Mytholumina

by Storm Constantine

  It was as if the path of her life had suddenly divided before her and, from somewhere, she had found the strength to take the more difficult road. Deliriously, she spun through the rooms of her flat, a shining phantom of random particles. In her peak moments, Leslie was an awesome sight.

  Perhaps a certain over-confidence was responsible for the eventual unveiling of Julianne’s Talent. She had worked her way up the bureaucratic ladder, her path eased by discreet administration of her powers. She was acclaimed for her efficiency. Eventually, she secured a position as personal assistant to a high-flying executive, for a company that manufactured metal tubes. It was here the truth of her condition came to light.

  As if the victim of monstrous bad luck, Julianne was caught out on one or two occasions by her colleagues. Once, a clerk had walked into her office to find her gliding round the room, watering plants, while speaking into the telephone which floated alongside her ear. When her door opened unexpectedly, Julianne had turned round quickly and, but for a startled moment of mutual staring, managed to hunch up her shoulder against the phone, and smile brightly. The clerk looked confused, but made no comment. Julianne wondered whether she should cover her tracks in some way, in some permanent way, but decided against it. The girl concerned was considered stupid by the majority of the staff, so her word would be doubted anyway.

  Then came the time when, up to her ears in paperwork, she had again been caught on the phone, but this time with a document hovering in mid-air before her nose. It had prompted an alarmed exclamation from her colleague, at which Julianne yelped and shouted, ‘Shut the door, will you! Look what you’ve done!’ The paper floated innocently to the desk, but Julianne suspected her excuse would not be believed.

  It was unfortunate that there’d been considerable coverage in the news recently concerning the activities of the DPR, and also an embarrassed documentary on a TV late slot. Suddenly, everyone was exposing their friends and neighbours as being paranormal, although it was almost certain the majority of these identifications were erroneous. Still, it was causing a lot of trouble. Paranormals were required by law to be registered. Failure to do so incurred severe disapproval, and also suspicion about the way the individual concerned might be using their Talent. There had been one or two outrageous crimes where paranormals, who were undoubtedly psychotic, had donned ridiculous costumes, in the manner of Americans, and used their powers in a reprehensible fashion. The public feared for their safety and immense pressure was placed on the DPR to control these freaks of humanity, before they held all decent, normal people to ransom.

  Julianne’s colleagues had begun to talk. Rumours were exchanged, conclusions reached. One morning, she had a visitor, who was nervously shown in to her office by her secretary. From the way her stomach instinctively churned, Julianne knew instantly just what the arrival of this suave, black-suited stranger presaged.

  She stood up, held out her hand. ‘How can I help you?’ She was impeccably groomed, her perfume expensively tart, her manner cool and confident. Inside, she was boiling jelly, but she steeled her exterior to conceal this.

  The man shook her hand briefly and she gestured for him to sit, raising her brows in enquiry.

  ‘My name is Mr Sharpe,’ said the man. He held out a laminated card. ‘I’m with the Department of Paranormal Resources.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Julianne responded coolly, idly twisting a gold pen in her fingers. ‘And what can I do for you?’

  Sharpe smiled in a pained manner. ‘I think you know the answer to that, Ms Farr.’ He bent down and opened his briefcase, withdrawing a folder, thinly new and unthumbed. ‘Could I have a few minutes of your time? I need to ask a few questions.’

  ‘If you must,’ Julianne replied.

  ‘How long have you been aware of your Talent?’ Sharpe asked, a ballpoint pen poised above a form.

  Julianne threw back her head and uttered an unconvincing laugh. This gave her the briefest time to consider her answer. Should she try and deny it or should she be honest? As she lowered her head, she appraised the unflinching, metallic stare of Mr Sharpe. He was, of course, Talented himself.

  ‘How long have you been a telepath, Mr Sharpe?’

  He grinned fiercely. ‘Please answer my question.’

  ‘I feel there’s little point.’

  He shrugged. ‘This is a formality, you understand.’

  Julianne sighed. ‘Very well, but before we begin I want to know how this is going to affect my... well, my life.’

