled. My thigh felt like someone had held the side of a red-hot knife to it. I reached for the tin of salve when my eyes fell on the lavender plant sitting on the breakfast table in the nook.

  ...when I touched it, the world of the herb was given to me...

  I limped over to the table and looked down at it. Lavandula Dentata. I bent to smell the fragrant leaves, sighing with pleasure. I reached out a tentative finger and touched a leaf.

  The plant lit up with a fine misty green glow, and I gasped. A thread of light wound through every leaf and stem. The healing qualities of the plant filled my mind and an energy thrummed through my fingers, making every nerve tingle. It traveled right down to the soles of my feet. A hunger for what the plant contained clutched at my guts. I was famished, needy. I drew on the energy, feeling the chemical compounds multiply exponentially as they traveled through my cells. The nerves in my hand buzzed like bees. The buzzing traveled through my wrist, up my arm, and into my spine and chest. When it hit my heart I could feel it sweep out through every vein.

  All sensation of heat and pain vanished. I took my finger away from the plant and stood there, panting. The light of the plant faded and the buzzing energy subsided, leaving behind a pleasurable throb of vitality.

  I put a hand over my heart, feeling its rapid beat. I laughed and then hiccupped. "I think you're my new favorite plant," I said to the lavender.

  I looked at the skin of my wrist. It was as though the burn had never happened. There was no pain anymore. Nothing. The only evidence that I’d spilled tea was the wet stain on my pants. I fell into a chair. My breathing slowed. I looked at the lavender, sitting there benignly in its pot. It had given everything to me but remained unchanged.

  But I...

  I was very, very changed. I grabbed the diary and opened to where I'd left off the evening before.

  Chapter 24

  It was the term earth elemental that did the most to answer my question of what a Wise was, but it was the word 'residual' that made me go out in the rain.

  I am astounded with this new power. With a simple handful of soil, I am able to see a residual of past events, almost as though I were present in history. All I need do is ask the soil to show me with a thought. It seems these residuals are left behind when events have been left unfinished, and a Wise (earth elemental?), has access to them.

  After I read that, everything grew quiet and I sat back, thoughtful. An earth elemental. The rain poured, pattering against the windowpanes. I may as well have had cotton stuffed in my ears for all that I paid attention to it.

  I set the diary on the table and got up. Mailís was a Wise, I was a Wise. I should be able to do what she had described. I didn't bother pulling on a rain jacket. I opened the door and stepped outside. I walked down the stone path and onto the grass, my wet feet already sliding on my flip-flops. I felt neither cold nor hot, excited nor trepidatious. I had gone very quiet inside.

  I crossed the lawn and went to the garden where the earth was softest, and stood there looking down at the black soil. Closing my eyes, I thought of Mailís. Then I crouched and plunged my fingers into the garden, muck wedging under my fingernails. I stood, with the lump of earth in my palm. I scanned the backyard, and when the residual images of Mailís and Cormac appeared, I took a shallow breath and stepped back.

  They looked like figures on a television with bad reception; thin lines of disruption and pixelation blurred their edges. I was learning that a Wise was someone who knew nature like it was part of them, was able to draw the healing power of the earth into themselves, and now...

  Mailís had written that residuals were left behind when events had been left unresolved and they play over and over in perpetuity on a loop. A Wise can see them, if she chooses. And there they were, their shapes had risen from the ground. Not ghosts, but a simple imprint left behind by human energy. They had no consciousness, they couldn't hear or see me, they had no ability to respond. Just old energy stuck in replay.

  Mailís wore the chevron dress that I had come to associate with her. She was taller than I'd imagined, with long slender limbs and hands. She walked across the back of the yard, and at her side was the figure of a tall man with dark curly hair and broad shoulders. Cormac. They were talking, but the residual had no audio. I had to guess from their facial expressions and body language the topic of their discussion. They were walking close together, shoulder to shoulder, but not touching. Mailís’s shoulders were turned slightly toward Cormac and she was speaking with her hands. His head was inclined toward her, engrossed by her. I felt disconnected from my body as I watched the residuals cross the lawn and step up onto the small bridge.

  They stopped there, talking. They loved one another, that was clear. It was when they bent to lean their elbows on the railing of the bridge, that my heart began to pound. My fist closed around the soil in my hand and squeezed. They looked just like Jasher and I would have looked to an outsider only the day before. We had stood on the bridge and talked just like that, we had leaned with our elbows on the railing, just like them. To anyone who may have been watching, we would have looked identical to the residual that was in front of me now. I watched them until they turned toward each other and Cormac stepped closer to her, his arm snaking around her waist. He put a tender finger under her chin and tilted her face up. Maybe he had loved her? Maybe I was wrong about the conclusion I had jumped to when I saw his portrait. He leaned down, canting his head to the side. Mailís tilted her face up to be kissed, and closed her eyes.

