The Soul of the Sun (The Argos Dynasty)

by Genevieve Crownson

  Nothing mattered anymore.

  Nothing mattered at all.

  10

  I awoke in my room. Mama’s doctor was sitting on the edge of the bed. I couldn’t focus; the nightmare I’d had was so real. I looked around and tried to concentrate. Clear your thoughts, I told myself. You can do this.

  Reality slowly etched its way in.

  I recalled the orchard. What Mr. Mayfield had done. Why it had all been so important for me to remember. It hadn’t been a dream after all. It did happen.

  “Margaret.” I heard Mama say talking softly. “Dr. Ingall is here. You got hurt. Do you remember what happened?” Her eyes had a haunted look. A few grey strands of hair fell down against her pale, gaunt face. She had aged considerably these last weeks.

  I nodded miserably.

  “They caught Mr. Mayfield; he’s in prison. You’re safe now.”

  I felt nauseous. Mama inched closer, squinting into my face like she could peer inside.

  “Oh baby, it’s going to be okay—it’s okay.” Her eyes welled up with tears. I looked away. I couldn’t be strong. Not this time.

  Dr. Ingall cleared his throat to remind us of his presence.

  He spoke in his official tone. “Mrs. Potter, why don’t you wait outside? I’ll need to do a thorough examination now that she is awake. She’ll be fine with me.”

  Mama stood up, looking relieved. Her clothes were wrinkled and stained and her hair was mussed; a hand went to the bird’s nest at the crown of her head. She endeavored to smooth it back.

  Mama leaned over and squeezed my hand. “I’ll be down in the kitchen if you need me, Margaret honey.” She turned and without another word left the room, her tiny boots clicking against the polished wood floor.

  “Margaret, I’m just going to check your eyes, so just lay still for a moment,” Dr. Ingall said.

  I wiped back a tear that had somehow escaped and let him shine a bright light into my eyes. “Good, good no sign of concussion there,” he said.

  He looked keenly at my puffy face for a minute, and then surveyed the other bruises that peppered my skin. “These bruises should clear up in a week or so, doesn’t appear to be any permanent damage.” He took out his stethoscope and listened to my heartbeat.

  I took a deep breath and blurted out the question I’d been dying to ask.

  “Dr. Ingall, is it normal to see things? In the event something bad happens to you?”

  He looked puzzled. Funny, I hadn’t noticed until now how handsome he was. He had kind eyes, too. They were pretty; blue with flecks of green sparkle.

  “What do you mean, see things?”

  “I mean know things about someone you could never have known. See images in your mind of life events that are not your own. You know, actually hearing their thoughts, maybe even see colors around people.” I blundered on, feeling quite stupid.

  He nodded. At least he hadn’t laughed at me. He had actually considered what I’d said. I took a good look at him. He was young, maybe early thirties. He was tall with an athletic build and had strong, broad shoulders. There was a touch of five o’clock shadow on his face from what had probably been a long day. He was a good doctor; I could see it. He interrupted my musings and finally spoke up.

  “I suppose it’s possible that when someone goes through what you did, they can think they see or hear things, but it may just be the mind playing tricks on you, as a way to protect it from actual events.”

  I sat up in the bed. I leaned forward eagerly, ignoring the protests of my body. “No, this was real. More real than anything I’ve experienced before.” I related the events of the day before and how I’d seen into Mr. Mayfield’s mind. “So what do you think?” I relaxed back against the pillow, exhausted. “Do you think it’s possible? Have you ever heard of this happening to anyone else?” I asked.

  I could tell he thought I was being truthful. He looked at me pensively for a moment, then said, “No I haven’t, but I promise I will look into it later tonight. When I come see you tomorrow I’ll let you know if I’ve found out something. In the meantime just let me know if there’s anything else you need. Your mother knows where to find me. I’m so sorry about all this, I wish there was more I could do.” He picked up his light and stethoscope and placed them back in his black bag and snapped it shut.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Potter,” he said as he picked up his hat and turned to leave.

