Heart Murmurs

by R. R. Smythe

  My eyes rove over the tunnel, trying to drink it all in as it takes my breath away. Our feet are hidden in a sea of flowers, resulting in an optical illusion of floating.

  Real flowers, not the cranky, creepy laughing ones.

  The field’s smattering of species reinforces its imaginary state; flowers normally blooming in spring mix with late-fall crops.

  Dark maroon and yellow chrysanthemums mix with bright pink flox, which drips down the stalactites like a blooming wallpaper.

  I consider the clues, one by one.

  The facts are shifting, falling into place like one massive mental puzzle.

  “I guess I knew this was coming…”

  His eyes sharpen and tighten. “How so?”

  My throat tightens in recollection. “Awhile ago — I saw the L on my manuscript pages. I thought it was a computer glitch, as it didn’t show up on the computer screen, but when I printed it out… it showed up on every single page.”

  Morgan shivers. “You are a Literati. A powerful one. Mia, you have Madelon’s heart — also a Literati — who knows—”

  “What she’s capable of.” Blue Jeans cuts across him. He’s standing at the end of the tunnel, waiting for us. His smile is genuine, but his eyes look ancient and sad.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “May we be seen now?”

  “Yes. Well done, Mia. A guard of couriers has been dispatched to bring Mr. Poe in for trial. We are impressed with the way you completed the mission.”

  “You mean how she survived the mission.” Morgan’s voice is mercurial.

  Blue Jeans laughs and claps him on the back. “Ah, Mr. Kelly — you never mince words. I rather like it.”

  He steps out of the flowers, oozing into the solid tunnel wall.

  I step to follow him.

  Morgan grasps my hand, hard, and twirls me around to face him.

  “Mia — I don’t know what they’ll say. But I cannot abide by any ruling that keeps us apart. I will rebel. I’m just telling you, my days of following the rules, everyone else’s…”

  I step into his embrace, pressing my lips against his tight, frantic ones. His hands slide around my back and press my body to him in desperation.

  I pull back, breaking the kiss to look at him. “I’m not afraid, Morgan. For the first time in my life. Nothing they say can hurt me. I’ve almost died, thought I’d lost you…”

  His face is anguished as his nostrils flare, but his eyes drop as he waits for me to finish.

  “Gone against my parents’ wishes, and felt the sting of death… even though it wasn’t my own. I’m not afraid of them. I know who I am, now.”

  Blue Jeans’ head pops through the solid stone. “Good. Perhaps you could bring this newly confident person in to complete the mission? We’d all like to go back to our times…”

  Morgan and I clasp hands, and I feel his chest hitch with anxiety where our sides are touching.

  The same three Literati await us, perched again on the mahogany chairs.

  I wait, following Morgan’s lead. Georgian Toady no longer seems bored. His beady black eyes raptly evaluate my every twitch. I am suddenly worthy of his attention. For a split second I recognize him, but the words are yanked from my mind and lips as if an invisible omniscient wind has sucked out my breath.

  Oleander’s face is twisted in a combination of awe and jealousy. It reminds me a little too much of Apple’s for comfort. I shift nervously.

  Blue Jeans takes control. “Mia. We are very impressed and dually pleased with your handling of Mr. Poe. The council is prepared to hear your pleas.”

  Morgan begins. “Please, I entreat the council to forgive my sister, Beth Alcott. She’s served the court well, for years — and is ready to pass the responsibility to another. I ask to take her place.”

  Oleander guffaws. “You? Mr. Kelly, I am not sure you are ready. Your writing? At best you’re a literary fledgling, not an eagle. Your D.N.A. is not suited to take your sister’s position.”

  Morgan stiffens. “I am very intelligent — surely your records tell you that much”

  Blue Jeans looks angry for the first time. “Intelligence has naught to do with it. NASA is full of intelligence, but not one of them could wield the tunnels. It’s the imagination, Mr. Kelly. You see?”

  I step forward, my opportunity to protect Morgan for once. “I have the imagination. Let me step in for Beth.”

  All three sets of eyes hone in and scrutinize me.