  I dropped the soil, feeling like a voyeur, and the residual disappeared. I let the rain wash away the dirt on my hand as I stood there and processed the vision.

  I returned to the house. I took a break from reading the diary only long enough to shower and change. My mind was a whirlwind. It was good that Jasher had to work, and that Faith was away. I was in a sort of intellectual shock and needed time to absorb. My hands were steady as I toweled off and dressed in jeans and a cotton hoodie. I pulled on a thick pair of socks and tied my hair back as I went down the stairs. There, I snatched the diary off the counter and slid into the kitchen nook again.

  I am not one for wishing to go back and change the past, what's done is done. But
oh how I could have benefited from more time with my grandfather before he passed on.

  I looked up, wracked my brains for the name, came up empty. I picked up my phone and opened the photo of the family tree I had taken, just to help with my memory. Liam Stiobhard - one of the artists.

  All I can recall is that a Wise is someone the ancient fae have gifted with the power to know nature intimately, and draw from it, in some cases to control it, although I've no idea how. This knowledge that I am acquiring is growing daily, but so far is limited to touch. How strong will these abilities become?

  My eyes skimmed over the next several entries, which were not about her powers, but about her falling in love with Cormac O'Brien. Weeks passed by without entry, then a random sketch of a plant would appear, always one with powerful effects on the human body. Finally, an entry professing her love for Cormac.

  Our passion seems boundless. At an age when most women are looking forward to grandchildren, God has finally seen fit to bless me.

  Mailís was only 31 when she wrote those words. You've got to have a little appreciation for how times have changed. Nowadays if a woman isn't married at 31, nobody so much as blinks.

  ...I have finally met my love. My match. I feel deep in my bones how much he loves me. The way I can read a plant with my fingertips, I can feel the authenticity of his love when I hold his hand. And oh, how I love him, too. My Cormac.

  "How sweet, Mailís," I said. I flipped past several more sketches, skimming the words.

  These are the happiest days of my life. We are engaged. When all hope was long lost that I would ever have a family of my own, sweet Cormac appears: a gift from God. I know there are young ladies in town who've been thwarted by our love. Young Miss Ó Súilleabháin, so called 'Aileen the Flirt' by Irene, still makes me uncomfortable in how she makes eyes at my Cormac, but God has shown he knows better. Now my only hope is that God finds in his heart enough generosity for me that I might bear children at so advanced an age.

  I flipped past more drawings. "Whoa," I said as I turned the page. The handwriting of this entry looked so different from the rest. Harder.

  I am betrayed. If the powers of a Wise lead her into deception, then why should anyone want such a blessing? Cormac has given a child to another, even before they are wed. Oh, how Ana will laugh. What good is all of my wisdom, when I am so utterly and terribly broken.

  "Oh no," I whispered. My vision blurred at the heartbreak pouring onto the page. She'd been cheated on by the only man she'd ever loved. She thought her life was saved, but instead, he'd stabbed her in the heart. He has given a child to another.

  The next few pages were empty. I flipped forward. "No," I breathed. That was it? No more about becoming a Wise? "No, no, no..." I peeled through the pages, but there was nothing. Something yellow caught my eye as I flipped and I went back. It was an article shoved into the book, an old newspaper clipping. After reading it, it was clear that it had not been put there by Mailís’s hand.

  4 March 1935. MISSING, Woman, aged 32, standing at 5 feet, 8 inches, fair of skin, slender build, grey eyes, black hair parted down the middle; seen wearing a black high-collared dress, felt hat, and brown leather shoes. Last seen walking down Molesly Street, Anacullough at midday on Thursday last. Information leading to discovery shall be handsomely rewarded. Apply to 4 Ballinlough St, Anacullough, EIRE.

  Isn't it funny how a partial answer just spawns more questions? There was nothing after this. Jasher wasn't home, Faith was gone, the house was quiet, and yet the silence after reading that clipping was deafening.

  I got up and took the stairs two and a time to the library. After spending another hour there, tearing through the same old journals, combing the walls and reading anything that looked like it came out of an old newspaper, I was beyond frustrated. I tucked the diary and the clipping into a bag, eyeballed the rain, which didn't seem to be slowing, grabbed my rain jacket from the mudroom, and biked into town.

  Chapter 25

  The library in Ana was an ancient construction compared to the library in Saltford, and the librarian looked as though she’d worked there since the day the stone building had been erected. At least she still had her own teeth, and displayed them frequently in a smile. Dressed in a tweed skirt and vest with a creamy blouse and billowy sleeves, she looked like a character in an old movie.