  “Thank you,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say, my mind was already humming. I tried to focus on the hope that the doctor had just given me, not on what happened back in the orchard. I wondered if the doctor would keep his promise to me and look for answers.

  11

  As promised, Dr. Ingall returned in the morning. I was up and sitting in a chair, despite Mama’s protests. Aunt Bette had brought her cat Fred over and he now sat in my lap, a warm, fuzzy, purring body. It was pouring rain; I watched the wet drops trickle down the window pane. I waited for the doctor impatiently, wanting his approval, some validation of what I’d seen. How foolish I was to think that this would make everything all right.

  Finally, I heard his tread on the stairs, then a soft tapping on the open door.

  I turned away from the window to see him standing in the doorway. I smiled. “Come in Dr. Ingall,” I said.

  Fred, not liking strange visitors, leapt off my lap and raced out the door, probably seeking a place to hide.

  “Good morning Margaret. How are you feeling this morning?” Dr. Ingall said cheerfully. “It’s certainly wet out there.” He took off his coat and hung it on the back of the bedroom door. He then brushed the water droplets off the suede fabric of his hat and hung that up, too. With a purposeful stride, he crossed over to me and gave me a broad grin.

  I hope she likes what I’m wearing, I wonder if she’ll notice. She is just so beautiful; I really shouldn’t be this unprofessional.

  “What did you say?” I asked. Surely I’d heard him wrong.

  “Um, just that it was wet outside. Are you all right Margaret? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Had I really just heard Ian’s thoughts? I stared at him in fascination. In all honesty, I could really see the effort he had made. He looked gorgeous. He wore a crisp white shirt and his grey pants were freshly pressed. Even his short brown hair was perfect, not a strand out of place despite the fact he’d been wearing a hat. I, on the other hand was lucky if I didn’t smell. I chose not to dwell on it. My palms were sweaty so I hid them quickly under the multi-colored quilt. I smiled nervously, “I’m okay. Did you find anything? Did you look?” I spoke hurriedly, not wanting Mama to overhear our conversation.

  He chuckled. “You’re an impatient one, aren’t you? I understand, you did ask me some pretty big questions yesterday.” His face sobered as if he were pondering something.

  “Well, anything? Anything at all?” The words escaped my lips in a high pitched squeak.

  He pulled up a chair and sat down next to me. He put a hand to his chin and studied me thoughtfully.

  “The truth is, Margaret I didn’t have to look up a thing.” His penetrating eyes bore into me.

  I sighed and leaned back, wrapping the quilt tighter around me and focused my gaze outside at the rain. “You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m crazy,” I said forlornly.

  He moved his chair closer and leaned forward. “Look at me, Margaret.” With his hand he turned my face away from the window. “You’re not crazy. I didn’t have to look it up because I have already investigated this kind of thing at length.” He clasped one of my clammy hands. It felt cool and strong in my own.

  “The truth is, Margaret; I know exactly what you are talking about. I am very familiar with the unseen and unknown. Even as we sit here, I can see the colors around your body, your aura. I can feel the intensity of your emotions.” He paused. “You see, a few years ago, when I was still in medical school, I was in a terrible car accident, and I almost died. After the crash, I seemed to have acq
uired this gift. I’ve never told a soul about it until now; at the time when it first happened I thought that I was going insane. I don’t have anything as strong as visions, but strangely enough, I understand.” He stopped and waited for my reaction.

  I sat there stupefied, too stunned to say anything. Finally I blurted out, “You can see my aura right now?” I felt myself going crimson. Could he see how charmed I was by him? I had been thinking how kind he was, how soft his hands were in mine and how I wished that he would just lean over and kiss me with those full, sensuous lips. It was just too mortifying for words.

  What color aura did thinking all those things give me? I didn’t dare peek down at myself to check in case he knew what I was doing. I also remembered that there was one significant difference in our stories. I quickly pulled back my hand.