  ‘That is really up to you, Ms Farr.’

  It was a poignant moment. Julianne felt as if a comfortable cocoon of fluffy cotton had suddenly fallen away from her body. Within it, as it drifted into oblivion, were the seeds of her hopes and dreams; husband, home, child. Years later, she would recognise this wistful feeling as being one of relief, but at the time she felt only a weary resignation. Zoe Bradley’s face flashed across her inner eye, grinning horribly.

  ‘I suppose I have been aware since my early teens of my... difference,’ she said.

  ‘And the description of your Talent?’

  She shrugged. ‘It must have a name, of course, but I just look upon it as being able to move things with my mind.’

  Sharpe ticked a box on the form. ‘Telekinesis,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

  Julianne frowned. ‘No, just that.’

  ‘Hmm. And you are in the habit of using your Talent regularly?’

  Julianne paused, feeling cornered by the question.

  Sharpe’s expression softened. ‘We are all in this together, Ms Farr. Please don’t be afraid to answer my questions. No one is judging you. If anything, I am here to help. It is not easy to live a normal life possessed of an unusual ability. Now, if you would tell me...’

  ‘Yes, of course I use it!’ Julianne said. ‘There’s nothing shameful about it. I’ve only used it to help me with my work! Where’s the harm in that?’

  Sharpe laid down his pen and slowly raised his hands, palms towards her. ‘Please, Ms Farr, there is no need for defensiveness. I only want the facts. For the record, you understand.’

  Julianne nodded irritably. ‘Alright. It’s just rather a... shock to be... discovered, so to speak.’

  ‘An inevitability, Ms Farr. You really should have contacted the DPR a long time ago, but I can understand your reluctance.’

  ‘I just wanted to be normal,’ Julianne said.

  Sharpe smiled, but not harshly. ‘Really! And yet you still used your Talent.’

  Julianne blushed. ‘I just want to live my own life.’

  ‘Naturally, and I’m not condemning you for your actions. Your Talent should be used, but for the good of society. You are a gifted young woman, Ms Farr, and you must accept that you have responsibilities. Now, if you could tell me in your own words, the exact history of your Talent.’

  Numbly, Julianne related the facts, although she attempted to skirt the issue of the unwanted vengeful face of her power. Sharpe made no comment, but she knew, given his own ability, he must have seen the guilty thoughts emblazoned across her mind. She felt exhausted by the time she’d finished speaking and, although her throat was dry, she could not face summoning the secretary to provide coffee.

  ‘You need a drink,’ Sharpe said, placing his folder back in his briefcase. ‘Might I ask your assistant in the next room to furnish us with refreshment?’

  Julianne nodded weakly. Her whole body was shaking. What would happen to her now? For a few moments, she sat blinking at the windows, her mind utterly empty.

  Sharpe came back into the room and sat down. ‘I am sorry to have distressed you,’ he said.

  ‘What happens next?’ Julianne asked. ‘Will I lose my job?’

  ‘Your personnel record suggests you are an exemplary employee, Ms Farr. If your employers feel that such a radical step is necessary, then it will be to their detriment. The Talented are generally well thought of by corporate bodies. You never know, my visit may even presage promotion.’

&nb
sp; Julianne laughed bleakly. ‘Somehow, I can’t believe that. If I was so well thought of, then surely my boss would have spoken to me first, before running to the DPR. That is what happened, isn’t it?’

  ‘You must understand that the un-Talented are often nervous of our kind, Ms Farr. Do not judge them too harshly. I’m sure my presence will quell their fears.’

  ‘Is that it, then? I just become a statistic on your files? You go away and leave me alone?’

  Sharpe blinked, but did not avert his eyes from her demanding stare. ‘Part of my job, I confess, is to encourage you to join the ranks of the DPR, Ms Farr. There will be benefits if you co-operate.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘I’m sure that will not be the case,’ Sharpe answered smoothly. ‘You strike me as a responsible young woman. As you know, you will be required, at the very least, to attend a brief training course at one of our establishments.’ He burrowed once again in his briefcase and produced a handful of brochures. ‘Employers are required to allow paid leave for this, so it will be no hardship. The DPR feels this is necessary, because having a Talent can mean you need help in how to control it. It would be irresponsible of us to permit untrained individuals to run around the country. Sometimes, having a Talent can cause untold psychological problems. Our training establishments can ease all this.’