  I peeled off my wet rain jacket and hung it on the coat rack inside the door. Shelves of books surrounded long tables equipped with green glass lamps. Three elderly men sat scattered along the tables, each absorbed in study. The librarian sat behind an oak desk that looked like it weighed more than a half-ton truck. I wiped my face with my sleeve and crossed the rippling wooden floor. I pulled the diary out of my bag.

  The name “Mrs. McMurtry” was written on a name-plate that faced outward on the desk. Her thin gray hair had been pulled up into a bun and a half dozen silver barrettes held everything in place. She looked up and smiled and a thousand wrinkles sprang to life as her kindly eyes took me in.

  "What can I do for you, Miss?" she said so quietly it was almost a whisper. She recognized me, I’d been in the library before, but this was the first time we'd spoken.

  "I was wondering if you kept records of old newspapers?"

  "Of course."

  "I'm trying to find out what happened to an ancestor of mine." I opened the diary to the page where the clipping was taped and showed it to her.

  She took it with arthritic fingers and held it low in front of her. She tilted her head to read it through her bifocals. Her mouth moved silently as she read the clipping’s contents. She gave me a sympathetic look and handed it back to me. "We might be able to help you," she said, slowly, thinking. "All of our microfilm is on the second floor. You can search the index by surname, that ought to turn something up."

  I followed her up the wide staircase and into a dark room with only two small pools of light from floor lamps. The room was a good ten degrees hotter than the first floor and sweat dampened my upper lip and forehead.

  The librarian led me into an alcove with three clunky looking metal jalopies with large square screens. They had to be from the sixties. "These are the readers. They're a little finicky so be gentle with them. We have new ones on order but they aren't due for another month. I'll show you where we store the microfilm."

  We passed through a set of double doors. She touched a switch beside the door and anemic fluorescent lighting flickered to life. Yards and yards of metal bureaus stretched out before us. I began to sweat in earnest, and not just from the heat.

  "Here is our microfilm storage," she began. She must have caught the look of panic on my face because she followed up with, "Don't worry, dear. We have more than one way of categorizing things. When looking for the result of a missing persons case, it might be easiest to start at the death indexes. What name was it?"

  Why hadn't I thought of that? This ancient well-dressed librarian had been down this road before. "Sheehan."

  "Okay, and what year was the disappearance, again?" She tilted her head down toward the diary where I'd stowed the clipping away, but I knew it from memory by now.

  "1935. In March."

  "Good." She beelined for a particular aisle. "Take heart, Miss. You've got more factual information to start with than most people who come in here looking for answers." She skimmed over the typed face-cards on the fronts of the drawers. "Some poor souls spend years in here," she mumbled, "searching for a needle in a stack of needles, going on nothing but a wing and a prayer. Here we are." She laid a hand on the top of the metal shelves. "Here are the death indexes beginning in January of 1935. Time ascends this way," she sliced a hand back toward the door. "And everything is alphabetical. If your ancestor turned up dead, you'll be able to find her name in the death notices or obits sometime after March 1935. Do you know how to use the micro-reader?"

  I nodded. "I think so." They couldn't be much different than the ones we had in our school library. I thanked her and she left me to it.
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br />   I won't bore you with the searching part - it's enough to say that my eyes skimmed a whole lot of obituaries over the hour and a half it took me to find her. I had a bad moment when I remembered that Mailís wouldn't have been registered as a Sheehan, but a Stiobhard-Sheehan. I had to start over, focusing on the St's not the Sh's. Let me tell you I uttered more than one 'sh' word. It might make a better story to say that I didn't eat for days, and I endured a sore back and a wrist injury as I combed the vaults of history, but actually, thanks to the fine organization of the staff at the Ana County Library, I found her in less than two hours.

  6 April 1937 Missing Persons Case Unofficially Ruled Suicide.

  Two years after the disappearance of Miss Mailís Stiobhard-Sheehan, which has flummoxed the Garda, the case remains unsolved, the Sheehan family unsatisfied. "Miss Stiobhard-Sheehan experienced personal tragedy shortly before her disappearance," stated Police Inspector Murray Ó Cuinn. "Due to several character reports of Miss Stiobhard's emotional instability, it is our strong belief that she is most likely a suicide. Though we cannot officially mark the case as closed without producing material evidence, we motion to lay the investigation to rest. We've done all that could be done for her and her family. May Miss Stiobhard-Sheehan rest in peace." Family members have declined to comment beyond requesting privacy.

  I felt like I’d been kicked in the teeth. More than two years after she'd disappeared, they'd finally given up. Personal tragedy. Suicide. My heart broke for her. She'd been so excited and in love. It was worse than Romeo and Juliet, because at least they ended up together in the end, even if it was in death. Poor Mailís was dead and alone.

  A fuzzy black and white photograph of a woman accompanied the article. The image had no caption. The clarity was poor, and half the woman's face and all of her hair were concealed under a bonnet. It was the bump on the bridge of her nose that gave her away.