  “Do you really understand that responsibility?” Oleander asks. She isn’t condescending this time; she actually sounds sincere.

  Blue Jeans adds, “You will have to go up against your parents — forget the Ivy League college they’re so keen on — you will essentially be a slave for others.”

  “You will be stuck in time. Aging by degrees,” Georgian Toady interjects. “I am not sure you have the fortitude — despite your obvious talents.”

  “I can do this.” And I feel it. I can. But I won’t without Morgan.

  “I have a condition. Morgan and I love each other. We want to be together, despite our class differences.”

  “Who are you to make such demands?” Oleander shrieks. Her face is instantly purple, the veins in her forehead bulging.

  Rage flares my nostrils. I raise my hand, and it explodes in sparks and a shower of dripping colored flames.

  “I defeated Poe. None of you could. You obviously needed me, or you would’ve sent another of your minions. I will make the conditions.” My voice echoes through the chamber, amplified like thunder. It raises the hair on my arms, and I try to hide them. “I altered matter. Outside the tunnel. Would you like me to demonstrate?”

  My teeth chatter and I clamp them together.

  Blue Jeans shoots a furtive glance at the others. “No, that will not be necessary.”

  “You are the most powerful Literati we’ve ever witnessed. And we both know why. Your own skills, and the D.N.A. in that heart,” Blue Jeans retorts.

  Thump-thump-thump-thump. It speeds up, as if called.

  “There was evidence before the transplant, though, Blue Jeans.” Georgian Toady’s bushy eyebrows have risen like two dueling, hairy, white caterpillars.

  I suddenly feel cold, as if an icy finger stroked my spine. There is one more issue without an answer.

  Morgan steps closer to me. He doesn’t know either, I can see it in his eyes.

  Oleander stands. “There’s a problem besides the class issue, with Mr. Kelly.”

  “What?” Panic pierces my heart. I picture a javelin piercing through my chest, pinning it to the ground behind me. “What’s wrong with Morgan?”

  Oleander smiles. It’s bitter and mischievous, like the Cheshire Cat. “You know, Mia.”

  “Because he’s black and white in the tunnels.” My voice cracks on the last word. “What does that mean?”

  Morgan’s hand is on my back. It’s shaking.

  Blue Jeans steps off the podium. “You’ve been being monitored since you picked up your first pen. Remember… you were only eight.”

  I remember my mom’s gift. A beautiful journal, with raised, iridescent floral patterns on it cover.

  I wrote about my perfect boy.

  “He will be strong and true,” Oleander whispers.

  “He will be brave,” says Georgian Toady.

  “He will love me, like no one has ever, ever loved me. Or will ever love again,” Blue Jeans finishes.

  My head swirls.

  “What are you saying?” Morgan’s voice, hollow behind me.

  Blue Jeans strides to him, putting both hands on his shoulders. He eases him into an oversized velveteen chair.

  “She wrote me into being?” Morgan again.

  “No… but even that small, scared little girl… had great literary power. Her wishes, her words, time-slipped, affecting history. Little Women was in her mind so much, it was inevitable.”

  I shake my head. My stomach leaps and plummets like I’ve been cast down a well. “I d
on’t understand! Stop speaking in riddles!”

  “Your words influenced Bronson Alcott. Steered him toward Morgan’s mother. Their D.N.A. called to one another — to produce the person you were craving, trying to create.”

  I shake my head. Ill. “I. Was. Eight!”

  “Yes, well. Words, in the hand of a master, have the power to alter time. ”

  I consider that. Of how Louisa’s words, in Little Women, did a time slip of their own. Altering my thinking, my reality. I swallow. Only mine actually alter time and consequences.

  Morgan’s face is ashen.

  I stutter. “So... w-what am I? You’re saying I’m some literary puppet-master and he’s my marionette?”

  “Something like that. This has never happened before. We’ve named him, like any new species. A Circa-Soul. Almost, but not quite human. As his conception was tampered with — against natural forces.”

  Morgan’s hands are stroking his face, covering his eyes.