  ‘It sounds like a sentence to me,’ Julianne said, picking up one of the brochures. There were high-colour photographs of an imposing country house, and several pictures of smiling groups of people, dressed in tracksuits, running through the grounds, using a gymnasium, eating in the restaurant. It reminded her of a health farm.

  ‘Should you decide to sign on to our register, you will have several options. If you wish to continue in your present occupation, you need only work for us as and when a suitable contract presents itself, on a temporary basis. Again, your employers are required to give you leave for this, but the financial arrangements are something you must discuss with them yourself. Naturally, the DPR will pay you a salary comparable to your current earnings, during the time you are in their employment.’

  ‘And what sort of work will I be expected to undertake?’ Julianne asked.

  Sharpe shrugged. ‘Well, it could be anything, but certainly nothing beyond the scope of your abilities.’

  ‘You are very vague on this point, Mr Sharpe.’

  ‘It is something that can be decided only after you have completed a training course, I’m afraid. I’m not trying to deceive you, Ms Farr. Dispersal of contracts is not my department. I’m only recruitment.’

  On a crisp autumn morning, Julianne drove to the DPR training establishment, Tintern House. She had chosen a facility some distance away from her home town and had had to start out very early in the morning in order to reach the place by nine o’clock. Her hands were slippery on the wheel as she pulled up outside the gates and presented her introductory documents, provided by Mr Sharpe, to the security officer on duty. She had been prepared for military formality, but the uniformed, middle-aged man smiled at her benignly, made a joke about the weather, which she forgot instantly because of its utter inanity, and then patted her car’s roof and opened the gates. Giving him a tight smile and a wave, Julianne accelerated up the drive.

  Tintern House was a beautiful Elizabethan manor, set in a rolling estate of wide lawns, gravelled paths and stately, elderly trees. Julianne could see people taking leisurely morning strolls, some in groups, the occasional loner, obviously walking off a recent breakfast. It all seemed very relaxed, and some of her inner tension eased. She parked her car in front of the main steps and marched briskly through the open front doors, carrying only a small case. Inside, she found a magnificently appointed hall where a young female receptionist sat behind a highly polished table.

  ‘Good morning, Julianne,’ said the receptionist. ‘I’m so glad your journey was pleasant.’

  Another telepath, obviously, Julianne thought, extending a hand.

  ‘Now, if you could just sign in, someone will show you to the morning room. There are three newcomers today, and you’re the first to arrive. I’ll have someone bring your coffee into you.’

  ‘I’d prefer tea,’ Julianne said, perversely.

  The receptionist frowned prettily. ‘Oh... well, of course.’ She brightened. ‘Ah, Roger’s coming!’

  Julianne nearly dropped her case as a man floated into the hall and hovered in front of her.

  ‘Roger!’ the receptionist admonished. He landed nimbly and shook Julianne’s hand.

  ‘Roger Mint,’ he said, winking at her roguishly. ‘I like to sweep a woman off her feet!’

  ‘Julianne Farr,’ she replied dryly. ‘I move heavy objects.’

  Steven Rider was the last to arrive. Shown into a pleasant drawing room where the morning sunlight fell flatteringly onto the smart, young brunette sitting by the window, he rid himself of the invertebrate presence of Roger Mint with a timely illusion of having fangs. One smile was enough to send the corpulent Mint bobbing from the room. Steven advanced to assess his peers. The prim spinster was dismissed almost instantly from his attention; thin as a stick with a personality, no doubt, resembling weak tea. The other appeared more interesting. She thought herself to be a cool customer and her trappings oozed the perfume of money. He wondered what her Talent could be and found himself thinking of black widow spiders.