  “It’s okay Margaret; please don’t feel ashamed, I understand. We don’t have to talk about it now or ever if you don’t want to,” he said kindly. “Let’s talk about your health instead. How are you feeling? Any new problems? Have any memories returned?”

  He was back to his professional self and I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t want things to be awkward between us.

  I managed to shake my head in answer but that was all I could manage. I let him finish checking my vital signs. He told me everything looked good and he would see me again the next day.

  After Dr. Ingall left, I fell asleep. I always seemed so tired. Even after sleeping, the exhaustion lingered. I dreamed again, a nightmare. I was with Thomas Mayfield. We were somewhere dark and damp, surrounded by burning candles. He whispered to me; his words coming out in a seductive purr. But then suddenly he sprang at me, his eyes wild and glassy. I pushed him back and more of his childhood flashed before me like a movie reel. He pulled out a steel blade from the top of his high black boot and plunged the blade deep into my heart. I awoke sweating. My gown drenched, I felt nauseous. He had chanted as he cut me, rhythmic words I couldn’t comprehend. They sounded Greek, but I couldn’t be sure. I did however, understand enough to know that it meant something truly terrifying.

  I leaned back against the chair; I sensed my aura was strong; it shone a deep vibrant glowing red, bright against the dimness of the room.

  I sat there, willing myself to calm down, I breathed slowly. I knew what I had to do. I also knew I was going to need help. Mama would never let me go. It had to be Dr. Ingall; he would have to help me. He was the only one that could.

  Was the dream a foreshadowing of what was to come? I had to find out what he was up to. He had been doing something to me. It appeared to have been some sort of ritual, and I had been the sacrificial lamb.

  Only one thing was clear; I had to go to that prison and face Mr. Mayfield.

  12

  I waited another three weeks, just as Dr. Ingall said I should. I also understood that he was the only one who knew how important this was to me. Otherwise, my polished brown flats wouldn’t have been planted on the wet gray stones that led to the prison. No, I would have been at home, sipping iced tea with Mama and pretending, as we had for the last fortnight that everything was hunky dory and bright as a sunshiny morning.

  The sky was grey and a fine drizzle misted the air. I stared at the prison; it looked drab and foreboding. I took a deep breath and braced myself for what was to come.

  Dr. Ingall had tried to persuade me against seeing Mr. Mayfield, ever since I had told him of my plans to come here. He had even suggested he go in my place. None of his cajoling had worked. But now as my numb fingers grasped his hand, I was terrified. Dr. Ingall pushed open the iron gate and we stepped inside. He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze and we started up the concrete path. The whole way up to the door I told myself I was not a coward.

  Okay maybe I was. But I was still determined.

  Dr. Ian Ingall and I had spent a lot of time together these last weeks, getting to know each other. We had been discussing our mutual interests and gifts and I knew he felt responsible for me. I had even told him about my dream, which I think was the deciding factor for him in allowing me to come here.

  I had begun to see Ian’s thoughts more and more but only if I was in direct contact with him. Like now for example; holding his hand I could feel his nervous energy, his thoughts just piled up, and didn’t make much sense. It was only that first time when all my senses were heightened that I hadn’t required contact.

  I remembered clearly the conversation that had convinced him to let me come. I had felt his resistance weakening.

  “I have to go Ian, you know I have to! What if the dream comes true? I must find out the truth.”

  “Okay, but on one condition: I’m going to escort you,” he stated firmly.

  I could feel my hackles rising. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, Ian.”

  His mouth curved into a smile at my haughty stance.

  “I know, I know, just let me be protective this once. As your doctor, I am concerned about your well being.”

  “Ha, ha very funny,” I retorted.

  So here we stood, just two weeks later. We paused and looked at each other.

  “Ready?” Ian said.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied.

  “Good,” he said. He gripped my arm and we headed for the black double doors that loomed before us. They looked like they should have been on a haunted mansion, not this stone building surrounded by gates and barbed wire.

  I was nervous, but I would not let Ian Ingall see that. I lifted my chin. Determined to put on a brave show, I marched through the doors into the prison.