  Blue Jeans’ eyes soften. “There might be a way.”

  Our heads snap up in unison.

  I step toward him. Morgan shoots to standing.

  “To what?”

  All three Literati respond together. “To change his state.”

  “How? I will do anything.” Tears are welling now. Morgan crosses to me, wrapping his arms around me protectively.

  “I, as well.”

  “Perhaps then… you will consider another Literati mission? We have more problems that need to be sorted on the court.”

  “This is blackmail.”

  “Permit me one cliché. All’s fair… in love and war. And this is literary war.”

  “We need one another, Mr. Kelly. We will grant you… some time together. Perhaps till Mia has graduated. Even if she is powerful, you two cannot stand alone. ” Blue Jeans rises.

  I don’t want to wait.

  “Tell us. I beg you.”

  My heart thrums, a different beat.

  It sounds to my ears like, tell-me, tell-me.

  Blue Jeans smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  Epilogue

  We enter our tunnel. It’s bare. Just like a normal tunnel. No more laughing flowers or black light.

  Morgan and I haven’t spoken in an hour. We reach the ladder and trapdoor, and his black and white eyes search mine.

  Tears well over and streak down my cheeks. “I don’t care. You are who or what you are… no matter what they say. I… I love you.”

  He gives me a closed-lip smile. “I still feel the same as I always have. Like me. I’ve always known who I was — from a very small boy.” He hugs me to him, lightly peppering my cheeks, wetting his lips with my tears. “Let’s be positive. We have the rest of your senior year to sort it out. ” He smiles crookedly. “I have many plans. I haven’t taken you for a sleigh ride yet. You will love it.” His eyes all but sparkle.

  I laugh, and smile back. “I’m sure I will.” His face turns and goes mock-serious. “And I have much to practice. I must become a conductor of the search engine.”

  I laugh so hard, tears well in my eyes.

  “Mia, look at your forearm.”

  The outline of a reddish butterfly is forming, darkening on my skin.

  The ladder looms ahead, illuminated in the black light.

  Our eyes lock.

  “Together?” he asks.

  I nod. “Together.”

  He gently helps me start up the ladder. To start my all-new life.

  Madelon’s heart thrums, and we’re in sync in mind and body. I am a better person because of her sacrifice. We head up the ladder and open the trapdoor. The light from the store makes me blink and my eyes sting.

  Beth claps her hands together when she sees us. “Edward! They’re back!” she bellows.

  She spins in a circle. I notice the weird patch of gray is gone, and her hair is back to its normal, shiny brown. “I have wonderful news!”

  Edward slides into the shop and grabs Morgan’s hand, pumping it up and down like the outside waterspout. “You made it back. Good man. I knew you would. Look at your sister! You two obviously convinced them!”

  I open my mouth, but Beth cuts me off. “It’s twins!”

  Edward whoops, and I can’t help but smile. “That’s wonderful.”

  Morgan and I exchange a significant glance. What does that mean for us? For the line? Will it go to one of the babies or to me?

  “It’s not all roses,” I begin.

  But the door to the shop flies open, and my parents and Claire both arrive. My mom’s clutching a massive picnic basket, and Claire runs to hug me.

  Morgan and I catch each other’s eyes once again.

  It’s like they know I’ve been gone. Even though a faded me, or a form of me, has been here all along.

  My mom smiles widely. “We thought you all could use a break. Claire came up with the idea… and your dad and I. Well. We just called off work. We needed to… be with you.”

  My mouth hangs open in shock. Beth motions to me to shut it.

  “Okay. Great.”

  Beth eyes me. “Mia, what did you want to tell me?”

  I grab Morgan’s hand and squeeze it. “It can wait. We have time.”

  Or we’ll make time.

  Author’s Notes

  Bronson Alcott: All information regarding Bronson Alcott was derived from the reference or various internet articles. The only fictional information was obviously the affair with Morgan’s mother. He was a vibrant, creative, principled, and extreme man.

  Heart transplants: It’s estimated that twenty percent of heart transplant patients experience some form of cellular memory exchange. The hypothesis being that the heart’s D.N.A. begins to transcribe R.N.A., and somehow memories are transmitted through these cells. Many amazing stories have arisen from this phenomenon.