  Julianne had afforded Steven one glance, so covert he didn’t even notice it. ‘He looks like a serial killer,’ she thought and resumed her inspection of the magazine on her knee. She and Leslie had exchanged tight smiles and brief hellos. Julianne, scorning the whole concept of training, imagined all other paranormals to be freakish in personality. So far, given the evidence before her, she assumed this belief to be correct.

  Shortly after Steven’s arrival, a grim, towering, middle-aged woman presented herself as their Counsellor. Her name was Emily Band. She explained, without embarrassment, what her own Talent consisted of, and then demonstrated it. Emily had the ability to appear any age; crone or child or anywhere in between. At first, all three newcomers were puzzled as to why she chose late middle-age as her habitual form. Only when they saw an example of Emily in the full flower of youth did they understand. Not a beauty at any age, she was certainly a creature whose looks improved with maturity. Once the demonstration was over, Emily settled herself into a chair and said, ‘Now, perhaps you can introduce yourselves to each other, and give examples of your own Talents.’

  All three exchanged shy glances, although Steven’s glance was perhaps less shy than those of the women. Both Leslie and Julianne confessed to feeling inhibited about giving a public display. ‘It is always something I’ve done in private,’ Leslie said, her face crimson.

  ‘You’re not being asked to take your clothes off,’ Steven said in an airy voice, ‘or, forgive me, is that part of your show?’

  ‘Steven,’ Emily Band said patiently, ‘I think we’ll all get along much better with a little team spirit, don’t you?’ She grinned, showing a lot of teeth, at the cringing Leslie. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, there’s a first time for everyone. You’ll soon get over your shyness.’

  ‘Want me to go first?’ Steven asked.

  Julianne sighed noisily. ‘Seeing as you seem to be the one with the least problem with this, I don’t think so. I’ll go first.’ Without further preamble, her magazine flew off her lap, flapped across the room like an origami bat, and hit Steven in the face. Julianne smiled sweetly and shrugged. ‘Sorry. Nerves.’

  Steven treated her to a wicked smile and transformed himself, in the eyes of all present, to something horribly wet and undead. Julianne blanched and gagged; he’d even managed to mimic the smell. Leslie uttered a dismal cry of terror and sank into the floor. Emily smartly clapped her hands together.

  ‘Team! Team!’ she said sternly.

  Steven evaporated the illusion and shrugged, looking sheepish.

  ‘Come back, Leslie,’ Emily said, ‘it’s all over.’ She
glowered at Steven. ‘Can we please be professional about this? Time is the DPR’s money; we have little to waste.’

  For the remainder of the morning, there was a kind of group counselling session, where Emily Band had encouraged them to talk about themselves. Julianne and Steven had enjoyed cat-fighting their way through that, although, to Emily’s chagrin, Leslie had refused to join in, sitting with arms folded and disapproving, lipless mouth.

  During the afternoon, they had been shown videos that educated them about the enormous scope of paranormal Talents. Some of the examples they saw paled their own Talents into comparative insignificance, while other abilities seemed unremarkable in the extreme, even laughable, in some instances. How, for example, could the ability of being able to detach all of your teeth from your mouth ever be put to practical use? Steven immediately dubbed the wielder of this Talent the Tooth Fairy and consequently suggested one way, at least, in which he would use the ability should he be fortunate enough to possess it. Julianne glanced at him sharply and he grinned back quite openly.

  At dinner that evening, the newcomers met the all the other trainees in residence, and the rest of the staff. There were roughly two dozen individuals currently undergoing Department training at Tintern House, with a staff of nine to supervise them. The proprietor of the establishment, a Mr Derek Valiant, made a late entrance to dinner, which Julianne suspected was in order to impress the newcomers. She whispered to Steven, ‘And what is his Talent do you think?’ No mention of this had been made, although it seemed likely that the person in charge should have one.

  Steven shrugged. ‘Imitating human life, perhaps?’ It was obvious he hadn’t liked what he’d seen in Mr Valiant.

  ‘It must be pretty... well... big, though, mustn’t it?’

  Derek Valiant was tall and well-built with an almost American glamour.

  ‘I would have changed my name, if I were him,’ Steven said.