  “This place stinks,” I said wrinkling my nose and looking at Ian.

  He pulled in close to my ear, not wanting his voice to echo. “It’s not too late to turn around Margaret.”

  I resisted a primal urge to throw myself into his arms and retreat. Instead, I continued on, placing one foot firmly in front of the other.

  “I’m not turning back now,” I told him.

  I marched boldly over to the guard. He was an older man with a thickset body and burdensome jowls. A set of heavy keys hung from his belt. He stood with his feet planted firmly in front of what looked like a steel door.

  “Here to see someone, are you?” The guard said in a dull expressionless voice, which matched his appearance.

  Apparently, emotions were checked at the door.

  “Yes sir. We would like to see one of the prisoners. His name is Thomas Mayfield.” I forced a polite smile.

  The man gave no response. In his black uniform, his aura was as black and dull as his clothing. I had to concentrate to see it. “Sir? I know we should have called first, but it is very urgent that we speak with this man.”

  He squinted at me and sighed heavily. He shuffled up to the door, took one of the larger keys from his belt and placed it in the lock. With a distinctive click, the door swung open.

  “Go upstairs to your right. Tell the receptionist Molly that you’re here to see Mayfield. You can tell her Ratsmith let you through. She’ll make sure you see him.”

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  “No problem. Have a nice day,” he said still in his monotone voice.

  Ratsmith shut the door behind us and we were left alone in a dimly lit, narrow stairwell.

  My heart was in my throat as we slowly climbed the stairs.

  13

  The receptionist’s office proved surprisingly bright, with long square windows lining the walls. I stopped and gazed at the view. It was a hive of activity with men working in the fields. I wondered if they ever rested; it looked like backbreaking work. I heard a loud voice behind me and I jumped.

  “What do y’all want?” I turned to see a tiny woman somewhere in her forties eyeing us speculatively. The voice certainly did not match the lady. If anybody else had been there I would have said it wasn’t her booming voice I’d heard. She was certainly a sour looking old biddy. Her small, beady eyes assessed us from behind thick, black-framed glasses.

  “Um
…we’re here to see Mr. Thomas Mayfield, we were sent up by Mr. Ratsmith?” I said.

  “Oh yeah. Well he’s working down in the fields. It will take a few minutes to bring him in. You’re lucky he wasn’t transported out of town somewhere for a job. You can sit down over there and wait.”

  She pointed to two small grey metal chairs in the corner.

  “Thank you very much,” Ian said. He guided me by the elbow to the small uncomfortable seats. We settled in to wait.

  “Margaret, do you want me to get you a glass of water?” Ian asked.

  I licked my dry lips; I was thirsty, but I didn’t want Ian to leave my side. “No thanks Ian, I’m fine.”

  Several minutes later, the phone on the desk shrilled and Molly picked it up. “Yeah, okay,” she said dourly. She replaced the receiver and looked over at us.

  “Mayfield’s been put in the holding room. You can go in now, through those doors and to your right.”

  “Thanks,” Ian said.

  “Good luck,” she said in her loud raspy voice as we left.

  A guard on the other side of the door ushered us into a long rectangular room. It was painted the same iron grey as the rest of the building. Mr. Mayfield sat behind a glass partition at the end of the room. Another surly guard stood off to his left.

  Thomas raised his eyebrows when he saw us. “Well, well, well, look who came to visit. Miss me that much, my beautiful Margaret? And you brought a friend, isn’t that nice?” He gave Ian a cold sneer.

  “I didn’t come here for pleasantries Mr. Mayfield,” I retorted.

  “Oh really? Well now, that’s a shame, I can think of lots of pleasant things that we could do.” His ice blue eyes sparkled lecherously at me. Then his gaze wandered over to Ian who stood at a small distance behind me. He’d understood this was something I had to do on my own.

  “Who did you bring, Miss Margaret? A boyfriend? I hope nothing serious is going on between you and this fellow. You know I don’t like to share.” His tone was low and menacing behind the smiling façade.