  One involved a murder case, where the heart recipient was able to eventually identify the donor’s murderer. Through dreams.

  The Battlefield Pigs: In my Gettysburg research, I did read of Battlefield pigs scavenging dead soldier’s corpses. Some call it an urban legend. Who knows?

  Edgar Allen Poe: Did indeed marry a 13 year old and have her portrait painted after her death.

  The Literati: Are fictitious.

  Or are they?

  If you find the mysterious L on your shelves, drop me a line.

  Resources

  *Reissen, Harriet. 2009 Louisa May Alcott, The Woman Behind Little Women

  *Sylvia, Claire 1997, Change of Heart, a Memoir

  About the Author

  Born and raised in western Pennsylvania, RR Smythe is the daughter of two teachers. Her writing reflects her passions: science, history and love—not necessarily in that order. In real life, the geek gene runs strong in her family, as does the Asperger’s syndrome. Her writing reflects her experience as a pediatric therapist and her interactions with society’s downtrodden. In fiction, she’s a strong believer in underdogs and happily-ever-afters. She also writes non-fiction and lectures on the subjects of autism and sensory integration.

  Also from Astraea Press

  Chapter One

  The cold November air burned Sloan’s lungs as she ran down the secluded dirt driveway. Looking over her shoulder at the brightly lit farmhouse swarming with people, she wished she had grabbed her coat from the living room before escaping. Her legs protested with each additional step she forced them to take, and quite frankly, she felt like an idiot. In four days, she would be eighteen, an adult; why should she care what others thought of her? Or, more specifically, what Darcy Perry thought of her?

  After nearly a quarter of a mile, the driveway sloped down at a steep angle and met Brown Hollow Road. Sloan stopped at the bottom, doubled over, and put her hands on her knees to catch her breath. The harder her lungs extended, the sillier she felt for running away like that. Sure, Darcy was mean, exceptionally so when she drank, but Sloan shouldn’t have let her words hurt her like they did. And that’s all they were, words. Wor
ds and cold beer thrown in her face. She ran her fingers through her damp hair and wondered how she would explain it to her mother.

  When her breathing came easier, she stood up and looked back toward the house. From her vantage point behind the short hill, she could see all of the lights burning in the second story windows and hear the music blasting throughout the isolated farmland. The glow from the floodlights surrounding the house made it appear to float in the sky. No doubt about it, Boyd knew how to throw a party. Sloan couldn’t help feeling a little satisfied thinking of how Mr. Lawrence, Boyd’s father, would react when he found out his biology students were getting drunk at his house without his knowledge.

  She leaned on the standard-issue black mailbox and frowned. It wouldn’t be fun to walk all the way back to get her coat and beg Mackenzie to take her home. Everyone would stare at her, mock her, and call her ‘Saint Sloan’, Darcy’s pet name for her. The thought of Darcy’s smug face rising inevitably from Boyd’s muscular neck made Sloan’s stomach knot harder, and she slumped farther down against the mailbox, causing the metal to creak. Sometimes Sloan wondered why she ever went anywhere. She didn’t drink, do drugs, or make fun of others, and she wasn’t into sleeping around anymore. She was the “reformed bad girl,” and everyone loved to taunt her about it, especially her former best friend, Darcy.

  Blinding lights coming toward her right side caught her attention. Turning toward them, she put her hand over her eyes to block the brightness of the passing car. Instead of speeding by, the car slowed down and stopped across the yellow line from her.

  Goose bumps, not from the cold, formed under her long sleeves. Meeting a strange person in a strange car at night in the middle of an old country road didn’t appeal to her. Bloody flashes from every horror movie she’d ever watched swarmed in her mind. Suddenly, being made fun of and harassed at the party didn’t seem so bad. She wished she had been able to control her temper better and never have run out of that house. Nervous, she grabbed the little golden cross that had fallen under her dark teal shirt collar and prayed whoever was in the car wasn’t a homicidal manic.